The Dutiful Duke

Joan Overfield

The Dutiful Duke

Joan Overfield

Copyright © 1994, 2014 by Joan Overfield

For Leona

The Dutiful Duke

"Usually when I am alone with an attractive woman I am singing praises to her glorious hazel eyes, not discussing impressionable young minds," Wyatt said.

Nia felt her cheeks glowing with embarrassment. "Nonsense, my lord, I am a governess, not an . . . an attractive woman."

Her answer amused Wyatt. "I was not aware that being a governess precluded being attractive," he drawled.

Nia rose to her feet. "With your permission, sir, I will be retiring to my rooms."

A half-smile played about his lips as he watched her cross the room.

"Miss Pringle?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Your hazel eyes are glorious."

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

About the Author

Chapter 1

London, 1816

"That beast! That hateful, monstrous, selfish beast!" Miss Thomasina Pringle's hazel eyes glittered behind the smudged lenses of her spectacles as she stood in the center of the neat, book-lined study. "Well, he needn't think he will get away with this, because if it's the last thing I do, I vow I shall make him pay!"

Mrs. Alvira Langston, headmistress of the Portham Academy, glanced up from her books, her face paling at the dramatic pronouncement. Not again, she thought, sliding open the top drawer of her desk and fumbling for the bottle of smelling salts she kept tucked inside. "Who won't get away with what?" she asked, praying her youngest and most difficult teacher didn't mean what she feared she did. "To whom are you referring?"

Nia, as her late father had dubbed her, gave her employer an impatient look before casting herself upon the nearest chair. "The duke of Tilton, of course," she responded, scowling as she stuffed a strand of mahogany-colored hair beneath her prim linen cap. "What other hateful, monstrous, selfish beast have I the misfortune of knowing?"

Mrs. Langston closed her eyes, her worst fears confirmed. "Oh, Nia," she wailed, raising the salts for a restorative sniff. "You promised!"

Nia shifted uneasily, her conscience pricking at the despair in her employer's voice. She'd been raised believing her word was her bond, and she could not like the knowledge that she may have compromised that belief. Shoving her spectacles back with a slender finger, she searched her agile mind for some acceptable justification of her actions. "I promised Miss Portham I wouldn't contact the duke by post," she said at last, knowing her defense was shaky at best. "And you needn't think I've gone back on my word, because I haven't. I'm not the one who wrote the wretch a letter."

All too familiar with Nia's tendency to manipulate the truth, Mrs. Langston allowed herself another sniff before pressing for more information. "Then who did write His Grace?" she asked, steeling herself for the answer.

Nia shifted again, toying with the idea of lying before deciding to make a clean breast of the incident. It was only a matter of time before the headmistress knew the whole of it, and she thought it might be best if she learned the details from her. "Amanda," she admitted at last, her eyes dropping to the toes of her scuffed slippers. "She wrote him a letter asking him to visit her for her birthday."

"Amanda!" Mrs. Langston's fingers closed about the bottle. "But she is only a child!"

"She will be seven in a few months," Nia corrected, leaping spiritedly to the defense of her favorite pupil. "And she has the loveliest hand of any pupil in the school. Why, only yesterday Miss Leeds was praising her letters, and Miss Cummings said her grammar was quite superior for a child her age."

"I wasn't questioning Amanda's scholastic abilities, Miss Pringle. I was questioning why you encouraged her to contact the duke when he has made it more than obvious that he desires no such contact." Mrs. Langston spoke coldly, deciding it was past time she took a firmer hand with Nia and the situation involving Amanda Perryvale. In the past she'd allowed Miss Pringle far too much leniency with the child, but she could see that would have to change. The last thing the academy needed was to make an enemy of the powerful and haughty lord.

"But Amanda is his niece!" Nia protested, her feeling of righteous indignation flaring back to life. "It is his duty to care for her!"

"That may as be," Mrs. Langston conceded, for privately she shared Miss Pringle's opinion of the duke's appalling neglect of the lonely little girl, "but as I have already explained, one cannot force another person to do that which he has no intention of doing. By persisting in this folly you have endangered not only your position at this school, but the rest of us as well. Or have you forgotten His Grace's threat to bring action against us if you contacted him again?"

