Page 5 of The Icy Duke Claims a Bride

This remark coaxed a smile from the young man, which transformed his features into something warm and human for a brief instant, before his expression sobered.

“I can easily believe that,” the Duke commented and then paused. “It is actually because of my grandmother that I came to call on you today. She recently discovered this document which was drawn up by my grandfather and your father, and it promises… Well, it’s best that you read it yourself.”

He pulled a rolled piece of parchment out of his pocket and handed it over. Putting on his reading glasses, Lord Sedgehall unrolled it and held it up to the light.

Catherine saw interest on her father’s face, followed by surprise and then a peculiar eagerness that worried her. What could be in this mysterious old contract? She came over to her father’s chair to inspect it for herself, but he had already released one end so that it rolled up once more before she could make out any of the words.

“Do I understand this correctly?” Albion queried with an odd laugh, looking at the Duke of Redbridge over his silver-rimmed spectacles. “You are here to claim…”

“Yes, Lord Sedgehall,” the Duke replied, gesturing towards the rolled paper with an entirely straight face. “You are entirely correct. I am here to claim a wife.”

CHAPTER THREE

Catherine gasped in horror, but Jemima only laughed at the Duke’s announcement, the sound like tinkling bells.

“Is this a joke, Your Grace?” Jemima asked good-naturedly, clearly imagining that their visitor could not be serious as to make such a strange statement.

Catherine looked sharply at Jemima, urging her to hold her tongue. Old family friend or not, this man did not seem like someone to make harmless jokes or casual chit-chat. With his mask and his lack of conversation, he could be sinister, and she quailed at the thought of Jemima inadvertently falling into his unpredictable clutches.

“That is certainly the most singular purpose claimed by any of our guests so far this Season,” Catherine stated directly without any attempt at humor. “Are you going to explain yourself properly to my sister and me?”

The Duke seemed nonplussed at her response, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. She was only too glad at the possibility of evoking the same sense of unease in him that his announcement had triggered in her.

“Well, well, well,” Lord Sedgehall murmured, sounding pleased as he set the document down on a table. “We should certainly discuss this further, Your Grace. Our predecessors showed some forethought in this, didn’t they?”

Having now snatched up the paper, Catherine read it quickly, her eyes scanning with astonishment the somewhat scrawled but still-legible handwriting. The seal of Viscount Sedgehall at the bottom was genuine, as was her grandfather’s distinctive signature, dated a quarter of a century ago.

It seemed to her that two old men had once sat down over a bottle of brandy and carved up the destinies of their future grandsons or granddaughters as if they were merely arranging to put their best mares up to their stallions.

Catherine shuddered to think of Jemima being disposed of in such a cold-blooded manner. If the Duke of Redbridge was as rich as she guessed from the cut and fabric of his black suit, then their father would be only too glad to marry Jemima off to him.

Well, Catherine would not be so easily swayed, and she was more than ready to defend Jemima. But when she looked up, ready to rush to her sister’s rescue, she saw that the Duke’s deep blue eyes were fixed on her rather than her younger sister or her father.

“It is no joke,” the Duke declared solemnly. “I have heard that you are an uncommonly intelligent and capable woman, Miss Wright. I would particularly like to discuss this matter with you if your father permits it.”

“What do you mean, Your Grace?” Catherine blurted out, a new kind of panic rising in her stomach. “Women are not counters in a game, existing only to be exchanged by men playing at a board.”

“Are they not? It seems to me that women and men are both counters on such a board, although the players are not human. Fate shifts us this way and that, or God, perhaps, if you listen to the priests. Either way, the players have no great consideration for the counters.”

It was a peculiar and fatalistic speech for a young man, sad as much as bitter. As he spoke, Catherine saw hints of a vulnerability in him that briefly tempered her anger at importunate men.

But still, he had come here with the arrogance of “claiming” one of her father’s daughters as his wife, just as a farmer might browse cattle from good stock at a marketplace. Her anger rose again, fueled by fear as well as outrage.

“Male or female, if the counters refuse to be moved, the game cannot proceed,” she countered.

Catherine wished to dissuade the Duke from his cause rather than to hurt him, but she was still willing to see him suffer beforesacrificing her sister or herself on this strange altar set up by long-dead men.

“Even if the counters had any say, there can be no winning or losing if the game stalls forever—no progress, no learning, and no growth. Or so it seems to me. I need a wife in order to establish myself in Society. As my grandfather already made such a fitting suggestion, and my grandmother approves, why should I not accede to it?”

The Duke seemed to believe his own words. Catherine then realized she would like to have stern words with his grandmother, too. Before she could answer him, a maid brought in a tea tray and laid out cups and saucers for the sixth time that day. Silence reigned in the room until Betsy had departed.

“Your grandmother is a wise woman, Your Grace,” Albion interjected. “Your proposal makes perfect sense to me. I suggest that you and I discuss the matter privately in my study first. Then, perhaps you and Catherine can reach some understanding together.”

“An understanding? What understanding?!” Catherine tried to protest, but the Duke was already on his feet, following Lord Sedgehall to the door.

To her left, Jemima was laughing again, having picked up the scroll and read its contents for herself, appearing still not to comprehend the earnestness of their strange visitor and the danger he represented.

“Why do you think he wears a mask?” Jemima asked innocently once the men were gone. “Smallpox, perhaps? Although it would be odd if it were only on one side of his face. He has nice eyes, doesn’t he? I think he’s shy—”

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