What the Groom Wants Read online

  Her response was unintelligible as she gasped and shuddered. He held her tightly, his gaze taking in the new silver tea set at the same moment he noticed two gentlemen setting aside their cups as they pushed to their feet.

  Radley’s brows drew together, furious that these two men—whoever they were—had upset his mother.

  “What has happened here?” he demanded in his most authoritative voice. It was a tone designed to carry over a violent storm at sea, and it made the two men jolt.

  And then as one, they bowed deeply before him.

  He stared, confused by such an obsequious reaction, especially as his mother controlled her sobs. She stepped back, wiping her eyes and shaking her head.

  “No, no. I’m all right,” she gasped. “I just so h-h-happy.” She gave him a trembling smile. “You’re home!”

  He nodded, his gaze still on the two gentlemen. They had the look of solicitors, one old and the other barely controlling his excitement as he shifted from foot to foot. Radley’s gaze moved to his mother’s beaming face, and his disquiet grew. Were these the solicitors who had left their card with his employer? And where did his mother get the money for a new dress, a silver tea set, and…

  His eyes narrowed. Fresh flowers? In a vase on the table? They had never had fresh flowers. It was too big an expense!

  “Mother,” he said slowly.

  “It has finally happened,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “You’re a duke, Radley! We… I’m… Oh darling, you’ve inherited the title just as I always knew you would.”

  He stared at her, his mind stuttering at her words. His first thought was that the toll of near poverty had finally gotten the better of her. Her mind had broken, and these men were here to take her to Bedlam.

  That was his first thought. The rest of him couldn’t help but replay the many words he’d heard while walking here. Whether or not it was true, the neighborhood certainly thought he’d stepped into something huge. But it couldn’t possibly be that he’d inherited the title. He was ninth or tenth in line for the dukedom.

  More likely was that the old duke had finally died, and the next one was doing his best to reconnect to the lost branch of the family. That would mean reaching out to his mother in Radley’s absence.

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly to his mother. “I’m home now. I’ll sort it all out.”

  “But there’s nothing to sort,” his mother cried happily. “You’re the new duke!”

  He smiled, hating that she kept saying that. It couldn’t be true.

  “Mother,” he said gently, “Miss Drew and her mother will be staying here tomorrow. They have had some difficulty with their rooms and—”

  “What? What!” She drew herself to her full height, and with the new coiffure, she nearly made it to his chin.

  He smiled as he squeezed her arms. “I know it is sudden, but they are having a problem, and they need a place to stay. So I said they could stay in my room—”

  “But they cannot!”

  His lips tightened, and he took as strong a tone as he dared with his mother, especially while the two men stood barely three feet away. “They can, and they will. I have promised them. It will not be for long, and you can—”

  “No!” she cried. “You are a duke now, Radley! There are appearances to be maintained. Your generosity does you credit, but we simply cannot—”

  “Mother,” he said, coldly cutting her off. He had intended to inform her as soon as possible, not to discuss it openly in front of strangers. He’d expected his quiet mama to simply acquiesce. Between the clamor outside and his mother’s odd words, Radley felt his world shifting on its axis. “We will discuss this at a later time. Right now, I should like to meet these gentlemen.”

  She huffed, clearly disliking what he’d said, but her good manners stopped her from arguing further. Instead, she turned to the gentlemen in question.

  “Radley, I’d like to present you with your solicitors. Mr. Pelley and his grandson, Mr. Pelley. They are from the firm of Chase and Pelley. They have been advising the Duke of Bucklynde for generations. And now, they are here to help you.”

  Both men executed a deep bow, but Radley simply frowned at them. He didn’t dare speak. He was beginning to think that his mother’s delusion might not be a delusion. But that couldn’t be. This was a fantasy of hers. It had to be. All his life, his mother had cherished the dream that one day they would be pulled back into the ducal fold. She had made no secret of her hopes, of the distant connection between them and the Duke of Bucklynde, and she had made Radley’s life hell with the constant keeping up of appearances for something that would never happen.

  He was a sailor, soon to be captain of his own ship. The fantasy that he would someday take a place among the aristocracy was ridiculous at best. And yet, here stood Mr. Pelley and Pelley, and his disquiet grew.

  “Sirs, as you might imagine, this is all rather confusing.”

  The elder Pelley bowed deeply. “We’ve been anxious for your return, your grace.”

  Radley winced at “your grace” but allowed the man to continue without comment.

  “I only heard an hour ago that your ship had finally arrived. Assuming that you would come first to visit your mother, we decided to meet you here. I’m afraid the estate has been neglected in this time of crisis, and there are decisions that need to be made as soon as possible.”

  He looked at the man, gauging his sincerity and sanity. He judged them both adequate, but the idea was still too preposterous to accept. He knew he was rapidly losing the war against denial, but he clung tenaciously to it.

  His mother had always put on airs, and his sister had ended up suffering for it. He had tolerated her insistence on seeing him educated as a gentleman, and for a little while he had allowed his mother’s dreams to infect him. As a boy, he’d fantasized about some unlikely event that would confer the duke’s honors on him. When his sister had become a victim of a heinous crime, in part brought on by his mother’s fixation on their connection to the dukedom, it had taken Radley from boyhood to adulthood virtually overnight. He had chosen a profession and set aside his secret hope, a little regretfully, but with relief too. And now, here were two men and his mother telling him that all his boyhood wishes had come true.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand how this could be.”

