Page 9 of The Lady's Guide to Well-Endowed Dukes
Not that children were a necessity. His younger brother had already wed, and there were cousins. An heir to the title and estate was ensured, one way or another. But Miss Maitland—Marjorie—would want a child, he assumed.
As for himself, he was of the notion that marriage comprised but one part of a man’s life. It was natural for a woman’s interests to center within the home. Rockley Hall, situated close to the Welsh border, was generally held to be impressive, if somewhat lacking in modern luxuries. He intended to give his wife free rein in its decoration, and she might have any number of guests come to stay. He, meanwhile, would spend the majority of his time in town. Naturally, he would visit, but not above a few months each year. It would be adequate.
As captivating as Mrs. Bongorge was, she had overstepped the mark. “Madam, do not presume to know what is requiredto make my bride-to-be content. I venture that Miss Maitland’s temperament is vastly different from your own.”
Dropping his napkin to the table, he rose, bowed to the smallest degree, and departed. If some quietly insistent voice whispered that there might be a degree of truth in Mrs. Bongorge’s statement, he pushed down its unwelcome pestering.
Lord Theodore Rockley, eleventh Duke of Pembridge, would marry Miss Maitland, and she would be every bit as happy as he intended her to be.
CHAPTER 4
Once safely in her cabin,Estela took up a cushion from the chaise, buried her face upon it, and gave vent to a long and heartfelt scream.
Rockley had dropped into her lap like a glorious treat—and just when she needed it most. It was too horribly disappointing for him to turn out to be a cold fish, spouting all that chivalrous nonsense about saving himself for marriage to his dead brother’s betrothed. She’d lay odds on his dumping his bride back on the family estate within a month of the honeymoon, before kicking up his heels to hit the fleshpots. For all that men liked to believe themselves noble, the baser instincts tended to win out. There were exceptions to the rule, she would allow, but they were rarer than hen’s teeth.
A gentle knock at the door heralded Antoinette’s arrival and Estela was obliged to contain herself again. There was plenty that she did share with her maid, but she was in no mood to admit to her failure. The sooner she was disrobed and in the little bath that filled one end of the en-suite facilities, the sooner she’d have the chance to relieve some of her frustration.
Once in her wrapper, Estela opened the brandy she’d been hoping to share with the insufferable Rockley, and pouredherself a large measure. Antoinette saw to the bath, adding the orange blossom oil her mistress favored. With a bob, she then departed, leaving Estela to wallow in peace.
A full half-hour submerged beneath the scented water, coupled with some self-love and the warmth of the brandy running through her veins, placed Estela in a slightly better mood. Rockley was absent, but she did an adequate job of conjuring an image of him lying naked in his own cabin. She pictured a finely muscled torso, a nice dappling of chest hair, thickening below the navel, and a solid piece springing ripely to attention from his thatch.
Enjoying the sense of power the little game gave her, she carried on. He was thinking of her with a large dose of regret, realizing that he’d bollixed things up. Now he was reaching down, giving himself a steady fisting, growing harder and increasingly lubricated, all the while wishing that she was with him.
Having achieved her aim, Estela put aside the daydream and climbed from the bath. There were limits to how far she wished to dwell on the undeserving Lord Rockley.
Pouring another brandy, she sat down with the pile of correspondence that had been gathering. Taking up her pen at the current moment wouldn’t be wise, but she ought to remind herself of what was waiting. There was something from her brother, she recalled.
Charles was inviting her to Yardmore Court—the family seat in Hampshire—for the usual festive gathering. It had been several years since she’d attended, but he always asked, which was gracious. It wasn’t his fault that Estela found he and his wife rather dull and thought similarly of the company they kept. Even their children were shockingly docile. Esther, her far younger sister—who’d recently found wedded bliss in the armsof Yardmore’s own country vicar, was clearly cut from the same cloth.
Goodness only knew how her siblings had ended up so staid and sensible. It seemed that only Estela had inherited the madcap ways of their parents, bouncing from party to party and place to place, not to mention lover to lover.
It was perhaps why she’d invited Mathilde to join her the previous summer. One couldn’t help admiring the girl’s adventurous spirit.
Taking another draught of the brandy, Estela savored its mellow richness upon her tongue. She only hoped that Mathilde’s vitality was not quashed by the confines of marriage—assuming the match went ahead.
Where were those letters now?
Burnt in the grate of a fire, and no more than ash, Estela hoped. If Conte Sforza was behind their disappearance, it would be the best outcome. Time would tell, and there was nothing more she could do about it.
The next envelope bore handwriting with which she was less familiar. The rear, where her knife had already opened the paper, bore the stamp of Dalreagh Press. Withdrawing the notepaper, she skimmed through the proposal once more. Written in the neat script of the owner of the tiny publishing house, the missive was refreshingly to the point, much as she remembered the author having been, when they’d first met—at a Bloomsbury soirée some five weeks prior.
Dunrannoch Castle
Perthshire
August 30th, 1905
My dear Estela — I know you shall not mind my familiarity,
What a great pleasure it was for us to meet at Vanessa and Virginia’s residence the other night. As promised, I am writing with a favor to ask.
It was a surprise to discover our happy connection, if only distantly through your great-grandmother. I hope you may visit us at the castle before long, where you shall be very welcome, and are sure to enjoy the company of my grandson and his new wife.
Now, to the matter in hand!
As a sister of our illustrious line, I call upon you to add your expertise to the volume which it has been an honor for the women of our family to keep in circulation these several hundred years.
I refer to ‘The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful’, a pocket edition of which I passed to you upon the night of our meeting.
