“It’s been over a year, Valentine,” the Duke of Thornfield said impatiently. “I realize none of us are reconciled to the loss yet, but it cannot be helped.”
A glance at his father’s face, so like his late brother’s as to be unsettling, was enough to make Val look instead at the fine scrollwork on the desk before him. It was the pater’s preferred location from which to deliver pronouncements to his children. Val and Piers had endured many a lecture from across that desk. Val glanced at the empty chair beside him and wished for the hundredth time his brother hadn’t gone riding that fateful day.
“It’s time for you to find a wife and do your duty by this family,” the duke continued, his voice not unkind, but implacable nonetheless. “If anything, the loss of your brother should make it clear to you just how imperative it is for you to do so with all haste.”
Val knew his father had been just as deeply affected by the loss of his eldest son as the rest of their family had been, but the duke had always had a stern streak when it came to the continuation of the family line. Of course, the man had inherited the dukedom when he was just a child and had barely known a time when duty didn’t inform his every decision. Still, though he’d had months to adjust himself to the change in his own circumstances, Val couldn’t help but mourn the freedom his new role curtailed. He’d given up his work at The London Gazette, where he’d covered sporting matters. He’d also moved to Wrackham House from his bachelor rooms, which meant he could no longer come and go without the whole of the ton eying him.
Not for the first time he felt the infringements like a too-tight neckcloth.
Unable to maintain his calm and remain seated, Val rose and walked to gaze out the window facing the back garden. “It’s not that I don’t know my duty, Father. I’ve thought of little else since the news came about the accident. I suppose I thought there would be more time.”
Unbidden, the image of Miss Caroline Hardcastle’s heart-shaped face rose in his mind. Once he’d thought they’d make a love match of it. That had been before she realized that however he might reject his class’s inherent snobbery, the same didn’t apply to his family. He’d fumbled to find a balance between his divided loyalties, and she’d broken things off between them a mere three weeks after their betrothal, claiming she could never endure a lifetime spent under the judgmental watch of the nobility. Though he’d understood her frustration and hurt, even now he was resentful of her inability to understand his position. He might have been born into the aristocracy but he’d thought himself different enough from the rest of them.
When he’d seen her last, he’d been surprised to realize the same spark of attraction that had brought them together four years ago was still there. Yet if Caroline thought him too loyal to his aristocratic family as a younger son, she would certainly find his position as first in line to the dukedom objectionable in the extreme.
“Here, drink this.”
Val startled at his father’s voice. Turning, he took the glass of whisky, grateful for the show of care if not the reason behind it.
“I know you never thought to be in this position, Valentine.” The duke took a sip from his own glass. “But you’ve had time enough for sowing your wild oats. There is no sense in delaying the matter. Especially when, if something should happen to you, the dukedom would pass to Reginald’s ne’er-do-well son, Lawrence. We both know what a disaster that would be.”
As children, Val and Piers had not been close to the son or daughters of their uncle Reginald. Instead, they’d preferred the company of their cousin Francis, son of their father’s youngest brother, who’d been closer to them in age. As adults, they might have forged a friendship with Lawrence, but his penchant for dissolute behavior made that unlikely.
The very idea of that man holding in his hands the wealth and livelihoods of everyone employed by the Thornfield estates was unthinkable.
“I do know,” he said aloud. “Of course I do.”
Downing the rest of his whisky, Val set the glass on the desk. “Do not mistake my reluctance for an intention to shirk my duty. If nothing else, I owe it to Piers to see to it that the estate remains in our direct line. He, after all, did his years ago by marrying Cynthia. It was no fault of theirs that they weren’t blessed with offspring.”
“Then get on with it, man,” the duke said with a pointed look. “It matters not why your brother didn’t sire a son. What matters is that you stop dawdling and find a bride. Your mother would be happy to help.”
Val blanched. He loved the duchess, but the notion of choosing a wife from among a selection of ladies she found suitable was enough to put him off the notion of marriage itself, much less the marriage bed.
Perhaps reading Val’s expression, the duke tried another tack. “If you dislike the idea of your mama’s input, perhaps you can ask Cynthia for suggestions. I seem to recall you were quite taken with one of her school friends at her wedding to Piers.”
If anything, Val grew more uncomfortable, though this time he was able to mask his feelings.
“Miss Hardcastle,” he said tersely. Neither his family nor Caroline’s had known anything of their brief understanding, and he had no intention of revealing their broken betrothal to his father now.
“Yes, Miss Hardcastle.” The duke nodded. “That’s right. She was a pretty little thing. If a bit odd. From what I recall the chit’s father was not at all the thing. Terribly wealthy, of course, or how could they have paid for the schooling, but still, a bit coarse. What does Hardcastle do again?”
Val bit back an instinct to leap to the Hardcastles’ defense. England was changing, and men like Charles Hardcastle, who could buy and sell the Thornfield estate ten times over, wielded more power than the duke would comfortably admit. And moreover, it was disingenuous to behave as if the Thornfield family were somehow more worthy than the Hardcastles simply because they’d had the good fortune to inherit their wealth rather than earn it themselves.
“He is in manufacturing, I believe,” Val responded, careful to keep his emotions from his voice.
“Of course,” Thornfield said with delight. “Tinned food or the like, correct? And the daughter was a writer. Cookbooks?” He laughed heartily. “I can just imagine you married to a girl like that. Ink-stained fingers and very likely scarred from kitchen mishaps as well.”
Val, who before his elevation to the viscountcy wrote sporting columns for The London Gazette and authored a biography of the noted boxer Gentleman Jim Hyde, held up his ungloved hands to reveal his own ink stains. He might have agreed not to write for the newspaper anymore, but he was currently at work on another biography, this one of celebrated jockey Billy Rooney, and he had no intention of giving up the project, whatever his family’s wishes. “That’s hardly the sort of thing I would hold against her.”
Some imp of mischief prompted him to add, “And she no longer writes cookbooks. She is a rather celebrated crime columnist these days, along with Lady Katherine.”
But if he’d hoped to put his father in his place, Val was mistaken.
“Oh! I hadn’t made the connection. Of course, that’s the same girl. Regardless, she’s entirely unsuitable as far as potential brides go. However, as I suggested, you can speak with Cynthia. Her years of marriage to your brother have, I’m sure, introduced her to a higher quality of friends far more appropriate for the Thorn name.”