It took every bit of self-control Val possessed to keep from telling his father to go to the devil. He might not be interested in marrying Caro anymore, but he’d be damned if he would listen to the duke speak of her as if she were a foxhound of inferior pedigree.
“Enough,” he said sharply. “You’ve made your point. It’s unlikely that I will even meet Miss Hardcastle again in the near future, much less ask for her hand.”
He wanted to decry his father’s snobbery, but like always, he knew it would be as helpful as asking the sun to shine at night.
“But you will ask for the hand of some suitable young lady,” the duke said firmly. “And the sooner the better.”
“It’s not something that I can accomplish in a day,” Valentine argued, feeling his collar tighten at the thought of being forced to marry the sort of woman his parents would find worthy of the Duke of Thornfield’s heir. “Wooing and wedding take time.”
“We don’t have time,” Thornfield said curtly. “I wish to dandle my grandchildren upon my knee before I’m too decrepit to do so comfortably. And since your sister, Genevieve, seems more interested in writing her novels than marrying, it’s up to you. Whomever you choose for your wife, you’ll need to wed her and bed her with all due haste.”
Leave it to his father, who had just dismissed the Hardcastles as being uncouth, to put the matter so bluntly.
Val pinched the bridge of his nose. “What has Mother to say to any of this?”
“I thought you wished to keep her out of it.” The duke arched a brow.
“I meant I didn’t wish her to choose a wife for me,” Val argued. “Not that I don’t value her opinion on the matter.”
The duke’s blue eyes, which were mirrors of Val’s own, brightened with affection. “She is even more intent upon hurrying along the getting of grandchildren than I am. Though she would not be so vulgar as to state it that way. But do not think her absence from this meeting indicates a lack of interest on her part. In fact, she asked me to have you go up to her sitting room once we’re finished. She, ah, has a list of potential brides to discuss with you. And you’ll want to prepare yourself. She’s decided our annual ball this season will be a celebration of your betrothal.”
Valentine didn’t bother to hide his groan.
“It doesn’t have to be a trial, my boy.” His father clapped him on the shoulder. “I know young men make much of avoiding the state, but when all is said and done, you may pick and choose those parts of your life you wish to alter upon your marriage. You may keep a mistress if you wish.”
“And we both know,” Val reminded his father, “that I’m not the sort of man who would do that to a wife—no matter how much or how little affection I hold her in.”
“No, you would not.” The pride in the duke’s tone dissipated Val’s frustration somewhat.
His father hadn’t thrust this situation upon him out of some wild whim, after all. It was the system into which they’d both been born. And for all his faults, the duke was simply trying to do his best for his family and their dependents.
“You’re a good man,” he continued. “And despite your dabbling in pursuits not quite worthy of a duke’s son, you have always behaved with honor. I have every faith that whomever you choose to marry, you will treat her with respect. And I hope, in time, affection will grow between you. It is your mother’s dearest wish, too.”
If Val’s heart rebelled at this as-yet-unnamed bride who would put paid to any possibility of the love match he’d hoped for with Caroline, he reminded himself firmly that she’d already rejected him once before and dismissed the emotion as nothing more than misplaced longing for a simpler time.
He was about to take his leave when a brisk knock sounded at the library door. A footman appeared. “Your grace, we’ve just had a messenger for Lord Wrackham.”
At a nod from his master, the young man handed the note to Val, then took his leave.
Frowning, Val looked at the letter. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for his servants to contact him at the duke’s residence rather than wait for his return. Especially given how much time he spent going over the various business holdings and estate books with his father’s secretary. But Val dreaded every unexpected messenger ever since the day they’d learned of Piers’s accident. He bit back a curse.
“Is something wrong?” the duke asked, his expression clouded when Val glanced up.
Val realized that the duke probably felt likewise.
“Nothing dire,” he assured his father once he’d read the note. “Francis has been in some sort of altercation and has asked for me, apparently. His man assures me it’s nothing serious.”
The duke scowled. “He’s not still mixed up with that actress, is he? I vow the last time I spoke with Theo, he assured me he would cut the boy off without a penny if he didn’t stop trying to marry every opera dancer or performer he became infatuated with.”
Since the note had stated that his cousin awaited him at the Half Moon Street address of Miss Effie Warrington, the actress, Val made a noncommittal noise rather than answer his father’s query. He certainly had no intention of informing the duke that Frank and “that actress” were betrothed to be married. That news would prompt a much longer conversation than he could afford at the moment.
“Thank heavens neither you nor your brother ever gave your mother and me pause on that score,” the duke continued. “You might have been taken with Miss Hardcastle, but you weren’t so foolish as to ask the chit to marry you.”
Val didn’t bother to correct him. “I know my duty, Father. But surely Frank should have more leeway in choosing a bride than I do.”
He certainly envied Frank his independence at the moment.
Before the duke could respond, he went on, moving toward the door as he spoke. “But much as I’d like to continue this discussion, I must be off and ensure my cousin isn’t hurt too badly. Please let Mama know I will have to see her another day.”
As soon as he’d given his coachman orders to take him to Half Moon Street, Val gave an exasperated sigh. “Dear God, Frank, what have you got yourself into now?”
Chapter Two
When Caro alit from her carriage on Half Moon Street, she noted that another was already there. With a sinking feeling, she recognized the coat of arms as that of Viscount Wrackham. It wasn’t entirely surprising, but she did wish she’d arrived first, if only so that she could have questioned Mr. Thorn before Valentine could protect him. But it wasn’t to be helped.
Lettie had gone around to the servants’ entrance to see if there was any news of the coach, leaving Caro to knock on the front door of Effie’s townhouse alone and prepared for battle.
Effie’s butler, Woods, sagged with relief when he saw her. “This way, Miss Hardcastle,” he said, leading her through the simply but elegantly furnished entrance hall toward the sitting room. As they drew closer, Caro could hear raised male voices, but when Woods rapped on the door, the din ceased.
She’d never met Francis Thorn before, but his resemblance to his cousin was enough for Caro to tell who he was. He was slumped against the cushions of an overstuffed chintz sofa and had a hand pressed to his head as if in pain. On seeing her in the doorway, he attempted to stand up, but when Caro quickly gestured for him to sit back down, he all but collapsed back onto the seat. It was clear that he wasn’t feigning his injury. Or if he was, he was just as good at acting as Effie.