Just a Marriage of Convenience with the Duke by Hazel Linwood
Chapter 4
The door flew open with a loud bang as it careened off the wall, startling Patrick from his sleep. He opened one eye and saw his mother’s scowling face as she hurried towards his bed. Patrick had the wherewithal to pull the bed covers up over himself as she stopped and glared down at him.
“Is this true?” the duchess hissed as she threw a piece of paper on his chest. She cast an anxious glance at a servant who had reached into the room to pull the door closed.
“Is what true, Mother?” Patrick asked, falling back against the pillow, and closing his eyes again.
“Read it!” she ordered, pointing at the offending page.
“What time is it?” he asked, his eyes still closed as he continued to lie back.
“Time for you to wake up and think about your future, about all of our futures!” his mother continued, beginning to pace angrily as she waited for Patrick to look at her.
“You’re not leaving until I discuss this, are you?” he asked languidly. With a great sigh, he sat up in the bed and leaned against the pillows. “So, what is the problem now, besides the lack of a functioning lock on my door?”
“This,” the duchess answered, coming over and pointing at a paragraph that had been circled in pen. “It says you are to be married, and I know that is not true.”
“I thought we didn’t concern ourselves with what is written in these pages,” Patrick said before turning a knowing look in her direction. “Or is it only that we have no care for the items that we ourselves submitted to the writer?”
The duchess turned visibly pale. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Lord Curtis informed me of the self-serving practice of dropping little tidbits of scandal to the writers, just to keep one’s name in the mouths of the ton,” he said, watching her carefully to see if she flinched. “So, these pages are a nuisance to be concerned about most of the time, but they become terribly upsetting when we are not the ones in control of their contents. Isn’t that how it works?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the duchess answered stiffly, looking away. Patrick smiled at her obvious lie.
“So, let me see what horrendous thing I’ve supposedly done now,” he said, making a great show of smoothing the page back and examining it closely. “Oh, good heavens, it cannot be true! The entire ton now knows… that I wore a blue coat yesterday evening! How will I endure the embarrassment? How have you and Grandmother not left the city for our estates in shame?”
“Would you be serious for once?” his mother demanded angrily. “Read on!”
Patrick sighed again to express his displeasure, but he did as he was bade. He read silently, his eyes poring over the page. At long last, he fought to conceal a small smile but failed.
“Is something amusing?” the duchess asked acidly.
“No, I don’t think so,” he replied, attempting to look and sound innocent.
“Why does it say you are betrothed?” she demanded through clenched teeth.
“Oh, most likely because I am betrothed,” Patrick answered. He looked around for a moment then asked, “Has no one brought my breakfast up?”
“You don’t take breakfast in your rooms; you take it in the dining room. You know that,” she said angrily.
“Yes, but I assumed that if I had to be awakened and endure such an unpleasant start to the day, the least anyone could do would be to fortify me with a tray.” Patrick blinked, smiling as though he had not a care in the world.
“We will discuss this after I have consulted with your grandmother,” the duchess threatened. “Get yourself dressed and come downstairs at once!”
She fled the room as though on some sort of vital mission, leaving Patrick to stare after her. Only a day or so ago, this would have set his heart to racing, stunned by the knowledge that he had upset his mother or Lady Claire. Now, though, he could only smile. His plan to shun the snares of the ton’s mothers while appeasing the two mothers he could not avoid had come to fruition.
And all it had cost him was the promise that he would help secure the future of a most noble endeavor. Lady Bridget had spoken so passionately about the school as they danced some more, and her singular focus on preserving their work was infectious. He’d had no choice but to go to her father at the ball—not even waiting until this morning to call on him—and speak for Lady Bridget.
The earl had been only too happy to oblige.
“Your Grace, you honor our family with such an offer of marriage,” the earl had said sincerely, though Patrick was keenly aware of the reason for his eager acceptance. “I would be delighted to speak with you at your convenience about the contract.”
“I shall gladly come to call so that we might speak on the matter. Until tomorrow, then,” Patrick had replied with a polite bow before taking Lady Bridget’s hand and bowing over it.
Now, the sense of calm he’d felt when going to bed the previous evening had been replaced by the ever-present dread he felt when his mother attempted to meddle in his affairs. To be sure, she had been a duchess for a great while, and it was undoubtedly hard to relinquish her place, especially when her situation was so precarious. It would take but one accident, one illness for her to lose her son, and with it her entire security.
It only made sense that she would be pining for an heir, despite how recently he had become duke.
So why then is she unhappy about my betrothal?Patrick thought as he threw off the covers and rang for his valet to help him dress.