Nia's cheeks pinked with color as she recalled the cold missive from the duke. She'd written him out of desperation, hinting rather broadly that his reputation could suffer if it became known that he'd abandoned the only child of his late brother to what was in reality an orphanage.

The duke's response had been a blunt threat that if she even attempted to go to the newspapers, he would see the school brought up on charges of blackmail. The entire fiasco brought the founder of the academy, Miss Arabelle Portham, to the school, and she had made Nia promise not to write His Grace again. At the time Nia had truly meant to keep her vow, but then last week Amanda had come to her crying because the other children had been teasing her.

"But they say if he was really and truly my uncle he would at least visit me!" the girl had sobbed, her violet eyes bright with tears as she gazed up at Nia. "Why won't he come, Miss Pringle? Doesn't he like me?''

The memory of the painful scene made Nia's throat tighten even now, and she cleared it uncomfortably. "I am well aware of his lordship's blustering threats," she said crossly, "but it was Amanda's desire to write her uncle and invite him to visit her for her birthday. I know I probably should have put her off with some foolish story, but I thought perhaps if he heard from Amanda directly he would change his mind."

"And I take it he did not?"

"The only answer came from his solicitor." Nia removed the crumpled letter from the pocket of her apron and handed it to the older woman. "I haven't had the heart to show it to her."

Mrs. Langston smoothed out the sheet of paper, her eyes widening in horror at what she read. "Oh, my heavens, he . . . he is saying she is a . . . a . . ."

"A bastard." Nia said the hateful word stonily, her full lips tightening with fury. "He states quite clearly that there is some legal question regarding her parents' marriage, and until such time as the matter can be resolved, she cannot be considered a legitimate member of His Grace's family. He even hints that she is breaking some obscure law by using the Perryvale name."

"What are you going to do?" Mrs. Langston asked, eyeing Nia with concern. Ordinarily she would have sent for Miss Portham, but the lovely heiress had recently married the earl of Colford and was rusticating at her husband's country estate.

"I don't know." The admission all but choked Nia. "But I do know I can't let Amanda know. It would shatter her, and God knows the poor child has suffered enough."

"But won't she wonder when there is no reply?"

"I could tell her His Grace is out of town," Nia suggested, wincing at the thought of lying to the girl she adored as if she were her own child. "She'll be disappointed, of course, but it's far kinder than telling her the truth."

"Yes, that is so, but . . ."

"But what?" Nia pressed when her voice trailed off.

"But I cannot help wondering if perhaps it would be best if you told her the truth . . . or at least most of the truth," Mrs. Langston amended, shuddering at the memory of the solicitor's cruel words. "By encouraging her to hope for some future reconciliation with the duke, you are only setting her up for further heartache."

Nia paled at that. "I am?"

"Yes, you most certainly are," Mrs. Langston said firmly, grateful to see she had finally managed to penetrate Nia's unshakable resolve. "Amanda is young yet, and with patience and love she will forget her uncle. You can see how attached she has become to you, and with time she will accept her lot. Now admit it," she added, lifting a warning finger when Nia would have protested, "she scarce spoke of her uncle until you began prattling on about his duty toward her. Isn't that so?"

Nia's expression grew bleak at the headmistress's words. She recalled the many times she had mentioned His Grace in the girl's presence, and Amanda's curious questions. She'd never meant to hurt her, but the duke's irresponsible behavior had made her so angry . . .

"You're right," she admitted quietly, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Amanda barely knew of His Grace's existence."

"Then you can see the folly of encouraging her to hope for a reconciliation?" Mrs. Langston asked, pressing home her advantage despite the look of misery on Nia's face. "You won't allow her to write His Grace again?"

"I won't."

"And you won't write him yourself or attempt to force your way into his home?" Mrs. Langston added, recalling an earlier incident. "You give me your word?"

Nia considered for a long while before slowly nodding. "I won't write His Grace or attempt to gain entry to his home," she intoned solemnly. "And I promise I shall never speak his name to Amanda without your permission."

"Then you may go," Mrs. Langston said, relief washing through her at the easy victory. "And if you will pardon my saying so, I trust this has taught you a lesson. No good ever comes from interfering in people's lives; I hope you will remember that."

After leaving Mrs. Langston's study, Nia stopped to check on her students before slipping up to her room for a moment of quiet reflection. The other teachers all shared quarters, but because one of the instructors had left to take another position, Nia had the small room tucked beneath the eaves all to herself. It was a situation she had never appreciated more than at this moment. Drat and bother, she brooded, staring out her casement window with a scowl, what the devil was she going to do now?

