A Proper Lord's Wife (Properly Spanked Legacy Book 2) Read online

  When he arrived at the Lockridge home and greeted his mother and father, he put on a cheerful face. His mother embraced him, bringing the first sense of comfort he’d felt in a while, and he held her close an extra moment. Rosalind appeared, sweeping down the stairs in a demure white gown, her chestnut locks piled up in an intricate chignon for dinner. She was his only remaining unmarried sister, and she looked more grown up each time he saw her. He teased her about her fanciful hairstyle only to avoid his mother’s searching gaze.

  From a mere hug and a kiss on the cheek, she knew something was the matter. His mother had always been that way.

  They proceeded to dinner at once, the servants having planned a special feast in honor of his homecoming. His favorite dishes were brought out: curried parsnip soup, roasted rack of lamb, swiss chard with leeks, and au gratin potatoes. It was comforting to be with his family in the gilded dining room, though he could feel his mother’s eyes on him.

  “Did you have a pleasant journey home?” his father asked. His hair, dark as Townsend’s, barely showed any gray. “I suppose it can get choppy, crossing the Channel in winter.”

  “It was sunny, with calm waters,” he assured them. “And France was peaceful and enjoyable, for the most part.”

  “After so much upheaval,” his mother said. “I’m glad. And how do you do, Edward?” she asked gently, using his Christian name.

  She feared he still nursed a broken heart over Ophelia. And yes, his heart was a wasteland since he’d lost her, but the entirety of his problem was so much worse. He put down his fork and faced his parents. “I’ve done something rash, I’m afraid. Something foolish.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said his father. “I hope it’s easily fixed.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He glanced at his sister, whose eyes had gone wide. “I’ve asked someone to marry me, but I think, now, that I ought to have consulted with both of you first.”

  “A French woman?” his mother asked. “Has there been an…entanglement?”

  Rosalind’s eyes went wider. His sister was known for being demure and polite, but he knew a secret part of her enjoyed mayhem. Her puppy-dog crush on his friend Marlow was proof enough of that.

  “Not a French woman,” he assured her. “I visited the Earl of Mayhew as soon as I arrived in London. I don’t know why, but I thought it would be a wise and just course to propose to the young woman Wescott jilted. I had this idea that it might fix everything…everything that happened between us.” And exert a measure of vengeance. He didn’t admit that part out loud, but feared it was obvious enough.

  “Oh, but Lady June has already married another,” said Rosalind. “Lord Braxton, a longstanding acquaintance. They left recently for his country estate.”

  “I realize that now. Unfortunately, I didn’t know she’d already married when I arrived at her father’s home. And I thought…” He sighed. “I thought her name was Jane.”

  His parents stared at him. The food on his plate, so recently warm and delicious, seemed less so as he forced a forkful of lamb into his mouth.

  “So, you see,” he continued after he chewed it, “I have engaged myself to Lady Jane, the younger sister, by accident.”

  “When did you discover this…accident?” his father asked. Townsend had the sinking feeling he was trying not to laugh.

  “I met with August and Marlow just afterward and told them I’d become engaged to Wescott’s former marriage prospect. They let me know I was mistaken.”

  “My goodness,” said Rosalind, her delicate whisper too loud in the quiet room.

  His mother blinked rapidly. Rosalind had gained her commendable polish at the Duchess of Lockridge’s knee. His mother disguised her surprise—her dismay?—but the blinking said everything.

  “I wonder now, in hindsight, if we will suit one another,” said Townsend. “I find myself in a situation.”

  “I’d say so.” His father leaned back, resting his elbows upon his chair. “Didn’t you speak to the girl herself before you set forth your proposition?”

  “No, sir. She’s in Berkshire, in Reading with her mother. I spoke to her father, though, and put my name to an extensive marriage contract.”

  “Ah.” The faint hint of laughter faded from the man’s dark brown eyes. “It is, indeed, a situation. You are legally engaged to Lady Jane, then. And she is of an age…?”

  “She is my age,” offered Rosalind. “A few months older, perhaps.”