By the time he arrived downstairs in the drawing room, both his mother and his grandmother had come in and were seated, waiting for him silently. His mother still clutched the gossip page in her hand, presumably intent on displaying the proof as they spoke.
“Good day,” Patrick said brightly, as though he did not already know they were displeased with him. “I suppose the hour is quite early for us to gather, but I have been summoned?”
“You most certainly have,” the duchess said bitterly. “Sit down.”
Patrick ignored the intense desire to remind her that he did not have to sit in his own house simply because someone commanded it, then sat down on the sofa opposite his grandmother. He knew she had weathered so much more than this, beginning in her own days as duchess and when her son inherited the dukedom. He could only hope that she would be an ally instead of a foe.
“Tell me what you know of this young lady,” his mother began in a clipped tone.
“I know very little, to be honest,” Patrick said, refusing to cower. “We only met yesterday evening at Lord Kerrington’s ball.”
“And you thought proposing marriage to someone you’d known for eleven minutes would be a good idea,” his mother added.
“Precisely. Now has everyone had their breakfast, or shall I ring for Collins to tell the kitchen we’re ready?” he asked innocently.
“Patrick, please be serious,” his grandmother said, though she seemed far more rational than his mother. “This is an important matter. Did anyone else hear you make this offer?”
“You mean other than my future wife herself and her father?”
“You spoke to her father? Oh, this is a nightmare!” the duchess said, biting the knuckle of her forefinger in distress.
“Would you prefer I’d snuck out to the terrace with a young lady, offered her a marriage contract, then slunk away like a robber in the night? Would that have been better, Mother?” he asked, growing impatient with both their intrusions and their dramatics.
“No, it would have been better if you had consulted us and let us discover more about this young lady! You should have broached the subject with us before saying anything to her or to her father,” the duchess insisted.
That was the final straw. Patrick stood up and looked down at both of them.
“Mother, I had long hoped never to need these words, but as the situation warrants, I’m afraid I cannot hold them back any longer. I must ask that you remember I am the Duke of Lockhart. Believe me, I am terribly grieved by that truth as it means my father is dead and you are no longer overseeing this great household. But I will not be chastised like a schoolboy who failed to learn his sums when I make a decision.”
“Duke or no, that is your mother you are speaking to, Patrick,” his grandmother interjected patiently. “You would do well to remember that you may very well succeed or fail in life in part to her guidance.”
“Thank you, Lady Claire,” the duchess said stiffly. “Son, I am trying to prevent a grave mistake. But if you prefer to throw around the weight of your title rather than heed the counsel of two women who’ve faced down the ton for far longer than you, then so be it.”
“Mother, that is not at all the case,” Patrick said, though he felt only slightly reproachful. “But I will not be forced to attend any events, dragged from my very bed, or ordered about any longer. Of course, I respect your opinion, but I am far more likely to heed it if you do not dispense it with a hammer.”
The duchess was silent, and Patrick could well read her thoughts. She sat primly, looking down at her hands in anger. He knew she was accustomed to being in charge, but the time had come for her to step back apace.
After all, he was to be married, whether they liked it or not.
“Now, if we are all in agreement about how any further conversations should proceed, why don’t you tell me what is truly bothering you,” Patrick suggested. “Apart from not having a say in this, that is.”
“The Earl of Repington is not someone you should strive to know or do business with,” the duchess began. “He is in a great deal of debt and has run aground practically every endeavor he’s attempted.”
“I already know this,” Patrick said, taking his seat once again.
“Then what would possess you to offer marriage to a girl whose father was nearly penniless?” his mother pressed, aghast.
“That is precisely why I was speaking to her in the first place. Lady Bridget, my future wife, has until the end of the Season to find a husband. For my part, I only have until the end of this conversation before some woman will be shoving her daughter in front of my face. It seemed like a perfect solution to both of our problems.”
“It is not your place to go solving young ladies’ problems for them,” his mother protested. “You were to marry for prestige since you did not need to marry for money. The sort of prestige we envisioned for you could have put your son in Parliament, if not you yourself.”
“I have no interest in serving in Parliament, Mother,” Patrick argued, “so that is a consideration that I did not need to make. I was very impressed by Lady Bridget’s morals and value, and therefore moved by her plight. Now, if you will excuse me, I am off to see her father this morning as promised. Good day to you both.”
Patrick stood up and left the room, fuming at the way the morning had turned out. If they had thought to dissuade him from his course with their lofty aims, he was glad it had the opposite effect. He had no need of Parliament or the admiration of others. All Patrick cared about was living a good life under the power of his hard work. And Lady Bridget seemed like the very sort of wife who understood the need for hard work.
