An Earl of her Own Read online

  The duchess placed a restraining hand on her husband’s thigh. “Leave it with me. I am certain your daughter and I can figure out a way to celebrate Jessica and Gideon’s wedding day without bankrupting the family.”

  The duke frowned again. “I wanted to stay and help.”

  Her grace smiled in response. “And you have. Completing arrangements for a house party should be my responsibility.”

  “Yes, but this is a wedding. You’ve not been well, and I thought—”

  “I am better now, and it’s time I started doing my duty.”

  “You know I don’t care—”

  The duchess placed a finger over the duke’s lips. “I will do this.”

  “Well, all right. If you’re sure you don’t need me.”

  “Not for this,” she murmured, brandishing the sheet. “We’ll organize the most beautiful wedding possible for Jessica. I promise. Off you go. I’m sure you have more pressing matters on the estate than fussing over me.”

  “I married you so I could take care of you,” he promised before kissing her brow. The duke stood and drew in a breath. “I did promise to meet the stable master soon.”

  “You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

  Father kissed his new wife goodbye and then strode off.

  The duchess lowered her eyes to read the list again. “A driveway lined with lambs wearing cravats? Never would I allow that.”

  “I had one as a pet,” Jessica confessed to the duchess. “I used to dress it up and take it for walks.”

  “Like a dog,” Rebecca muttered softly.

  “Crystal jugglers, gypsies to bless the marriage?” The duchess covered her lips, but it didn’t diminish the sound of her laugh. “Oh my. Well, there’s no way we can allow those, either.”

  “But—”

  “No, Jessica,” her grace said, tone slightly harder than she usually used. “If you want pet lambs at your wedding, you will have to appeal to your betrothed to fetch and clothe them. Gideon is tolerant, but I highly doubt he will indulge you in that, either.”

  “It was funny,” Jessica protested.

  “When you were a child perhaps, but not now.” The duchess smiled at Rebecca and handed the list to her. “Some of my husband’s ideas are possible, but let us not turn a wedding into a country fair. Remove the most costly and bizarre of his suggestions but ensure the wedding date is set for the sixth.”

  Rebecca moved to a writing table and transferred Father’s most sedate requests to her own list. “Manageable. But only barely. There would never have been enough room at the manor for all the guests father had initially wanted to invite, either.”

  “He’s not always as practical as we might hope,” the duchess lamented.

  Rebecca agreed. The wedding would keep her completely occupied for over a week. Still, she rubbed her brow in anticipation of a headache to come from all this.

  “I’m so sorry but I really do need your help with this,” the duchess murmured at her side.

  “I would be happy to take it on for you.” She looked up at the duchess. “We’re going to need a private space to organize this wedding from. Might I move everything to the parlor I use for the next week or so? We can meet there each day to discuss progress and make decisions.”

  “Anything you need is yours.” Her grace grimaced. “I’m also sure we don’t need to invite your father along at first if you’d prefer he not be included in our discussions. Nicolas can be a little excessive.”

  “I have a lifetime of familiarity with my father’s excesses,” she advised.

  “Good,” the duchess returned to her chair and then suddenly moaned. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Warner, Jessica, I need to be alone for a little while.”

  “Are you unwell again?” Jessica asked.

  Rebecca jumped to her feet and hurried her sister out the door. “Talking about being unwell inevitably brings that very result to pass,” she reminded her sister. “Could you find the address for your seamstress and bring it to me? We’ll need to write to her about your trousseau.”

  Rebecca shut the door just as the duchess suddenly acquired a basin that had been secreted beneath the settee and cast up her accounts into it. Rebecca rang the bell for a servant and then moved to open a window for fresher air. When she turned back, the duchess had sprawled back into a chair, panting. Rebecca fetched a glass of water and set it down beside her.

  “Don’t tell him,” the duchess begged as she mopped her own brow. “He’ll only make a bigger fuss and try to talk me back into bed.”