  The elder Pelley bowed again—really, that was getting rather irritating—then gestured to his grandson. “If we might be permitted to explain.”

  At a pointed look at the younger Mr. Pelley, the boy—who looked barely into his twenties—gasped and grabbed a satchel. He pulled out a stack of papers, which appeared to have an elaborate family tree upon it. He spread it on the table in front of the settee, then both Pelleys looked at Radley.

  It took a minute for Radley to realize that they hadn’t yet sat down because they were waiting for him. His mother, of course, had discreetly withdrawn to the kitchen. That was, after all, what a dowager countess would do, right? Which left the three men standing, while the Duke of Bucklynde’s genealogy fairly screamed at Radley from the table.

  “Very well,” he said, giving in to the inevitable. He settled on the nearest chair, his knees feeling incredibly weak, and then waited in all appearance of calm. In truth, his heart was pounding and his thoughts whirled more than a storm at sea.

  The next few minutes passed in a numb fog. The younger Mr. Pelley ran through a long commentary about every male on the ducal tree. He pointed at the parchment as he went, indicating birth and death dates, dwelling in detail on how each man died. In truth, the tale was relatively simple. Smallpox wiped out everyone of significance. Apparently, it had begun as a couple of cases, but spread rapidly. The eldest duke had been one of the first to succumb, and sadly, the cause of everyone else’s infection. All the men had stood vigil at the duke’s sickbed. Then, one by one, they had contracted the disease.

  The youngest heir to die had been a boy barely into his teens. The women weren’t mentioned by Mr.
Pelley, but Radley saw the dates of each death written in a cold script as well.

  Then he counted the remaining females: four, not including his own sister and mother. Four women struggling to hold together a semblance of a life when everything—and everyone—around them had died. He shuddered at the thought.

  “I see you are looking at the female names,” said the elder Mr. Pelley. “I should like to draw your attention to this one in particular: Lady Eleanor. She’s a beautiful woman, trained since birth to be a proper wife, and she is your distant cousin, so there will be no concerns on that account.”

  Radley frowned, not understanding what the man was saying. What concerns? Why?

  “If I may, your grace,” inserted the younger Mr. Pelley. “What my grandfather is trying delicately to suggest is that there are a great many duties required of a new duke, but the most important one at the moment…” He cleared his throat then blushed a fiery red.

  “The most important,” picked up his grandfather, “is a continuation of the line. My grandson and I can take care of the most pressing matters of the estate. We’ve already hired a new steward and are sorting through the requirements of the land, finding new tenants, and clearing out the last of the sick or dying.”

  “Clearing them out?” echoed Radley, his voice dropping to a deceptively quiet tone. He knew just what kind of panic sickness could create. He’d stopped sailors from throwing the ill overboard out of fear that the disease would spread.

  “Er, yes, your grace. We’re moving them to a hospital and… um… burning the homes. You must understand that this illness is—”

  Radley waved him into silence. This was more than he could process, but he was not going to allow fear to rule even from this distant location. “Wall off the homes for the moment. Do not burn them until after we learn of their owners’ fates.”

  The younger man cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, your grace, but you are the owner. You can—”

  “Not of their crockery, not of their clothing or their mementoes.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Bloody hell, this was too much. “Wait to find out if the people survive!”

  The elder Mr. Pelley inclined his head deeply. “Of course, your grace. You can rely on us. We will see to it immediately. But if I may be so bold…”

  Privately, Radley thought the man had been nothing but bold, but he didn’t quibble. He simply raised his eyebrows as he might to an arrogant sailor who still needed to learn his place. Sadly, he had the distinct impression that he was the one who had the most to learn.

  “Yes, your grace. As I was saying, Lady Eleanor is a beauty of the first order. We believe she should be your highest priority.”

  Radley frowned. “Is she ill? In trouble?”

  “Goodness, no!” gasped the younger Mr. Pelley. Then he flushed a bright red. “That is to say, the lady is all that is to be desired. And she would be an excellent choice for duchess.”

  It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. Duchess. As in his duchess. “You want me to wed this woman?”

  Mr. Pelley, the elder, beamed as if he were a rather slow student who had just grasped his sums. “The line has been all but decimated. You cannot imagine our terror these last weeks at the idea that you might have been lost at sea.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that would have put you in quite the quandary,” Radley drawled, but his sarcasm was lost on the two men.

  “But as you are not lost and are, in fact, a healthy man, it is incumbent upon you to see to the continuation of such a distinguished and lofty title. You have responsibilities now, your grace. The first of which is to secure an heir. Lady Eleanor is not only well suited to the task, but she can also guide you in your new role.” The elder Pelley finished his words with a smug nod, while the younger one added in a hushed tone.

  “Please understand that my grandfather would push Lady Eleanor on you simply because of her heritage, but I, myself, have had time to speak with the lady. She is elegance personified. Beautiful, poised, extremely intelligent, and with a generous heart. She is a lady of old, who guides with the most tender of touches and inspires the darkest heart to glory.”