The pledge Mrs. Langston had wrenched from her placed her in the awkward position of being unable to keep her word to Amanda that her uncle would visit her for her birthday. She knew it had been foolish of her to make such a promise, but she'd been unable to bear the tears shimmering in the little girl's eyes.

Nia's father had been a physician in the army, and she'd been raised to believe that duty was sacred above all things. It was the duke's duty to care for his niece, and she was certain he could be compelled to do the right thing if only she could convince him. But how could she convince him of anything when she couldn't so much as write him a letter?

It was a pity she wasn't a member of the ton, she thought, idly tracing a pattern in the fog lacing her window. Then at least she might be able to corner him at a soiree and argue him into submission. Or she could threaten a scene; men hated scenes, she knew, and surely he would promise anything to be spared a fit of the vapors. She'd seen several officers' wives employ such tactics, and she reasoned if they could keep battle-hardened soldiers in line, they should prove equally as effective with a spoiled and pampered lord. But the fact remained she was not a member of the ton, and if she wished to contact His Grace, she would have to think of something else.

She could infiltrate his household disguised as a serving maid, she supposed, but that would mean breaking her word to Mrs. Langston. Or she could hang about his doorstep hoping for a chance to confront him as he climbed in his carriage, but that was dubious at best and she would have the watch to worry about as well. Still, there had to be something she could do, she thought, and then it came to her.

There was another sort of female who might have contact with a duke; one whose presence, while it might raise a few eyebrows, would never be questioned. She's seen several of these sad creatures in her travels with her father, and their bold and to her mind desperate actions were more or less ignored. Men would be men, after all, and who would think to stop a doxy from climbing into a man's carriage for an assignation? It was the perfect solution.

She froze as the thought took hold. It was outrageous, her logical mind argued. Unthinkable. She would lose her position at the school and her reputation would be forever tarnished, were she caught. She didn't even know if His Grace was the sort of man who went to such women. And yet . . . She bit her lip. And yet, what choice did she have?

Desperate times called for desperate measures; she'd heard the general in command of her father's regiment say that. Of course he had been talking of war, but Amanda's happiness was every bit as important to her as the outcome of any battle. If the men who fought and died for England had been willing to sacrifice all, could she do any less for Amanda? The answer, of course, was no, and with that in mind Nia turned from the window, her small chin set in resolve.

"Hell and damnation, Royston, what the devil do you mean I've had enough?" Wyatt Perryvale, the duke of Tilton, demanded with an outraged roar, his midnight-dark eyes narrowing as he glared at the elegant man standing before him. "Who do you think you are? My nursemaid?"

"Your friend, your very good friend as a matter of fact, and I'm not about to let you make a fool of yourself with half the ton looking on." Ambrose Royston replied calmly, his blue eyes cool as he met the duke's furious gaze. "I know you miss Christopher, Wyatt, but you'll not find him in the bottom of a brandy bottle however hard you may try."

The mention of his younger brother sent a fresh shaft of pain stabbing through Wyatt. It had been over a year since he'd received news of his brother's death at the futile and tragic battle for New Orleans, and yet the pain was as tresh and raw as if it was yesterday. He glanced away from Royston, struggling against the grief that was his constant companion.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he denied thickly, his hand clenching his glass. "My wanting a drink has naught to do with Christopher. I merely felt like having a bit of fun. And for your information, sir, I've had but four glasses!" This last was added with a defiant scowl.

"Which is two more than is your habit," Ambrose answered, his manner as composed as ever. He and Wyatt had known each other since their days at Eton, and he knew his friend almost as well as he knew himself. He'd spent the last year watching Wyatt's silent anguish, but tonight was the last straw. Even if he had to break a table over the duke's hard head, he would not allow him to make a public spectacle of himself.

"Then perhaps 'tis time I was acquiring new habits," Wyatt replied with a sneer, lifting his glass in a mocking salute. "All true Perryvales are known for their prodigious thirsts, Royston. Didn't you know that?"

"Wyatt . . ."