  Rebecca was surprised by her request but readily agreed to keep the secret. If the duchess did not want her husband around, who was Rebecca to argue? “He always fusses.”

  The housekeeper herself came to answer the summons in a rush.

  While Mrs. Brown looked after the duchess, Rebecca observed the woman her father had married. She’d lost weight since they’d first met, on account of the babe most likely. Although the duchess’ health was none of her business, she made a request to the housekeeper before she left the room. “Would you have Cook bake flatbread with a little honey mixed in for the duchess to nibble on?”

  “Of course,” the housekeeper nodded enthusiastically and rushed away to do her bidding.

  “My sister-in-law swears by it,” she explained to the duchess.

  “Thank you. I’m willing to try anything to make this sickness stop.”

  “Oh, it won’t stop you casting up your accounts, but it will feed you up a little more.”

  “I was so hoping for a cure,” the duchess admitted with a weary laugh. “I should know this, but should we add your husband’s family to the wedding guest list?”

  Rebecca shook her head quickly. They were not fond of her. They had taken Warner’s side when his affair with their housekeeper had become known. They had blamed Rebecca for his actions, accusing her of abandoning her marriage and her husband. Of driving him into the only arms that welcomed him. They were quite ridiculous because that was not correct. “We are not on the best terms.”

  “I can sympathize.” The duchess sighed. “When it became known that I had married so well, I received a begging letter from my late husband’s family.”

  Rebecca was not surprised. “Did you give them very much?”

  “I gave them what they gave me when Thorpe died. Five shillings, and then I reminded them of their request that I never contact them again.”

  Despite her reluctance to like the duchess, Rebecca wholeheartedly approved. Perhaps they were not so dissimilar after all. “A good response.”

  She turned away and spread the papers out on the table.

  “What can I do to help you there?”

  “For now, nothing, your grace. But later there will be much to talk about and for you to approve. Rest now,” Rebecca suggested gently. She may never love the duchess as her sisters did, but she did not wish great ill upon her. “Sleep if you can while father is gone. Only time will stop the babe affecting you.”

  “I’ll try, but it is so difficult to be idle. I’ve never been very good at doing nothing.”

  “I am the same.”

  The duchess fell silent. After ten minutes, Rebecca turned in her chair to look at the woman her father now loved. The duchess had fallen fast asleep, her arms curled around a small pillow, but the rounded curve of her belly where the child lay was clear. In sleep, Gillian Westfall seemed…not quite the villain Rebecca had once thought she might turn out to be.

  She would make an adequate duchess if she continued to speak out against the duke’s excessive spending, too. Father was generous to those he loved, but so far it seemed the duchess was sensible and could stop him.

  Rebecca studied the list her father had given her, appalled by the extravagance he’d initially wanted. Did he not think of the future? It was his responsibility to pass the estate to his heir in the best possible condition.

  And what of this next child to come? If a son was born, an education, the trappings of a gentlem
an and a healthy allowance must be given. If there were another daughter, the girl would require a dowry. Father had always been too generous to his offspring, in her opinion. A large enough dowry meant an advantageous marriage was a certainty, but it did not guarantee happiness.

  She pressed her lips together as unexpected anger coursed through her.

  Happiness was always short-lived and never should be taken for granted.

  But a tear still slipped down Rebecca’s cheek that happiness had eluded her.

  She wiped it away as she glanced at the new Duchess of Stapleton’s expanding belly. Now was not the time to dwell on what couldn’t be changed. Her grace was lucky to have found a new life filled with love. Rebecca was not likely to ever be so lucky.

  She only attracted drunken sots.

  Chapter 5

  One of Adam’s favorite pastimes in London was patronizing the craftsmen who hawked their wares to an exclusive clientele. His favorite tailor was on Old Bond Street and was much sought after by those in society. Weston’s was a fashionable place to spend a few hours, and he met friends there, too, sometimes. Here in the country, a gentleman must rely upon the local merchants to keep up appearances. But at least here, tailors would call upon a gentleman in his home.

