Page 18 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Whitby laughed as he splashed a generous measure of Armagnac into his tumbler. “You don’t suppose I smash every bottle we find, do you?”

Tris smiled into the cozy dimness of the study and lifted his own glass to his lips. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

The leather chair gave a soft sigh as Whitby returned to it and sat. For a long moment, neither spoke, reveling instead in the silence that can only exist between those who know one another’s thoughts and do not require them to be spoken. Dark paneled walls, comfortable furniture, a crackling fire—everything about the space exuded ease. Tristan knew it was unreasonable to miss the cheap, rough quarters he’d grown used to in recent years.

“Will you do it? Will you marry Caroline Pilkington?”

Whitby’s question caught him off guard, not least because he found himself calling his mind back from the memory of Erica running from the dining room and his mad impulse to go after her. He’d made do with sending a footman to make sure she found her way back to her room. Caroline had left too, calm and dignified, eschewing the offers of help from everyone, even her mother. Half an hour later she’d returned, wearing a simpler gown, though no less elegant, unwilling to hear any critique of Miss Burke.

If he’d staged a scene to amplify the contrast between the two women, he could have done no better.

“Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t?” he replied. “She’ll make a suitable duchess.”

“Indeed.” Was it his imagination, or did Whitby’s voice sound clipped?

Tristan had never been disposed to let his imagination run wild.

“Only…” Whitby paused for a sip that left his glass half empty. “I am surprised to find you hurrying to marry. You have time, now, to look about and choose your bride. You will not lack for likely candidates.”

“Simpering misses and their too-eager mamas? I haven’t six weeks to waste in London looking over the wares on the marriage mart. I’d rather be done with the business.” He recognized the word’s crass, unpleasant connotations, but in the end, marriage among those of his class was rarely anything more than a business arrangement.

Most likely, settlements had already been drawn up between their families. All that remained was to obtain a Bishop’s License and the deed could be done within the week. The less time he wasted at Hawesdale, the sooner he could return to the duties that mattered most.

Carefully, Whitby placed his glass on the table beside him, twisting it this way and that in the firelight and studying the patterns cast by the faceted crystal. “You’re going back, aren’t you?”

“I hadn’t really—”

At last his friend lifted his gaze from the tumbler to his face. Demanding honesty.

Tristan shrugged.

“What about your responsibilities here? Hawesdale Chase? Lady Viviane?”

“My father never spared a thought for the management of Hawesdale. Yet it has been run efficiently and effectively all these years. I have no reason to doubt it will continue to be in my absence. My stepmother and sister are well provided for. Meanwhile…” He paused to finger the fringe of his scarlet sash where it draped onto the chair. “When I consider the greater need, the greater good, what other conclusion am I to reach?”

Whitby took in that information without a hint of surprise. “And how do you imagine your wife would feel about all this?”

“Relieved,” he said, though he had no reason to think Caroline a reluctant bride. At Whitby’s skeptical expression, he explained. “I cannot think it likely Miss Pilkington wanted to marry Percy particularly. She may feel no more enthusiasm at the prospect of marrying me. But I suspect she rather likes the idea of being the Duchess of Raynham. Once we’re wed, she’ll have everything her heart desires.”

“It’s not like you to speak of hearts, Tris,” Whitby protested with a laugh.

Tristan conceded the point with a slight nod and an even slighter smile. “True enough. This brandy has me lapsing into the cant of poets and lovers,” he said, studying his own, nearly untouched, glass. “But aren’t most young ladies brought up with the expectation of becoming wives and mothers?” Certainly very few went about proclaiming their intention to become something else. A botanist, for instance.

He shook off the mental image of Erica’s fierce expression as she clutched her journal. Tried and failed to replace it with a picture of Caroline. They’d just dined together. Why were her features still so indistinct in his mind? “My brother raised Miss Pilkington’s expectations, and his death left her in an awkward situation. I can offer a remedy that will benefit us both. A wife will ensure the smooth running of my household in my absence. And with diligent application and a bit of luck, I’ll leave her in anticipation of the birth of an heir.”

“Diligent application? Good God, Tris. I think I preferred the talk of heart’s desires. You make marriage—and the marriage bed—sound like a godawful chore.”

“An obligation,” Tristan corrected mildly. “One of several duties I’m now bound to fulfil.”

Whitby swore, snatched up his drink, and finished it. “And how will you feel if it becomes something more in the nature of a permanent assignment?”

“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t referring to the sacred vow to remain faithful to my wife ‘until death do us part’?” Tristan eased forward, elbows braced on knees, glass dangling from his fingertips, imagining a lifetime of facing Caroline’s complaisant smiles. “Charming story about the poet-spies, by the way.”

“My hand to God, Tris, it happened just as I said.”

“I know it did. Last year. In Somerset.” Tristan fixed his friend with a stern eye. “So what really brought you to Westmorland?”

Whitby sighed. “Rumors.” He rose but did not return to the sideboard. Instead he paused before the fire, his figure limned by its warm light, his face in shadow. “About you. Where you’ve been. What you’ve learned. Someone knows things you’d rather they didn’t. And they’ve been leaking it out in drips and drops since you came into the title. Much more and Colonel Scott will be forced to reassign you to domestic duty too. With his regrets, of course.”