She opened several gossip columns and placed them side by side so that they were in the shape of a rainbow. On her knees, she held the candle over the pages and read, moving from one to the next.
Nothing. In the last month, the Duke hadn’t been mentioned at all. Disappointed, she returned the papers to the box and took out the next lot.
This time, she spotted his name almost at once.The mysterious Duke of Sheffield spotted at Almack’swrote one columnist. Another referred to the same day but only denoted him as theDuke of S.Some papers were more concerned with maintaining the privacy of their subjects than others. The brief article spoke of the Duke dancing with a lady but leaving her at the end of the night wanting more.
The person who had written the story noted the Duke’s habit of dancing with various ladies but never more than once. Making conversation but never talking to the same lady at two balls in a row. It stated that he was picky, selecting the ladies he chose to dance with carefully, and even then he never seemed interested in them. He was approaching the age of six-and-twenty and yet had never entered into courtship.
She placed the papers back in the box and grabbed another stack. By the time she was finished reading a year’s worth of gossip columns, she had an idea of who he was to the public—a man not to settle down with. A man whose temper could be rather explosive.
There were stories about him getting into screaming matches with his peers at times. There was even a mention of a fight in the rookeries, though she couldn’t be certain if he was the man involved in the fight, since initials were used. There was little of true significance other than the mentions of his parents.
Those had given her pause. Some articles about his parents had shown up over the last couple of weeks, commemorating their passing twenty years ago.
Twenty years ago…
“So if he is five-and-twenty now, he was five when they died. The same age I was when Mother died,” she muttered.
Was it a coincidence, or did this mean something? Was it something they could potentially bond over? No, she had to stop those thoughts. There was not going to be any bonding. There wasn’t going to be anything between them.
They were going to take their vows in front of their family and friends, and then she would move into his house and live her own life—he’d been very clear. And the sooner she got these silly notions out of her head, the better for all involved.
CHAPTER 6
“Jones, pull around the side. I will not be long,” Harry called to his coachman as he descended from his carriage in front of Hayward Manor.
He wasn’t particularly eager to see Arabella, nor did he expect her to be pleased to see him. Yet, they both understood the necessity of their meeting to discuss their impending wedding. It would be prudent for them to be seen together, perhaps promenading or attending the opera, to quell any rumors that their marriage was anything less than genuine.
He paused at the foot of the grand stone steps, taking in the manor. The imposing façade was covered with ivy and lined with tall windows framed by heavy, slightly faded drapes. The gardens, though undeniably beautiful, were overgrown, hinting at a neglect that marked the entire estate.
As he climbed the steps, the heavy oak door creaked open, revealing a liveried footman who bowed deeply before ushering him inside.
The entrance hall was grand but dim, its dark wood paneling and sweeping staircase giving it an air of faded grandeur. Stern-faced portraits of ancestors glared down from the walls, their expressions frozen in disapproval. A chandelier hung overhead, its once-glittering crystals now dulled by dust. The neglect was palpable, and Harry wondered if the master of the house cared at all for its condition.
“Harry Ridlington, the Duke of Sheffield. I would like to see Lord Worcester post-haste. He will want to see me,” he said, handing over a silver calling card with a flourish that he knew exuded confidence.
The footman looked down at the card at once and clicked his heels. “I will fetch His Lordship,” he said, before hurrying away.
Alone in the hall, Harry wandered, his hands clasped behind his back as he examined the portraits. The quiet was soon broken by the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Your Grace, what a delightful surprise,” the Earl greeted him with exaggerated warmth. “I hadn’t anticipated your arrival until later.”
His face was flushed, likely from the excesses of the previous evening, and his overly jovial manner set Harry on edge. The older man looked decidedly disheveled, his white hair standing in unruly tufts, with a few darker strands clinging desperately to their former color. Sweat beaded on his weathered skin, and as he straightened up from a deep bow, Harry noticed his hands were trembling.
The Earl seemed to notice Harry’s scrutiny and quickly clasped his shaking hands behind his back.
“No time to waste, wouldn’t you agree?” Harry said in a casual tone.
“Of course, Your Grace! Welcome, welcome!” The Earl slapped him on the back with an enthusiasm that felt forced. “It’s an honor to have you here. Tea or perhaps brandy to start the day?”
“It’s quite early for spirits,” Harry replied.
It was clear from the tremors that the Earl needed more than just relief from the previous night’s indulgence—he was dependent on drink. Harry had heard of such cases, people who required alcohol to steady themselves, to stave off the tremors that would otherwise plague them throughout the day. Could it be that the Earl was in such dire straits?
“Ah, very well. Just tea then. But for me, the special brew,” the Earl said, patting his stomach with an exaggerated sigh. “My constitution cannot handle black tea so early in the morning,” he added.
Harry understood perfectly well what the ‘special brew’ was.
“Please, come into my study. We have much to discuss before the wedding,” the Earl urged.