Wyatt muttered another oath, annoyed by his friend's persistence. He knew he was behaving like a foolish schoolboy, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't even like the taste of brandy, but tonight he'd felt the need to lose himself in the sweet mists of oblivion. Unfortunately the fiery liquor wasn't providing him with the escape he so desperately craved, and he could see no sense in continuing the useless endeavor. Perhaps a different sort of oblivion was what he needed, he decided, his dark eyes growing speculative.

"Very well, Royston," he said, setting his glass on a table with exaggerated care, "perhaps you are right. Getting bosky in such august company would never do. If you will excuse me, I believe I shall be taking myself off."

"Where are you going?" Ambrose demanded, deciding he didn't care for the wild glitter in Wyatt's eyes.

"Why, to find a different sort of company, of course," Wyatt drawled, giving him a wolfish smile. "And if you are thinking of coming with me, I shouldn't bother. Three in a bed is one too many, to my way of thinking."

After making his excuses to his hostess, Wyatt retrieved his hat and cloak from the butler and went out into the cool, damp night. There was a long line of carriages waiting in front of the Pettingtons' elegant townhouse, and it took him several minutes to find his own coach. The delay hardly improved his already black temper, and his jaw was clenched with displeasure as he climbed into his conveyance.

"You might at least have made yourself known," he grumbled to the footman holding his door. "It would have been damned embarrassing if I'd entered the wrong carriage!"

"More embarrassin' to some than to others, I reckon," the footman replied with a cheekiness that would have startled Wyatt had he been in a frame of mind to notice. With the exception of his valet and housekeeper, his staff usually treated him with almost painful formality.

"Just see it doesn't happen again," Wyatt retorted, still scowling as he settled onto the plush seat. "Tell Coachman to take me to Cleveland Street. He knows the address."

"Right you are, Yer Grace!" The footman was smirking as he gave a mocking bow. "You'll be wantin' us to go the long route, I takes it?"

"Have him take whatever route he pleases," Wyatt snapped impatiently, the servant's odd behavior finally registering. "Just get me there."

The footman bowed again, slamming the door and leaping onto the top of the highly sprung carriage with a chuckle. The whip cracked and the carriage started with a lurch that sent Wyatt flying forward. He managed to catch himself and sat back in his seat with a muttered oath. That was when he saw the woman.

"What the devil . . . Who are you?" he demanded incredulously. "How did you get into my carriage?"

"Your footman let me in," the woman replied in a voice that was surprisingly cultured. "I wish to speak with you."

"Well, he can just let you out again," Wyatt snapped, ignoring the last part of her statement. "I don't pick up doxies off the street. Be off with you!"

Nia stiffened at the crude words. "I am no doxy, sir," she denied hotly, scowling as she struggled to bring his blurry image into focus. She'd left off her spectacles to convince the wary coachman she was a lightskirt, and she could scarce see a thing in the darkened coach. The first chance she got she'd slip them on again, and then she'd do something about her scandalous décolletage. No wonder prostitutes lived so short a life, she thought, giving the bodice of her gown a discreet tug. The poor creatures doubtlessly succumbed to pneumonia!

The action drew Wyatt's eyes, and he studied the tempting display of creamy flesh with predatory interest. Why should he trouble his latest mistress with his lusts when he had a willing and nubile female already at his disposal, he thought, brandy and his own black mood destroying his usual reserve. He reached out and grabbed the woman's waist, pulling her onto his lap with a powerful tug.

"Sir!" Nia gave a startled cry, her hands flying up to push ineffectively at his shoulders. "Release me at once!"

The tones of starchy outrage in her voice amused Wyatt. "Afraid I shan't pay the piper?" he teased, bending his head to inhale her delicate fragrance. Unlike most prostitutes, who doused themselves in heavy scent, she smelled delightfully of powder and roses. "Don't worry, sweet," he added with a chuckle, brushing a soft kiss against her slender neck. "I am a generous man. You may ask any of my mistresses. They'll tell you I pay cheerfully for services rendered."

Nia wasn't so green that she failed to take his meaning. How could she not, she wondered desperately, when she could feel the hardness of his body beneath her thighs? For the first time since approaching his coach the dangers of this insane masquerade became real, and she realized the full extent of what she was risking. She began struggling in earnest, and her frantic movements made the bodice of her gown slip even lower, exposing the curve of her breasts to her captor's touch.