  “Lord Mayhew said he wished for a quick wedding, a holiday wedding, and I agreed.” He could feel the flush rise beneath his tanned skin. “But, learning later that I had proposed to the wrong woman, I wish I had not.”

  “Oh, my dear.” His mother’s words were soft but full of feeling. “Of all the things to do impulsively.”

  “I know. I regret it.”

  “But you have done it,” his father pointed out. “You offered marriage, and your suit was accepted.”

  Townsend took another bite of food, forcing himself to chew it. His mother fidgeted with her silverware. Rosalind waited, watchful and still.

  “Lady Jane is of excellent birth,” his mother finally said. “The Mayhews are a fine family, even if their youngest daughter is a bit…out of the ordinary.”

  “Have you met her?”

  She paused a moment, considering before she spoke. “I’ve heard she is a great lover of nature.”

  The naturalist. That’s what Marlow had called her. Even his mother had heard the gossip, and she was not one to seek it out.

  “Lady Jane is very interested in plants and animals,” Rosalind said. “I’ve never met anyone like her, man or woman.”

  When neither parent moved to silence her, she took it as permission to go on.

  “From what I understand, she spends far more time in the gardens and forests of her family’s country estate than the drawing room. Hazel met Jane while June and her brother were courting; she told me Jane took tea at Arlington Hall once with a great streak of mud staining her gown’s hem.”

  “You mustn’t repeat gossip,” the duchess chided. “I’m sure if such a thing happened, it was a mistake.”

  Rosalind bowed her head, gently but duly chastened. Still, she met her brother’s gaze, expressing the reservations she wasn’t allowed to voice.

  “I’m sure this young lady is kind-hearted, if she cares so for the natural world,” his father said. “It’s best to look for the good in everyone.”

  “Especially since you have to marry her,” said Rosalind.

  This time his father gave Rosalind a warning look. Few mortals had the courage to stand up to the exacting Duke of Lockridge. In fact, everything Townsend had learned of propriety and discipline, he’d learned at his father’s hand.

  Which made it that much more difficult to imagine marrying an irregular sort of wife. Why, his own mother had flawless manners, had been held up to countless contemporaries as the very model of decorum.

  “I can’t help thinking Jane and I won’t suit,” he murmured, draining his wine glass. Goodness, how much had he drunk today? Too much. “I fear we’ll have a disaster of a marriage.”

  “Your father and I believed the same thing when we were engaged,” his mother said with a faint smile. “Things have a way of working themselves out.”

  “Yes,” the duke agreed. “It’s hard to know if you’re suited to someone you haven’t even met. You must give this young woman a chance, and not depend upon other’s opinions of her character.”

  “Lady Jane has been recently jilted, has she not?” His mother clicked her tongue. “Poor woman.”

  “By Lord Hobart, for no cause at all,” said Rosalind. “That is not gossip,” she added, when her parents both turned to her. “It’s something that really happened. It’s hard to believe any man could be so heartless.”

  Heartless. Townsend supposed he was heartless, because he wished he could jilt her too.

  “Our engagement cannot be well known yet,” he said, graspin
g at any possibility of escape. “I have only told Marlow and Augustine.”

  “At their homes?”

  “At White’s,” he admitted.

  His father rolled his eyes. “Then it’s well known.”

  “Perhaps if I visited Lord Mayhew at once…right now…and explained everything.” It took all his courage to meet his father’s dark gaze. “Do you think I could…?” His shoulders slumped at the message he read there. “I’m trapped, aren’t I? There is nothing to be done.”

  “Unfortunately, there is not.” The Duke of Lockridge didn’t temper his words or soften his frown. “You signed a contract, driven by vengeful intentions rather than regard for the lady in question. Sometimes the mistakes we make carry heavy consequences, son. There’s nothing to do now but welcome this Lady Jane into our family and accord her our affection and respect. Your mother and I must call on the Mayhews tomorrow to begin forming a deeper acquaintance. Don’t you think so, Aurelia?”

  “Indeed,” she said, with reluctant finality.

