Or she might say yes. She might have to, what with the Prince Regent weighing in.
A long engagement. That was what he wanted. If they had to get married eventually, maybe she wouldn’t mind being engaged for a year or two … or three. At least until he got used to this peerage lark. Not to mention that getting married should wait until he got his mind sorted and stopped jumping at every little noise, waking almost hourly with nightmares, and finally remembered whatever it was that had happened on the battlefield that sent him into a panic at odd intervals.
He walked up the steps, glad to move without limping at least, though the injured leg was weaker than he’d like. Still, being out of the hospital and walking had hastened his healing. Without giving himself time to rethink, he raised the brass knocker and rapped it against the strike plate.
As if he’d been waiting near the door for the summons, an immaculately liveried footman opened the door and stepped back.
Trying to remember everything Marcus had instructed before seeing him off, Evan entered, removing his hat with one hand while digging into his pocket for his crisp new calling card.
The Earl of Whitelock.
Evan felt as if he were looking at the name of a stranger. An impostor at the very least. What was he doing here?
“I’d like to speak to the Duke of Seaton, if you please.”
The footman held out a little silver tray, and Evan placed his card on it.
“Very good, sir. I shall see if His Grace is at home.”
Evan refrained from rolling his eyes. The man would know whether his employer was at home. Marcus had explained that this was the polite way to see if the duke was willing to talk to Evan or not. Everywhere he went amongst the peerage, pretention was labeled “good manners.”
In moments, the footman returned, bowing slightly. “His Grace will see you now. May I take your things?”
Handing over coat, hat, and walking stick, Evan smoothed his hand down the front of his waistcoat, tugging it down to meet his breeches. How he missed his military trousers. Much more comfortable than this dandyish ensemble. At least Marcus had consented to his wearing boots and not buckled shoes.
The servant showed him into a parlor, rich with heavy green draperies, patterned wallpaper, and gilded frames of landscape oil paintings. Pale-green matting covered the floor, and a fire burned in the marble fireplace.
“His Grace will be in momentarily. May I bring you tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, thank you.” Evan had developed quite a taste for coffee in Spain. He enjoyed the strong flavor far more than the ale most men of his regiment preferred.
Evan was left waiting for nearly half an hour, and he had no doubt the duke wanted to let him know who was superior in the relationship. But he didn’t reckon for Evan, who had the patience of the Sphinx. Sharpshooters could lie motionless for hours, waiting for their quarry. Sitting in a pleasant drawing room, warm by a nice fire while it spit snow outside, drinking coffee, wasn’t a bad way to pass the time.
Finally the door opened, and the duke came in. His gray hair flowed back from his forehead like a lion’s mane. His eyes glinted in a face as hard as flint. Evan rose, setting his cup on the side table.
“Your Grace. Thank you for seeing me.” He held out his hand, but the duke ignored it, instead seating himself in the wingback chair across from the settee and crossing his legs.
So that’s how it’s going to be. Evan took his seat. If the duke wanted to see who could outwait whom, he was in for a long day.
The clock on the mantel ticked softly, sleet pinged off the window-panes, and the fire crackled. Evan held Seaton’s eyes, unflinching. He might be an upstart in the peerage, but he’d dealt with numerous pompous officers, had lived through years of war, and had stared death in the face countless times. No mere duke with a bad temper would make him cower.
Eventually, the duke uncrossed his legs, sniffed, and said, “What is it you’ve come for?”
“I believe you know why I am here. If not, perhaps this will make my intentions plain.” Evan removed the Prince Regent’s missive and held it out.
The duke once more ignored the gesture. “I’m not interested.”
“You should be. It’s tantamount to a royal decree. I am here to make a formal proposal to your daughter, Lady Diana, the Prince Regent’s goddaughter, at his request.” Evan flicked the page open so the duke could see the crest at the top of the stationery.
Like a striking snake, the duke snatched the paper. “What is this tripe?” He read the page rapidly, his face going pale. “How did you do this?”
“I?” Evan’s brows rose. “I had nothing to do with this. It arrived at my lodgings this morning. I’m here on the strength of it and on the strength of what happened last night at Almack’s. It is my duty to offer marriage to your daughter, having unintentionally caused her some embarrassment last evening, and it is your duty, as her father, to agree, because it is the express wish of the acting ruler of the realm.” Did the bounder think he’d been around to the prince’s breakfast table this morning asking for the letter? Nonsense.
Red crept up beyond the duke’s impeccable neckcloth, his eyes narrowing as he slowly folded the paper. He swallowed—what appeared to be a considerable amount of bile, if his expression was any indication—and placed the letter on the arm of the chair. He tented his fingers and placed them against his lips, studying Evan.
Evan wanted to roll his eyes. The man was insulting, treating him like some boot-licking social climber. “I suppose this is where I am to make promises concerning your daughter, promises to see that she is well looked after? I’ll confess, as a new member of the peerage, I’m not certain how one goes about proposing to a near stranger. Where I am from, marriage bonds are forged with mutual affection and interests. I understand the aristocracy does things differently, marrying for money, titles, lands, and political alliances. However, I do assure you that your daughter will be well looked after in my care. I will see to her comfort to the best of my abilities.”
The duke waved a dismissive hand, as if not really hearing Evan. Was he so little concerned for his daughter’s future? His mind seemed to be elsewhere, as if working out a thorny problem. At last he came to the present.
“I will deliver your offer to my daughter.” He rose, and Evan rose with him. “I will send you word of her response.”
“No.”
“Pardon me?” Seaton stopped on his way to the door.
“No, that won’t do. I must speak to her myself. Now, if you please.” Evan clasped his hands behind his back. Convenient as it might be to have his proposal handed on by someone else, that way was also cowardly. He would face the girl himself, make his offer, and hear her response. If she gave him his congé, fine. If she accepted, then he would persuade her that a long engagement was best for everyone.
“You will not see my daughter today, or for as long as I can forestall the encounter.” The duke’s words were clipped, clearly expecting to be obeyed.
“Your Grace.” Evan almost choked on the words, since the man had no grace whatsoever. “The Prince Regent was clear in his note that he expected to hear how my interview with Lady Diana went. It is implied that I will speak with her myself. If not here, then I imagine the prince will summon both of us to Carlton House for the discussion to take place under his watchful eye.”