Wyatt was quick to take advantage of what was offered, his mouth sliding lower to taste the sweetness of her soft flesh. She felt incredible in his arms, and he was eager for more. His hand slid up her body to cup her breast, and he moved his thumb teasingly against the nipple until he felt it bead in response. Another movement of his hand bared her breast completely, and he lowered his head to pull the turgid peak between his lips.

The feel of his mouth closing over her sent alarm shooting through Nia. Alarm and a burning excitement that horrified her almost as much as what he was doing to her. For a moment her mind went blank with panic, and then the instructions her father had given her flashed into her mind. She forced herself to relax, and when he began lowering her to the bench, she pretended to acquiesce. He moved to cover her completely, and the moment he was vulnerable, she brought her knee up with all her might.

Pain exploded through Wyatt, and for a moment he literally saw stars. With his body bending in agony he had no choice but to release the woman, and she scrambled away from him to the opposite bench. He managed to grab a handful of her voluminous cape, but when he raised his head he found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol.

"This was my father's," Nia warned breathlessly, her chest rising and falling as she fought to control the shivers racking her. "I learned to shoot when I was a child, but even if I wasn't a crack shot I could hardly miss at this distance."

The lingering effects of passion and the brandy he had ill-advisedly consumed vanished under a wave of cold fury. "If this is a robbery, young woman, you have sadly underestimated your victim," he said between clenched teeth, taking care not to make any sudden moves as he slowly drew back. "I suggest you give it up before you end up as Tyburn fruit."

"Dangling from a gibbet, you mean?" Nia gave a shrug, although inside she was quaking with fright. "I am hoping it won't be necessary to shoot you, but one never knows. As for my lifting your purse, I am no more a thief than I am a doxy."

Since she had just used a weapon to defend whatever virtue she possessed, Wyatt decided to concede her the point. "Then what are you?" he demanded, furious at being put in so ridiculous a position. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and in the poor light he could see details of her appearance he had been too distracted to notice earlier. Despite the fact that her gown was half off her shoulders and her brown hair was curling widly about her face, there was something in the set of her mouth and the proud tilt of her small chin that made him wonder if he had mistaken her character.

"I am a schoolmistress."

"What?" Her cool answer had Wyatt shaking his head in disbelief. He couldn't have heard aright.

Nia hesitated, and then decided she had nothing to lose by telling the truth. "Your Grace," she began at last, "I give you my word that I mean you no harm. All I want from you is but a moment of your time. Do you promise you will listen?"

The novelty of having a woman assure him his person was in no danger, especially after all that had passed between them, struck Wyatt as bordering on the farcical, and for a moment he was tempted to test the veracity of her statement. Then he remembered the conclusion to their passionate interlude, and his brows met in an angry scowl.

"Very well, madam," he said, inclining his head mockingly, "say whatever it is you have come to say. As for having my undivided attention, you had that the moment you aimed that pistol at my heart."

"It's not as if I wanted to bring the wretched thing with me," Nia grumbled as she cautiously lowered the gun. "But I thought it might be the prudent thing. 'The readiness is all,' you know."

The literary reference had Wyatt arching his eyebrows in amusement. "Hamlet, madam? Hardly a reassuring quote, considering the gentleman was contemplating murder, but I take your meaning. You felt it best to be prepared against any eventuality. A wise decision for anyone entering a life of crime."

"I am not a criminal!" Nia shouted, deciding she'd had quite enough of the duke's sardonic accusations.

Her hot denial brought a wry gleam to Wyatt's dark eyes. "Yes, I'd forgotten that," he drawled in a voice meant to give offense. "You're a schoolmistress, aren't you? Tell me, madam, just who is it you instruct? Highwaymen?"

There was a hiss of air as Nia drew in her breath. Another silence ensued before she said, "I teach orphans, Your Grace. Specifically orphans of soldiers who have fallen in gallant defense of their country, and kindly stop calling me 'madam' in that odious manner. My name is Miss Pringle."

"My apologies if my manners offend you, Miss Pringle," Wyatt returned, amused by her indignant tones. "But this is the first time I have ever been held at gunpoint, and I am afraid I am not up to all the niceties. Where is it you teach?"

"The Portham Academy, of course," Nia answered, feeling another stir of unease. "Don't you recognize my name?"

"I am afraid not." For some odd reason he felt compelled to apologize. "Although I admit the Portham Academy sounds vaguely familiar." He gave the matter some thought before adding, "It was started by the countess of Colford, was it not?"