  Adam turned his head and smiled at the look of confusion on his partially clad friend’s face. Whitfield was being fitted for a new suit of clothes today and did not seem particularly enthralled by the experience. Since his friend was about to be married, Adam expected to see that expression often. “You said she liked you in blue,” Adam reminded him.

  “Yes, but which blue?” Whitfield muttered in a bewildered tone, looking at the fabric samples spread about.

  The tailor held up two blue swatches in slightly different shades. “Which of these do you prefer, sir?”

  Whitfield squinted at the nearly identical colors.

  Adam chuckled. “If you cannot choose between them, why not have both made up? A man cannot have too many waistcoats.”

  “Yes, we’ll do that. One of each color, Mr. Hutchinson.” Whitfield let out a pent-up breath and caught Adam’s eye. “How’s the head today?”

  “Perfect,” Adam promised. He still had his stitches but his head no longer hurt. He waved away the offer of wine when Whitfield pointed to a bottle and pair of glasses set to one side. “No, thank you.”

  Whitfield reapplied himself to holding still while the tailor pinned his chest with blue fabrics.

  Adam had set himself the challenge of not drinking spirits until the dinner hour and limiting himself to drink only with the meal. Adam would not deny himself the pleasure of kissing Rebecca at least once in his life, and since she did not approve of his drinking, particularly the scent, he’d give it up for the next few days.

  Adam replaced Whitfield at the mirror and considered his own appearance. Today’s waistcoat was one of his favorites…light blue silk shot through with dark purple stripes. Adam thought he looked very well in it, but as he fiddled with the fit, he remembered that Rebecca would not agree. She’d called him a preening peacock after the accident. Not that he cared about her criticism exactly, but as he turned away from his reflection to study the fabrics strewn over Whitfield’s bed, he decided another change might increase his appeal to her.

  He addressed the tailor. “I have a commission for you, too, sir when you are done with outfitting Whitfield.”

  The tailor’s eyes lit up with delight at the news. “If I’d known, I would have brought a different range of fabrics, my lord. The most daring were left behind at my workshop.”

  Adam studied the plain and sensible fabrics before him, colors that Whitfield usually sported, and took a deep breath before speaking. “Something from what you have will do. I need a few waistcoats made in a hurry. A dove gray, eggshell blue, and the pale yellow.”

  Whitfield chuckled. “What, no stripes or prints?”

  Unfortunately not, if he wanted to impress the easily displeased Rebecca Warner. “No.”

  “What of the buttons? I have some elegant gold and pearl buttons in my shop. I should have thought to bring them with me.”

  Ordinarily, Adam would choose either in an instant, but he shook his head. “Covered buttons.”

  “Covered with what, my lord?”

  “The waistcoat fabric.” He pointed at his friend’s current attire. “Do them the way you do Whitfield’s.”

  “But—” The tailor began to protest, but Adam shook his head.

  “I refuse to outshine the groom on his wedding day.”

  Whitfield laughed and slapped his shoulder. “That will never happen, my lord.”

  Adam allowed Whitfield to harbor his delusions as their respective orders were made final.

  When the tailor was on his way back to his workshop, Whitfield turned to him. “Are you sure you are all right?”

  “Indeed I am. Now, how are you bearing up? Nervous.”

  Whitfield threw a scowl at him. “Not even a little.”

  “Good. I’d hate to have to drag you to the altar kicking and screaming that you’re too young for marriage.”

  Whitfield shook his head. “No chance of that, but I am looking forward to the fuss being over.”

  “Marriage means a lot to women,” Adam murmured. “The ceremony, the toasts, the wedding night and after. It all sticks in their heads. Beware, sir, they dwell on it later and use it against us, too.”

  Whitfield chuckled. “Are you suggesting men don’t do the same thing?”

