Page 38 of The Duchess in His Bed
“A lord of no consequence. I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”
“Was it difficult growing up in your world?”
“I had my brothers and Gillie. We always stuck together and stood up for each other. And my mum was wicked with a broom. If anyone came after us, she’d go after them. No one wanted to have to fend off Ettie Trewlove and her broom.”
Smiling at that, she wished she’d known him as a boy.
When they arrived at the residence, she wasn’t at all surprised when Aiden leaped out of the vehicle and then reached back to hand her down. Nor was she surprised when he escorted her up the steps to the massive arched doorway. He took the key she’d removed from her reticule and used it to unlock the door, shoving it open slightly before handing the brass back to her. She considered inviting him in, but how would she explain his presence to her sisters should they come upon them or her brother if he wasn’t at his residence but was instead lurking about in hers?
So instead she merely turned to him. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight. Have my driver take you back to the club.”
“I could do with a walk.”
“It’s a good distance away.”
“I’ll run across a hansom somewhere. Don’t worry yourself over it. Will you come to the club tomorrow?”
She was grateful for the darkness that prevented him from seeing the blush she was fairly certain was creeping over her cheeks, if their sudden warmth were any indication of what was transpiring. “My mood will be much improved.”
“I’ll improve it even more. I had something special planned for this evening, but it’ll keep.” He tucked his forefinger beneath her chin, stroked his thumb over her lips. “Until tomorrow.”
Before she could respond, he was striding away. She’d been certain he was going to kiss her, had wanted him to. How was it that he always left her yearning for more even as he somehow managed to leave her satisfied?
Chapter 11
“...the property in Hertfordshire has been designated as your dower residence and as such will be placed in your name and become your property, although it may not be sold or passed on to another until your death. The exception, naturally, is that should you marry, it would go to your husband. In addition, your late husband created a trust for you that is to be overseen by Lord Kittridge. The yield in interest will be two thousand pounds per annum.”
Dazed by Lushing’s generosity, Selena stared at Mr. Beckwith, Lushing’s solicitor, as he sat incredibly still behind the duke’s desk in the library, having just read what he understood to be the most crucial part of her late husband’s will. He was no doubt waiting for a burst of grateful tears from her or—
“Why Kittridge and not me?” her brother blurted petulantly. “Why must he oversee this trust?”
Winslow, she, Kittridge, and her sisters were seated in front of the desk as though in a classroom. Glancing at her, Kit did little more than arch one eyebrow. He knew why, just as she did. The viscount was not in need of funds; her brother was. Her husband had feared Winslow might use her allotment to line his own pockets, whereas he had always given Kit his complete trust. How often had the two men stayed up late into the night talking, laughing, enjoying each other’s company? How often, when faced with a decision, had Lushing mused, “I’ll have to get Kit’s opinion on that”? How often had she been disappointed that he’d valued his friend’s opinion over hers? Not that it was unusual for one man to place more faith in another man’s judgment rather than in a woman’s. Still, it had sometimes hurt that her views were not more often sought.
“Because it is what Lushing thought best,” she said calmly, not really in the mood to have to deal with salvaging his pride.
“It’s not very much,” he stated sourly.
It was a princely sum, but it would not allow her to set aside dowries for her sisters or help Winslow get his crumbling estate back up to snuff. “Is there anything else of import, Mr. Beckwith?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He gazed down at the will and read, “‘To Lord Kittridge, who has always remained the firmest of friends, I leave my thoroughbreds and hounds.’”
Reaching over, she patted Kit’s arm. “He knew you would care for them as he did. They couldn’t be in better hands.”
“We could have sold them,” Winslow muttered.
“Which is the reason he left them to Kit,” she snapped. “He wanted to ensure they went to someone who would appreciate them.”
“Not to worry,” Kit said. “Your mare will remain with you. He did not mean for me to have her.”
Lushing had gifted her with the white Arabian shortly after they’d wed, and she adored the beast. “Thank you.” She gave her attention back to the solicitor. “Anything else, sir?”
“As you are no doubt aware, the terms of the entailment have not changed since they were agreed to centuries ago. The properties—other than the dower property—and all incomes, thereof, are to be inherited by a male of the body lawfully begotten. Should none exist, they could be settled on a female lawfully born who can trace her bloodline back to the first duke. Unfortunately, the Sheffields were a cursed lot, prone to bleeding disorders, which resulted in early deaths for many. Accidents or illness led to the demise of the others. The family history of births and deaths is well documented, and all evidence indicates your husband was the last of the line. In the absence of an heir or heiress, the entailed properties will go to Her Majesty’s Treasury, and the Crown will determine how they are to be dispensed. We can make an appeal for them to be given to you, but to be quite honest”—he sighed heavily—“based upon the extensive nature of the duke’s holdings, I believe it highly unlikely we would see a favorable outcome since you are not of his blood and were married for such a short span of time in the grand scheme of things.”
“Lushing held the same opinion.” He had talked of making additional arrangements for her but had never gotten around to it, no doubt believing he had more time.
“Because the detailed records prove the absence of an heir, I suspect the title will be deemed extinct. However, you will retain your title as Duchess of Lushing. All that said, I don’t wish to be indelicate, Your Grace, but is there any chance an heir might appear within the next few months?”
In her head, she did quick calculations. While the two thousand pounds was generous and would see her alone in good stead, if she were to divide her yearly income between herself and the girls—she sighed. Five hundred pounds per annum each was hardly a suitable dowry and would be an insufficient amount for maintaining her own property, servants, horses, and carriages. Nothing would remain to assist Winslow. The reality was that more drastic measures were called for.