"Ha! As if you didn't know!" Nia declared, furious he could keep feigning innocence even now.

His amusement vanished at the accusation in her voice. It was one thing to humor a woman holding a gun on him, but quite another to allow her to question his honor. He straightened in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he studied her shadowy figure. "I warn you, Miss Pringle," he began, his tone dangerously soft, "my patience is wearing thin. Unless you are truly prepared to use that weapon in your hands, I suggest you not test it any further. What is it you want with me?"

"What I want from you, Your Grace," Nia replied, determined to match his cool control, "is that you do your duty. Nothing more, and nothing less."

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, struggling to decipher the cryptic words. "What duty have I failed to perform?"

"Your duty to Amanda, naturally!" Nia snapped, deciding she'd had enough of his silly games. He could pretend all he liked, but he knew precisely what she was talking about. She'd seen the letter bearing his crest arrive at the school, so he could hardly claim to be an innocent in any of this. "Why else would I have gone to the bother of seeking you out like this?" she continued in an exasperated tone, indicating her mussed clothing with an impatient wave of her hand. "Do you honestly believe I'd have gone to such lengths had you left me any other choice?"

"Who the devil is Amanda?" Wyatt snapped, beginning to fear a madwoman was holding him captive.

"You know very well who Amanda is!" Nia retorted, hating that he could be so single-mindedly selfish. "And what is more, you can tell that hateful solicitor of yours that he needn't waste his ink penning any more threats. Amanda is most assuredly your niece, and what is more, I have all the evidence it will take to prove the matter in court! Unless you want the greatest scandal of the season, my lord, you will cease shirking your duty and admit to the truth. Amanda Perryvale is the daughter of your late brother, and you know it!"

Chapter 2

There was a charged silence in the carriage, and in the faint light filtering through the glass Nia could see the shock on the duke's face. "What?" he gasped, his tone harsh.

For the first time since sneaking from the academy, Nia knew a moment of indecision. Slipping into His Grace's coach posing as a doxy hired by an undisclosed "friend" had been an inspiration, and when she'd succeeded, she'd thought the most difficult part of the night was behind her. While waiting for the duke's return she passed the time marshalling her arguments, and she was confident of her ability to counter any opposition he might offer. The one thing she hadn't planned on was that he would deny any knowledge of either her or Amanda.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said furiously. "Christopher is dead. He couldn't possibly have a child!"

"I beg to differ with you, Your Grace," she said, gentling her tone as she sensed the confusion behind the fury. "But Amanda is indeed the issue of your brother's marriage to a Miss Miriam Jensen. I have her birth records and a copy of their marriage lines, if you'd care to see them."

"There is no need for that," Wyatt said slowly, struggling to comprehend what he was hearing. "I'm well aware of Christopher's marriage to Miriam. I did my best to talk him out of it at the time, but he wouldn't listen."

"Yes, I'd heard there was some opposition to the match," Nia said coolly, some of the pity she'd been feeling fading at his distracted words. "But I hardly think that any reason to label an innocent child a bastard."

Wyatt stiffened, his hands clenching into fists. "I have never labeled any child a bastard, Miss Pringle, nor am I likely to do so, especially if there is even the slightest possibility that child could be my brother's daughter."

The menace in his voice made Nia draw back into the shadows. "Very well, Your Grace," she said, wondering at his vehemence. This wasn't at all the reaction she had expected, and she wondered if perhaps she'd misread the duke and the situation.

"Good." He gave a curt nod. "As for my opposition to the match, that had nothing to do with Miriam. I simply thought Christopher too young to be thinking of marriage. He was just twenty-one, you know."

"I know," Nia answered softly, the pain in his voice making her catch her lip between her teeth. Whatever the man's faults, it was obvious he had loved his brother, which made his neglect of Amanda all the more mysterious. Given that affection, she would have thought he'd have moved heaven and earth to provide for his niece.

Wyatt leaned back in the seat, fighting for a composure he was far from feeling. A niece, he thought dazedly. Christopher had left a child behind. The notion was almost overwhelming, but even as joy welled up he fought it down with hard practicality. Until he had the whole truth, he would refrain from committing himself. His eyes narrowed on the woman sitting opposite him. Clearly the first thing he must do would be to learn all he could about her, then he would decide what to do about his alleged "niece."