  Adam remembered his marriage vividly—the good times and the bad. The pleasures, and the pain of loss. The negative aspects of marriage had always had him facing the other way. Whitfield had no idea what was in store for him, really. Marriage was an adjustment in so many ways.

  “Perhaps we do, too.”

  Whitfield headed for the doorway. “I’m expected back at Stapleton.”

  “You certainly are, but I’ll tag along.” He grabbed his hat and gloves and hurried after his friend.

  They headed outside into a garden lit by sunshine and stirred by a light wind. Adam glanced at the sky. Not a single cloud to mar the view. Mrs. Warner would be so disappointed. He smiled slightly. “How long do you think Mrs. Warner will remain at the manor after the wedding?”

  “She’s not said. Why do you want to know?”

  Why indeed? “Just an idle question.”

  “However long she stays, I’m just thankful she approves of me marrying Jessica.”

  “Well, I’m glad she came alone this year,” Adam murmured. “Those women she calls friends chatter so much they make my head hurt.”

  Whitfield walked along a few steps in silence before he spoke again. “I shouldn’t mention it, I don’t like to gossip about the family, but I think there must have been a parting of the ways a few months ago.”

  “Nothing serious, I trust.”

  “I’m not sure. Rebecca hasn’t mentioned any of her usual companions when I’ve been around, and Jessica says she has no plans to see them anytime soon. That is unusual.”

  “How so?”

  “Because in past years, she’s taken great delight in telling everyone her travel plans,” Whitfield noted.

  “Rebecca does enjoy the social round. Many widows do.”

  Whitfield shrugged. “Jessica used to comment upon her going and often counted the days until she left again.”

  Adam winced. “I thought they were close.”

  “Close enough. Sisters don’t always agree with each other, do they? Rebecca was a bit relentless about Jessica’s preparation for her season, always mentioning how she had to make the right choice in a husband.”

  Adam smirked. “She chose you instead?”

  “Surprisingly, Rebecca does not seem to mind that I’m not titled or terribly rich.”

  “Was a title really so important? Rebecca married a man without one.”

  “It seemed to be once,” Whitfield shrugged.

  At least Adam would have an advantage being titl
ed and wealthy enough to choose any bride he liked. He wouldn’t have the worry that he might not be an acceptable suitor if he made those few changes Rebecca had already warned him about.

  They had reached the manor by then and stepped inside the cooler interior together. Adam turned for the room he’d occupied last night. He’d left his book there by mistake and was keen to recover it. He’d find a servant to return it to his room when he went in to luncheon later.

  Instead of an empty room, Adam discovered Rebecca hunched over her writing table, dozens of papers scattered about her in a circle. She seemed not to notice his arrival, so he cleared his throat.

  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, my lord?” she complained.

  “Not particularly.” He drew closer. “It’s nearly time for luncheon.”

  “I am well aware of the time.”

  Since she did not lift her head, more interested in her writing than in conversing with him, Adam had time to study the woman. Her fingers were stained with ink, and a long lock of her hair had fallen, only to be tucked behind her ear. “What are you doing?”

  “Considering the seating plan for my sister’s wedding breakfast one more time.”

  He glanced over her shoulder—and his eyes widened. “That’s a lot of people to accommodate.”

  “Less than it could have been,” she muttered softly. “My father had a great many friends he wanted to invite at first.”

  He leaned a little closer and studied the arrangements she was making. Seating guests and organizing parties were matters best handled by wives. However, he didn’t think he’d ever viewed such detailed notes before. He was impressed by Rebecca’s meticulous attention to detail.

  There was a page of notes for every servant. A timetable for the bride and family. Nothing was to be left to chance, it seemed. When he spotted his own name on a page assigned to a particular servant, he pulled the sheet toward him. On it, Rebecca had made a note regarding his preferences for certain types of drink at different hours of the day.

  He hadn’t known he was so predictable. It was accurate—or had been until today. “You are organizing absolutely everyone.”