  “Lady Jane is in the country at the moment,” said Townsend. “Lord Mayhew is summoning her and her mother to London.”

  “Then we shall await their arrival and pay a call.”

  His father’s tone was immovable. Townsend’s satisfaction with his perfect act of revenge had ebbed into a haze of self-loathing, for he’d done this to himself. No matter that he still adored Ophelia; this strange Lady Jane would be his wife a few weeks’ hence because of his utter stupidity, and he couldn’t help feeling it was exactly what he deserved.

  Chapter Two

  Such a Prospect

  Lady Jane McConall, the Earl of Mayhew’s youngest daughter, toiled patiently in her private garden, trying to undo the previous season’s damage to her spindly winter hollies. She was probably ruining her boots in the muddy snow, but she wished to save the shrubs if she could.

  “These dastardly leaves,” she said, brushing them from the sparse branches and tucking them over the roots. “They blow here from the east meadow, as if we want them.” She was not sure what the word dastardly meant, but she’d overheard a gentleman using it in London, with the sort of vehemence that matched what she felt. “They’ll do better for you there, won’t they? Keeping your roots warm and protected from the snow?”

  The plant didn’t answer her now, but it would, eventually, by growing healthier. As she picked off the sodden, smothering leaves, she could practically hear her holly breathe a sigh of relief.

  “There, you see,” she said, finally exposing the knee-high bush to the winter sun. “That will be better for you, and you can grow up big and strong.” She stroked one of the deep green, pointed leaves. “And in the spring, the worms will come and work your soil, and make you oh, so happy.”

  “Jane!” Her normally refined mother leaned from the parlor window and shouted her name. “Jane, what are you doing?”

  She squinted up at her, hoping she wouldn’t see the mess she’d made of her boots. “I’m cleaning up the garden, mama. Is everything all right?”

  “Goodness, what are you wearing? Is that Spencer’s coat?”

  “Yes, one of his old ones. He said I could have it.”

  Her cousin’s hunting coat was a lovely shade of brown, just right for disguising the mud she got all over herself, no matter how carefully she gardened. To that end, a great many of her gowns were shades of brown, too. It had become her favorite color, although her mother begged her to wear ivories and creams, and the pale pastels so popular with the ballroom debutantes in London.

  Pastels had not kept Lord Hobart from breaking his engagement to her.

  “You were told never to wear men’s clothing again,” her mother reminded her. “And what are you doing out here in the wind? Think of your complexion.”

  “The hollies have been covered in oak leaves since autumn.”

  She clicked her tongue. “You’re gardening? It’s freezing out. The ground is covered in snow.”

  “Plants grow in every season,” she called back. “Even winter.”

  “Jane, you must come inside at once. Your face will be chapped to a cherry. Please, this is not the time to worry about holly bushes. You won’t believe the letter your father’s just sent.”

  With those words, her mother pulled shut the window. Jane sighed and moved toward the garden gate, wondering if it was a good or bad letter. Since June had married, only Jane remained at home, a future spinster, no doubt. She would have loved to marry and have a family, but she’d known for some time that men did not find her an attractive marriage prospect, with her gawky stature and horrid carrot-hued hair. Oh, her disastrous hair! It was the color of pale, overboiled carrots, thanks to some random Scots ancestor on her father’s side.

  If only she’d gotten her looks from her mother’s side. The Countess of Mayhew was thoroughly English, blonde, petite, and elegant, and good at everything. She was good at society, good at balls, good at manners, good at fashion, good at being a proper lady, and June took after her so readily.

  Jane had gotten none of those graces. It was a bitter shame.

  Her mother rapped upon the window, beckoning her in, and Jane walked faster through regrettable amounts of slush. She brushed as much of it off her boots as she could on the flagstones near the side patio, then handed her coat and soiled gardening gloves to a footman by the door. The laundry women hated her, understandably. Perhaps that was why her father had written. Perhaps the laundry women were once again threatening to quit.

  “In here, Jane,” her mother called. “Come quickly.”

