Page 1 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
CHAPTER1
MARCH 28,1855. BENENDEN, KENT.
“Inever thought that it would come to this.”
On hearing that pronouncement, Drago Helmsford, Duke of Wylde, looked up to find his close friend, Lord Harry Ferndale, heir to the Marquis of Tavistock, gazing at him through bleary eyes filled with drunken commiseration.
Drago arched a brow. “This what? That I would stand on the cusp of offering for a lady?” He snorted softly. “Given the terms of my father’s will, there was never any option other than to solicit the hand of some likely damsel.”
The two of them were seated at a table in the corner of the taproom of Benenden village’s Bull Inn, along with George, Viscount Bisley, and Thomas Hayden. The four had been firm friends from their first day at Eton and had remained inseparable through their years at Oxford and the subsequent nearly fifteen years that they’d spent inhabiting the social circles favored by the wealthy bachelors of the ton.
“At least,” George said, his words only slightly slurred, “this Alison Melwin doesn’t sound the sort to be overly demanding. To want to trim your sails, so to speak.” George squinted at Drago. “She’s a local, you say?”
Drago took another swig of the inn’s strong ale before replying, “A neighbor. Her family owns a property along the Court’s southern boundary, and of particular note”—he wagged a finger at the other three—“she’s the daughter of my aunt Edith’s childhood friend and longtime bosom-bow.”
Thomas frowned as if trying to concentrate. “The aunt you asked for help in finding a suitable bride?”
Drago nodded. “The same.” He paused, his tankard poised before his lips, then admitted, “All in all, I have to concede that in every respect, Alison is an excellent candidate for the position of my quiet, conventional, and most importantly, amenable duchess.” So saying, he drained the tankard, then lowered it to the table.
He glanced at his friends. They’d all been drinking steadily since they’d arrived at the inn several hours ago. In response to his summons, the others had driven down from London to join him in farewelling his bachelor days, and after assuaging their hunger with large servings of the inn’s game pie, they’d settled in to drown his sorrows.
In actual fact, he wasn’t all that sorrowful. Offering for Alison’s hand was simply one of those unavoidable steps he had to take as part and parcel of being the Duke of Wylde.
“I still can’t believe that your father even thought of using his will to blackmail you into marriage.” George looked far more mournful than Drago.
He lightly shrugged. “Of all men, the pater knew what he was dealing with—would be dealing with even from the grave.”
Harry nodded soberly. “He was a canny one, your pater.”
“Still,” George persisted, “leaving you to inherit the entailed properties while, after a certain date, withholding the family funds required to keep them going seems a trifle heavy-handed.” He suddenly looked worried. “I hope my old man doesn’t get wind of this and think to do the same.”
Remembering his father with genuine affection, Drago replied, “Papa saw it as his duty to ensure the succession, and he knew that, just as he had, I would avoid the Marriage Mart for as long as I possibly could. At least he gave me until my thirty-fifth birthday to do the deed.”
“Your thirty-fifth birthday that comes around this August.” As well-flown as the rest of them, Thomas clarified that point.
Harry frowned. “August is months away. You could play the field for the whole upcoming Season—”
“And risk Aunt Edith or—God forbid—m’mother deciding to let slip my rapidly approaching need of a bride?” Drago shook his head. “Thank you, but no. Can you imagine the matchmakers’ reaction? I wouldn’t be safe setting foot outside Wylde House.”
“Lord, no!” George looked suitably horrified, while Harry looked chastened.
Thomas had been staring into his empty tankard. He glanced at the others, then pointed at their likewise empty mugs. “’Nother round?”
Harry blinked myopically, then hauled out his fob watch and squinted at the face. “Sad to say, old man, but I think we’d better get on the road.”
Drago pushed his tankard away. “Given I can’t offer you beds at the Court—or at least, given Edith’s in residence, beds you’d want to avail yourselves of—you probably had better head off.”
Even Drago wasn’t staying at his nearby estate, the dukedom’s principal seat of Wylde Court. He’d driven down from London intending to spend the evening carousing with his friends, then remain overnight at the Court and offer for Alison’s hand on the morrow, only to discover that his aunt, who had arranged tomorrow’s meeting with Alison and her parents and was presumably intent on ensuring Drago performed as she hoped, had already arrived.
On driving into the Court’s stable yard, he’d been informed of her presence and had left a message redirecting his friends and headed for the small cottage in Benenden that he’d acquired years before as a local bolt hole.
Harry had driven the other two from London in his curricle. On arriving at the Court, they’d received Drago’s message and continued as directed to the Bull Inn, but as the cottage was too small to accommodate them as well as Drago and his valet and groom, all three had decided to head back to the capital that night.
Drago pushed away from the table and rose. The others followed suit, and after signaling to Morrow, the publican, to put all charges on his slate, Drago led the way out.
The evening air was crisp and clear, the temperature low enough to have their breaths fogging.
While the inn’s ostlers rushed to put Harry’s team of bays into the shafts, the four friends settled their hats on their heads and hunted in their coat pockets for gloves and pulled them on.
