Just a Marriage of Convenience with the Duke by Hazel Linwood
Chapter 1
Bridget Stewart looked around at the schoolroom and smiled to herself. All around her, seated on cast-off chairs, empty wooden crates or overturned pails, children were bent over their tiles, practicing their letters or sums. Their clothes were threadbare, and there wasn’t a shoe to be found among them, but they were diligently filling their heads with knowledge.
Christina Fitzroy, the teacher, and Bridget’s best friend, looked up from where she was helping one of the younger pupils. She spoke one last word of encouragement as the girl struggled to properly hold the lumpy piece of chalk. Bridget felt a wave of sadness at the sight of the child trying to scratch the letters of her name against the jagged, misshapen piece of broken roofing tile that served as her slate.
“Come to see their progress?” Christina asked proudly as she came up to Bridget.
“Yes. It never ceases to amaze me how hard they are willing to work when they have so little,” Bridget said, shaking her head. “I would have thrown these pitiful tools and fragile, old volumes across the room and stormed out by now.”
“Don’t feel too poorly. They have so much more than they would have had, all because of you,” Christina reminded her, causing Bridget to duck her head at the praise. “You know, if it’s not too rude of me to say, you do so much more than many of your class. Your father is but an earl and not astonishingly wealthy, from what you’ve mentioned. There are dukes with more money than the Crown who do not share so generously of what they have.”
“It is only my dear mother’s example that has led me to champion this school, wealth or not,” she replied modestly. “Without all the years of learning at her knee how to be generous and caring—and my father being unable to refuse her anything, even the use of this drafty old factory of his—that seed of charity would never have been planted in my heart.”
“Your mother was truly an astounding person,” Christina answered, patting Bridget’s shoulder. “At times, I cannot believe she’s been gone for five years now. In all the years that you and I have been friends, she never treated me as anything other than one of her own daughters.”
“And I can assure you, she thought of you every bit as one of her own.” Bridget spoke softly, as though remembering some long-forgotten story. “She always did wish to have an enormous family, a house filled with children. But she simply was not strong enough.”
“I’m certain that you and your sister were plenty of family for her,” Christina argued sweetly. “Speaking of which, where is Harriet?”
“She should be here very soon, she’s finishing her last round of calls today to request donations for the children,” Bridget confirmed. “I will see if she’s returned, and if she needs help bringing in any of the items she sought.”
Bridget left her friend to her work and walked away from the enormous classroom. She passed through a long and dismal hallway of work rooms that had been converted into a dining room for the children to take their meals, an infirmary where a nurse tended to illnesses and injuries, and two storerooms, one that held food staples and another that kept clothes, shoes, and sundry needs. Both of the storerooms were nearly empty, hence Harriet’s mission.
“Ah, Harriet! There you are,” Bridget said brightly as she stepped outside. Her face fell almost at once. “What’s all this?”
“It’s the best I could do,” Harriet said defensively. “I went to everyone I knew in the ton with my hand out like a filthy beggar, pleading for things for these children. But no one offered much help.”
Bridget eyed the small pile of gowns and trousers in the back of the wagon as Harriet climbed down from where she sat beside their father. She looked around disdainfully as she tried to find a path to the door that wasn’t swallowed by mud.
“Now, girls. Do not fret,” the Earl of Repington said as he lowered himself down as well. “I have a few friends we can also ask, surely they won’t refuse such an important cause.”
Harriet huffed, rolling her eyes. “Do you know how humiliating it is to have to ask one’s friends for their last Season’s gowns or old books?”
“Harriet, you’re not asking for your own sake, it’s not as though you are penniless and needing their things,” Bridget reminded her. “It should not be humiliating at all, as it is to help the less fortunate.”
“Still, I feel as though people hide their silver when they see me coming,” the younger sister groused. “They know I’m only calling so that I might bleed them dry for these… paupers.”
Bridget stood taller and glared at her sister. “How dare you…”
“Now girls, let’s not grumble,” the earl said, putting an arm around each daughter’s shoulder. “This school was very dear to your mother, and I am proud of you both for taking up the yoke now that she is—forgive me,” he said, clearing his throat. “Now that she is gone.”
Where her heart had been hardened only a moment ago, Bridget felt her anger at Harriet dissolve at once. Her poor father! How long would he endure such grief for the love that he lost?
“Yes, Father, you’re right. I’m sorry, Harriet, I know you did your best and I am glad of your help. The children will be very grateful to have these things,” Bridget said, trying to sound sincere.
Harriet still looked wounded as she turned to her father for more sympathy. The earl kissed each daughter on the forehead and smiled. “There now, everyone is happy again. I must go. Harriet, are you coming back to the house now?”
The younger sister eyed the wagon skeptically. “Would you send the carriage when you get home? The wagon is so… uncomfortable.”
“Of course, my dear girl,” the earl said, returning to the wagon and driving away.
“Unfashionable, you mean,” Bridget accused under her breath after her father was out of earshot.
“Precisely,” Harriet replied, not the least bit chastised by her sister’s remark. “You may think it acceptable to cavort about London in a worker’s wagon, but I cannot risk anyone from the ton—certainly not any suitors—seeing me in such a way.”
“I really am surprised at you, Harriet,” Bridget said accusingly, turning to face her sister and looking her up and down, noting her pristine gown and fancy slippers. “There was a time when you were just as likely to be here helping these children as I was. What happened to you?”
“Bridget, my feelings about the children and what they need or deserved have not changed a bit,” she answered, sounding defensive. “But has it occurred to you that one of us must put her mind to marrying well and marrying wealthy if you hope for this little school to remain open? Father has no sons! What is to become of both of us—and this project of yours—once he is gone and our horrid cousin inherits everything? Do you honestly believe that snotty little brat Albert and his disgusting mother will give you an annual sum to even support yourself, let alone this school?”