  Radley stared. “Good God, you’ve composed poetry for her, haven’t you?”

  The boy’s face heated so much it was a wonder he didn’t incinerate right there. “Lady Eleanor inspires many—”

  “With her beauty and virtue. Yes, yes.”

  Again, the elder bowed his head. “If I may, your grace—”

  “No, you may not,” Radley abruptly snapped. “Let me understand this. The entire ducal line has been decimated, the village wiped out. There is still sickness in the area, and my guess is that the crops have been completely ignored while this plague went through—”

  “Yes, your—”

  “But in all this horror and devastation, your concern isn’t for how the survivors will be fed throughout the winter, how the dead can be grieved or the land managed, but for the lady you have selected to get my heir.”

  The younger man opened his mouth to say something. Probably defend the paragon Lady Eleanor, but his grandfather silenced him with a touch on the arm. Then the man turned rather pitying eyes on Radley and spoke with soothing accents that were completely infuriating.

  “I realize the behaviors of the aristocracy must seem strange to you, but I assure you, the Chase and Pelley solicitors have guided generations of dukes. You can rely on our advice to be sound no matter how strange it might seem. In fact—”

  “So you were the solicitors who advised my great-grandfather to cut off his youngest son. Over a matter of a stolen horse, I believe.”

  “The boy wasn’t disinherited. Otherwise, we would not be here today. And it was the boy’s choice in a wife.”

  Radley all but itched to hear the solicitors’ version of the story. He’d been reared on his mother’s endless tirades about the ridiculous action. By her account, the old duke had been senile and stubborn, a bad combination.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t the moment to listen to a recounting of an old argument, especially as everyone involved was now dead. What he had to think about right away was his mother. He now understood about the new clothing, new tea set, new… everything. If what these men said was true—and he was beginning to think it might be—then she had probably gone on a spending spree. What if there wasn’t any money behind the title? What if this was an elaborate joke? He knew she was standing in the kitchen hanging onto every word. In her mind, he was probably already wedded and bedded with this Lady Eleanor. She’d always been obsessed with the mores of the upper crust, and she would leap upon the chance to marry him into the aristocracy. It was all too much, and he feared for his mother’s sanity, not to mention his own peace of mind.

  Then over everything came one loud and particular concern. It was a ridiculous thought, especially given the magnitude of what had just happened. But he couldn’t shake the thought, nor could he just ignore it. It was simply this: assuming this wasn’t a bad joke, what would happen to his captaincy? And without the captaincy, how would he convince Wendy to marry him?

  He supposed a dukedom might have some influence, but he wasn’t entirely sure that would be a good thing in her mind. She might now believe him to be above her touch, even though they shared their childhood. Besides, she was the owner of a successful business. Could a duchess still work as a seamstress? He rather guessed she could not.

  And why was he thinking about Wendy when people were dying in some northern village that he’d never even heard of before?

  “Your grace, if I might—”

  “Get out,” he snapped.

  The man reared back, his mouth gaping open. “Now, see here—”

  Radley focused on the man with all his considerable frustration. He didn’t know if this was a joke or a bizarre reality, but either way the man could not speak to him that way. He could not wax indignant, nor could he dare to look at him with such condescension in Radley’s own home.

  “I said, get ou
t. Now. If this is indeed truth, then I shall visit you on the morrow. And we shall see if the current Duke of Bucklynde will retain your services.”

  “Retain! Morrow!” the elder man sputtered.

  It was the younger Pelley who had the sense to quiet his outraged grandsire. “Of course, your grace. I’m sure this has been unsettling.”

  “But—” continued the elder.

  “When you are ready, we are willing to assist you.”

  Radley was on the verge of telling them to go to the devil. But that, of course, was not appropriate, nor fair. They’d merely been delivering the news. They were not the cause of this total disruption to his life or his plans.

  He didn’t bother seeing the men out. His mother was there to do that, with all her murmured promise to help her son through this awkward transition. Radley blocked her words from his thoughts lest he become furious with her.

  Then ten minutes later, he pushed up from the chair. “I’m going to… the ship.” He’d almost said my ship, but that hadn’t been true even before the damned solicitors had delivered their news.

  “But Radley! You have to—”

  “Mother, I have to finish one life before I can start the next.”

  He hadn’t accepted the reality of a new life, but whatever the future held, he still had responsibilities to Mr. Knopp. He would finish those first, then turn his face to whatever was in store in the future.

  “And then,” he added in words too low for his mother to hear, “I’m going to get right, stinking drunk.”

  Five

  “Wake up! Yer late for watch!”

  Radley sat bolt upright in his bunk and nearly knocked his head on the low wood paneling. He almost wished he had when his stomach roiled from the motion and his head pounded as if he had brained himself. Meanwhile, the bellowing continued, making everything worse with each syllable.

  “Told you that would wake ’im. Come on lad, I’m over here. Cast up your accounts, and let’s get on with business.”

  He cracked an eye, his legs already over the edge of the bunk. He was late for watch. He had to get moving.