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November 2, 1818
Ivy Castle
Warwickshire County, near Bedworth, England
T
he Duke of Whittington looked across his study at his wife of nearly nine and thirty years, and he frowned. Though she was every bit as beautiful as she’d been when he’d wed her, their lives had become increasingly lackluster of late, and he knew the reason all too well.
“Why are you frowning, Whittington?” she asked as she glanced up from the piece of fine embroidery she worked at even though arthritis in her fingers bedeviled her more often than not anymore. “We’ve settled into the castle well ahead of Christmastide, just like you’d asked, and it’s already cold enough for snow, just as you’d hoped. Why are you not pleased?”
“It’s our children, Beatrice. It’s beyond me why none of them are happily married nor have managed to set up their nurseries,” he groused, and scanned the letter to his firstborn son he currently wrote.
“To be fair, Stephen was engaged at one point.”
“But it didn’t stick due to his arrogance,” the duke pointed out. A drop of ink sank into the paper. It would be a proper mess if he weren’t careful.
“And Lettice was married. Plus, she has a lovely child. Lucy is a fine girl at just five. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes.” Whittington wave a hand as if that didn’t matter. “I desire more from our brood than they’ve given. The twins aren’t married at the ripe old age of eight and thirty. And Lettice, God help her, is a widow at five and thirty. She still has time to marry again.” He shook his head, for he’d given the matter some thought over the last year. “To say nothing of Graham. He’s a confirmed rogue at two and thirty, and I despair of him ever settling down. He prefers scandal over respectability.”
His wife chuckled. She laid down her fancy work and smiled at him. “You wish for more grandchildren.” It wasn’t a question.
“In part, yes.”
“So do I.” She sighed. Though her dark hair was now liberally twined with silver, her blue eyes hadn’t lost their sparkle, and the wrinkles on her face spoke of happy times and a satisfaction of living. “When you and I were Griffin and Stephen’s age, we’d been married more than ten years and had already borne all of our children.”
“Yes, which is why I’m concerned. Times have changed, to be sure, but this is outside of enough. Perhaps there’s something wrong with our offspring. What are they waiting for?”
She uttered an unladylike snort of derision. “I doubt times have changed all that much. They have found other interests that don’t include being domesticated.” With the regal air of the duchess she was, she rose, approached his desk, and then perched upon the top of it, close enough that the heat of her body emanated to him. “Our parents arranged our match, remember.”
“It’s something I’ll never forget.” With fondness, he touched a hand to her knee. Over the years, she’d been his biggest support and his best friend. They’d weathered the ills and triumphs of life together and had become stronger for it. “Do you think we should do the same with our children? I’d like to see them matched by the time we return to London for the Season. If something doesn’t happen, you and I will be in the grave before they decide they might like to fall in love and get on with things.”
One of her eyebrows rose. “Could we? I’m sure all four of them would balk at such highhanded tactics.”
Whittington scoffed. “We could if they don’t know we’re manipulating them.” After he set his pen in its holder, he moved his hands as if he were a marionette master. “We’ll control their strings, as it were, and they’ll be none the wiser if we don’t show our cards.”
“Do you have a plan? After all, we’re at Ivy Castle through Twelfth Night at least. There’s plenty of time.”
“Indeed.” He rubbed a hand along his jaw. Yes, the plan had merit but needed depth and decided care. Then excitement shot down his spine and he shared a grin with his wife. “We’ll pretend I’m in ill health and this might be my last Christmastide before I depart this mortal coil.”
His wife sucked in a breath of surprise. “Surely that won’t convince them. They’ve seen you too often, and you’ve always been hale and hearty.”
“Ah, but it’s been months since our children have deigned to pay a call on us. Much could have happened in those six months.” He patted her knee again. “Miss Ridley can play along and back up our story. I’ve had her in as my nurse for years anyway. The children don’t need to know why.”
“How heavy handed of you, Whittington,” she said in a low voice that never failed to make him shiver with need.
“At this point, its desperation, my dear. I want them settled—or nearly so—soon, and I want the laughter of babies to fill the halls of Ivy Castle again.” He sobered for an instant. “However, I fear Griffin is far too shy and retiring to survive as the duke once I do pass over.”
“Then we’ll have to make certain the lady we match him with can manage him, support him enough that he might overcome his anxieties.” Mischief twinkled in her eyes, reminding him of the hoyden she’d been in their youth.
“That’s the spirit!” He crumpled the letter in front of him, tossed the unneeded missive to the floor, and then drew a fresh sheet toward him. “I’ll start again, only this time it’ll have a different undertone.” He once more took up his pen. “While I write the letters summoning our dear children to Ivy Castle, why don’t you do a round of visiting? Perhaps you can ascertain if there are eligible parties in the country for Christmastide that might rub along well with our various children.” He hooted with laughter. “They’ll be matched by Twelfth Night, see if they won’t!”
“Oh, but you’re a romantic at heart, Whittington,” she said and leaned over to drop a kiss upon his cheek.
“I merely want our brood to be as happy as we are, for after all, there is nothing better in life than finding love and romance.” Then he waved her off and began work on his letter.
This would do; it simply had to. He wouldn’t accept anything else.