REGENCY Redemption
The Inconvenient Duchess
An UnladylikeOffer
Christine Merrill
MILLS & BOON
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About the Author
CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail.
She has worked by turns in theatre costuming, where she was paid to play with period ballgowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.
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The Inconvenient Duchess
Christine Merrill
To Jim, who knows I’m crazy,
but loves me anyway. And to James and Sean.
Making your own breakfasts and mating your own socks
builds character. You’ll thank me later, but I thank you now.
Chapter One
‘Of course, you know I am dying.’ His mother extended slim fingers from beneath the bedclothes and patted the hand that he offered to her.
Marcus Radwell, fourth Duke of Haughleigh, kept his face impassive, searching his mind for the appropriate response. ‘No.’ His tone was neutral. ‘We will, no doubt, have this conversation again at Christmas when you have recovered from your current malady.’
‘Only you would use obstinacy as a way to cheer me on my deathbed.’
And only you would stage death with such Drury Lane melodrama. He left the words unspoken, struggling for decorum, but glared at the carefully arranged scene. She’d chosen burgundy velvet hangings and dim lighting to accent her already pale skin. The cloying scent of the lilies on the dresser gave the air a funereal heaviness.
‘No, my son, we will not be having this conversation again. The things I have to tell you will be said today. I do not have the strength to tell them twice, and certainly will not be here at Christmas to force another promise from you.’ She gestured to the water glass at the bedside. He filled it and offered it to her, supporting her as she drank.
No strength? And yet her voice seemed steady enough. This latest fatal illness was probably no more real than the last one. Or the one before. He stared hard into her face, searching for some indication of the truth. Her hair was still the same delicate blonde cloud on the pillow, but her face was grey beneath the porcelain complexion that had always given her a false air of fragility. ‘If you are too weak … perhaps later …’
‘Perhaps later I will be too weak to say them, and you will not have to hear. A good attempt, but I expected better.’
‘And I expected better of you, Mother. I thought I had made it clear, on my last visit to your deathbed—’ the word was heavy with irony he could no longer disguise ‘—that I was tired of playing the fool in these little dramas you insist on arranging. If you want something of me, you could at least do me the courtesy of stating it plainly in a letter.’
‘So that you could refuse me by post, and save yourself the journey home?’
‘Home? And where might that be? This is your home. Not mine.’
Her laugh was mirthless and ended in a rasping cough. Old instincts made him reach out to her before he caught himself and let the hand fall to his side. The coughing ended abruptly, as though his lack of sympathy made her rethink her strategy.
‘This is your home, your Grace, whether you choose to live in it or not.’
So if fears for her health would not move him, perhaps guilt over his neglected estate? He shrugged.
Her hand trembled as she gestured towards the nightstand, and