  She hurried to the green drawing room, passing another pair of silent footmen. Was she in trouble for something? Would the stone-faced servants hear her berated again for some petty crime? She thought of some of her more recent, secret transgressions. She’d added another pet to her menagerie, a juvenile rabbit too lame and small to be out in the cold, but her father wouldn’t know about that. She’d also written to a natural science professor at Cambridge with a question about diet and hibernation in reptiles, using the false name of Josiah McConall…

  “Jane,” her mother said, as soon as she entered. “What do you know of the Marquess of Townsend?”

  She blinked at her. “The Marquess of Townsend? I’ve seen him a few times.”

  She tried to sound casual, although his name made her heart race a little bit. He was one of the few gentlemen she’d really noticed the past season. Tall, elegant, classically handsome…

  She’d become aware of his appealing attributes while her sister was holding court upon the marriage market, and after that, Jane’s eyes had searched for him in every ballroom, finding him only a handful of times. She remembered that Lord Townsend danced with a sort of powerful grace and had striking black hair and piercing eyes.

  Well, to her, they seemed piercing, although she’d never had the opportunity to feel his gaze close up. No, he only danced with breathtaking women, diamonds of the first water. The way Lord Townsend held them and guided them had excited her in some way, then made her feel silly, because such an impressive man would want less than nothing to do with a plain carrot-top like her.

  “Isn’t he one of Lord Wes—” She stopped herself from saying the name. It was not to be uttered in their household anymore, since he’d gone back on his expected offer of marriage to her sister. “Isn’t Lord Townsend one of Lord W’s gentleman friends?”

  “I believe he’s part of that group, but it can’t be helped.” She waved the letter as Jane settled into a chair by the fire. “The marquess has asked for your hand in marriage, and your father, assuming your agreeability to the match, has told him yes.”

  Having barely sat down, Jane jumped to her feet again. “He has asked—Lord Townsend has—What?”

  “Lord Townsend has visited your father and put forth a marriage proposal. You are going to be wed,” her mother exclaimed. “And to such a prospect.”

  “That cannot be. The Marquess of Townsend has asked to marry me? The Duke of Lockr
idge’s son?”

  “Really, Jane, would there be another? Yes, he’s asked to marry you. Your father wishes us to return to London at once, so you may meet your future husband and his family.” She fluttered the note in agitation. “He hints at a holiday wedding, but that is surely too precipitous. We must find you a wedding gown, manage invitations, arrange a proper breakfast…”

  Jane sank back into the chair before the fire. A gown? A reception? Lord Townsend could not truly intend to marry her. It made no sense. He was one of the most sought-after bachelors in London. “Are you sure you read it correctly? May I see it?”

  Her mother handed her the letter, and indeed, in her father’s own handwriting, it said very shortly and urgently that the marquess had proposed marriage and that they must come. A contract had already been signed.

  “Jane, look at your hem.” Her mother gazed mournfully at the wet mud splotched upon the bottom of her skirt like some ill-conceived painting. “That’s practically a new gown.”

  “It’s a day gown, not hard to wash. If you would let me wear trousers, just in the garden—”

  “No. Proper ladies don’t wear trousers. If you’re to wed this man, a duke’s son, you’ve got to take more care with your appearance and reputation, young lady.”

  “My reputation?” She cleaved to this argument, for otherwise she must think about this shocking marriage proposal. “I’m perfectly virtuous. I always have been.”

  “That’s not the reputation I mean. I’m talking about your propensity to muck about in meadows and forests, and collect those godforsaken monstrosities you house in the kitchens and barns.”

  “They’re animals, mother, not monstrosities. They are natural beings just as we are.”

  “Of course you would say so, you exhausting girl. This is why that horrible man broke his vow to marry you and fled to Spain.”

  Jane pushed down her hurt emotions because they wouldn’t move her mother. Why, she’d cried buckets of tears over that “horrible man” who’d jilted her, the man she’d barely known, and it had accomplished nothing at all. Now she was to be married to a different man who’d never spoken the first word to her?