Free To Marry The Duke by Julianne MacLean Page A

be thinking of that.”
    “His line. That’s another thing. From what I’ve heard, the Wentworth Black Heart runs in the family. His father drank himself to death, and the duke before him—after a number of impossibly horrible scandals that some say involved his wife’s death—took his own life. He shot himself in the head.”
    “Oh, good gracious,” Beatrice said.
    “Yes, I know, it’s shocking, isn’t it?”
    Beatrice scrambled to grasp at straws. “But maybe the duke hasn’t met a woman who has struck his fancy.” She smiled at Sophia, who remained silent only because she didn’t think she could move.
    Florence poured herself more tea. “I still wouldn’t get my hopes up, Beatrice. Even his mother, the duchess, is afraid to push potential brides on him.”
    “Afraid?” Sophia said, speaking up at last.
    “Well, yes. You must have noticed that the duke can sometimes be—how shall I say it?—
intimidating
. From what I understand, he and his mother are barely on speaking terms. He quite despises her, and she does her best to stay out of his way. This is all drawing room gossip, mind you.”
    Sophia sat in silence, staring. The duke despised his mother? “I’m sure he has his reasons,” she said uneasily. “We should not presume to judge him without knowing all the facts, nor should we believe everything we hear.” She wasn’t sure why she was defending him, when all her instincts were telling her that the rumors could very well be true.
    “You’re right, dear. Of course, we should never judge a man’s motivations. Who knows what secrets live in that vast country castle of his? I would wager quite a few.” She reached for a biscuit and lightened her tone. “Oh, heavens, listen to me, spreading foolish gossip. It’s probably all a bunch of silly stories anyway. Would you believe I once heard that his castle is haunted? That at night, you can hear the ghosts howling? Imagine that!”
    Beatrice and Florence laughed for a moment, then began to discuss lighter matters, but Sophia could barely hear them above the roar of her blood like a beast in her ears. It was all she could do to sit still in her chair, sipping her tea and thinking about everything Florence had said, and wait uneasily for the duke’s arrival.

 
    Chapter 5
      
    The Wentworth coach—polished shiny black, with liveried footmen and postilions—arrived with distinguished, clattering grandeur at Hyde Park, shortly after three o’clock in the afternoon. The horses whinnied and tossed their heads, while onlookers gaped in fascination at James, who stepped elegantly out of the coach, then turned to hold out his gloved hand to the Americans.
    “Lovely day, Your Grace,” the stout, little Mrs. Wilson said, struggling to sound British as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
    “Ah, madam.” He kissed her gloved hand. “It is all the more lovely by virtue of your delightful company this afternoon.”
    The small woman blushed at the flattery. He helped the countess down, then Mrs. Wilson’s lovely daughter stepped out. He sensed all the gazes in the park converging upon her. People were quiet for a moment, then the whispering resumed.
    The coach moved on, and James walked leisurely beside Miss Wilson. Today, she wore a cheerful, blue-and-white-striped walking dress with delicate chiffon ruffles. She carried a parasol and reticule, and upon her head, a straw hat had been pinned to her coiffure at a daring, forward angle. Just when he thought she could not possibly be more beautiful, she would appear in some new gown of the highest fashion and knock him to his knees.
    He noted, however, that she was quieter than usual today.
    They strolled down the park walk, along the water, and past numerous small gatherings of whispering ladies and gentlemen. He and Sophia conversed about art and books and the current opera that was playing at the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. Miss Wilson was polite and civil to him, but not nearly as bright as