“Father’s will is clear, Albert is required to give us a sum for as long as we have need of it,” Bridget reminded her, though her heart did soften at the wisdom of her sister’s explanation.
“That may be enough for you, but it is not enough for me. I have intentions to marry someone who is kind and mannered, someone who will provide for me and for our children. And once I do, I will be more than happy to become that patroness of your little charity. But I cannot do that if I am not a prize who must be won.”
Bridget did not speak for a moment, pondering her younger sister’s scheme. She wished for more for Harriet, more for herself as well. Shackling herself to a man simply because he had money and a title was not enough for her. A life of service to others was far more important—but Harriet was right.
“Sister, I am sorry I spoke crossly to you,” Bridget conceded with a smile, affording Harriet some of the charity she so readily gave to others. “I would be proud to have you—the next Duchess of Whatever—to be the patron of this school.”
Harriet sniffed as though gravely wounded by her sister’s ill-treatment of her. “Then you shall have to earn that patronage. I need you to style my hair for Agatha’s ball tonight. You aren’t planning to attend, are you?”
“I wasn’t,” Bridget said, sounding insulted, “but now that you ask me that question in such a hurtful way, I think I might!”
“You mustn’t! How am I to catch the eye of an eligible suitor with my older but unmarried sister in attendance?” Harriet cried, clinging to Bridget’s sleeve in fear.
“Oh, calm yourself, I was only teasing,” Bridget replied, pushing Harriet’s hand away. “But mind how you speak to me. I had just apologized to you for my own behavior when you first demanded my assistance and then insisted that I remain at home while you attend a ball! But Harriet, dear… you know that I must attend the ball.”
“Why must you?” she moaned sadly.
“Agatha has so graciously agreed to host this ball to help our school, remember? Her parents thought it would be a good way to show her off while also making others see her as kind and caring. I cannot very well ask her to throw a ball to raise funds for the children and then not have the decency to attend.”
Harriet groaned in an entirely unladylike manner. “All right. I’m sorry, you’re right. But will you please help me with my hair? It must be perfect; I have seen the list of guests Agatha has invited and she has already informed three of the men that they must dance with me.”
“Of course, I shall. But I do it as your loving sister, not in order to wave you about to the marriage market as though you were a fattened goose,” Bridget joked, putting her sister’s hand through her elbow and leading her inside. “Come, let us see all the fine things you’ve gathered for the children. I know they are very excited about having new things.”
“These are not new things, they are items that others wished to discard,” Harriet corrected haughtily.
“They are new to the children, and that’s all that matters. Anything the children cannot wear, we shall send home for their parents.”
* * *
“Good heavens, Patrick, what is that you’re wearing?” Lady Claire demanded from her chair near the window.
“Mother, leave him be,” the older duchess said, smiling at her son. “All the men are dressing in the latest fashions, and Patrick is no exception.”
“I don’t have to, you know,” Patrick said hopefully. “There is absolutely no need for me to attend a ball this evening. I could go and change, Grandmother.”
“Nonsense. We’re all attending this tacky display of beggary,” the duchess replied. “If we must attend—and Lord Kerrington was one of your father’s closest business associates, so we must—at the very least we can hope you will meet some young lady who attracts your attention.”
“A suitable one, this time,” Lady Claire added pointedly. “No more young ladies whose fathers have run through their fortunes and left them without dowries, if they ever had one to begin with.”
Patrick seethed. He had only been a duke for a short time, not even a year, and already his mother and grandmother were on the verge of arranging a match for him. Fortunately, he had no requirement to obey, though the constant discussion of his future wife and heirs was very tiresome.
“Father has not even been dead for a year,” he reminded them, attempting to keep his frustration under control. “It is not even seemly for me to be at a ball, let alone courting someone, when we are still supposed to be in mourning.”
“Nonsense,” the duchess replied primly, folding her hands in her lap. “Those sorts of ‘rules’ are all well and good when there is no crisis at hand. But you are unmarried and have no heir. Apart from the ever-increasing damage to your reputation that grows more likely with each passing day, think of your grandmother and me, think of your younger sisters. There is no one to care for us if you do not hurry up and marry.”
“What do you mean, damage to my reputation? You’re the one attempting to make me look uncaring, almost as though I might have killed my father to get my hands on his title,” Patrick argued.
“No one would think such a horrible thing,” Lady Claire said with a polite sniff of derision. “You are much too kind to do such a thing. But if you do not marry well and marry soon, there will be those who think you must be a rake.”
Patrick’s cheeks flamed the color of late-season strawberries at such a statement from his grandmother. He looked to his mother as though she might put an end to such an inappropriate conversation, but she only nodded in agreement.
“This is beyond belief,” Patrick said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “No one is even thinking these things, I assure you, much less speaking to them about me. And if they are, that is their own fault for engaging in idle gossip.”
“Oh? You think so?” the duchess asked, arching an eyebrow. She reached for the table beside her chair and retrieved a long, narrow page. “The scandal sheets might tell otherwise.”
Patrick took the page his mother held out and scanned its contents, his brows furrowing in anger as he made his way down the sheet. He fumed at the nearly slanderous tidbits, his humiliation growing as he thought of others reading these salacious words.
“This is reason enough not to show my face at Kerrington’s ball this evening. If you need me, I will be in my study,” Patrick said, handing back the offensive page and turning to leave.
“Patrick? No. You will be attending the ball,” his mother said coldly. “We depart at nine.”