"May I ask you a question, Miss Pringle?" he queried, idly stretching his long legs out in front of him.

"What is it?" Nia answered warily, not caring for the lazy note in his deep voice.

"I surmise you didn't light the lantern so as to keep your presence a secret, but is it necessary to keep us in shadows?"

Nia was annoyed to feel her cheeks warming with color. "I am afraid I haven't any flint with me, Your Grace," she muttered. "I hadn't thought it would be necessary."

Wyatt's lips quirked at the waspish words. "I will see what I can do," he said, rapping on the roof of the coach to draw his driver's attention. A few minutes later and they were on their way again, the carriage lantern his father had installed as a novelty blazing brightly.

In the flickering golden light Wyatt could clearly see his mysterious visitor's face, and what he saw both amused and intrigued him. Her dark hair was rioting about her small face, and a pair of bright hazel eyes sparkled behind the gold-rimmed spectacles she had just slipped on her face. Her nose was small and somewhat pointed, as was her chin, hinting at the aggressive and determined nature he'd already encountered. High cheekbones and a ripe, full mouth softened the sharp angles of her face, giving her an almost fey beauty. She was, he decided calmly, the perfect caricature of a schoolmistress, and he didn't trust her so much as an inch.

Nia burned under his sharp-eyed scrutiny, her resentment simmering along with her temper. "Well?" she demanded tartly when he seemed satisfied. "Do I pass muster?"

"You'll do," he responded with an indifference that set her teeth on edge. "You spoke of proof earlier. May I see it?"

It took Nia a few seconds to take his meaning. "I thought you said you knew of your brother's marriage," she said, frowning in suspicion.

"I do, but you mentioned a birth record. Because Miriam and Christopher wed, it doesn't necessarily follow there was a child."

Nia had to grant him that, and dug out the papers she had secretly removed from Mrs. Langston's study earlier that day. "She was born in Bournemouth, as you can see," she said, handing him the papers. "She'll be seven in a little over two months."

Seven, he thought bleakly, studying the papers he had been handed. He'd been an uncle all this time and Christopher had never even written him. He'd known the rift that had parted them was deep, but he'd never thought it ran so deep as this. A fresh wave a pain washed over him as he thought of how much his brother must have hated him.

"I—I have a portrait of her," Nia said hesitantly, seeing the pain darken his eyes. "I painted it myself so it's not very good, but I like to think it's a fair resemblance. Would you like to see it?"

"Please."

Nia dug the miniature out of her reticule, thanking the impulse that had made her bring it with her. At the time she'd thought it might serve to further prove Amanda's identity, but after seeing His Grace she wasn't so certain. She handed it to him, and as he gazed down at the portrait she took the opportunity to study him.

As she'd noted when he'd climbed into the carriage, he was quite tall, with the broad, muscular shoulders of the natural athlete. His tanned features were too harsh to be termed handsome, but it was his hair and eyes, both the color of polished ebony, which most fascinated her. She'd been expecting an older, more masculine version of Amanda, with her wheat-blond hair and violet-blue eyes, and the sight of a man who looked more like a dashing Corsair than an English lord left her somewhat disconcerted. Surely, she thought uneasily, there would be some resemblance between an uncle and his niece.

Wyatt stared at the miniature in his hand, a painful lump forming in his throat. My God, he thought, his hand shaking as he brushed his fingers across the child's sweetly smiling face. She was the very image of Christopher, of generations of Perryvales, and to think that until this moment he hadn't even known of her existence. He raised his eyes to find Miss Pringle watching him, a wary expression on her face.

"You said she is a pupil at your academy," he said, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears. "I take it then that Miriam has also died?"

"In a carriage accident," Nia replied carefully. "She had been living with her sister, but the family was unable to continue providing for Amanda, and so she was brought to us."

The thought of the little girl being deposited at an orphanage like an unwanted cat made his lips tighten in displeasure. "And it never occurred to them to notify me?" he demanded, his dark eyes flashing. "Whatever the differences between Christopher and me, she is my niece as well."

Nia could only gape at him. "I daresay it did occur to the Jensens to notify you," she retorted, "and doubtlessly they met with the same response I did— haughty indifference and threats of legal action if they persisted in their claims. You are hardly the injured party here, my lord."

"But this is the first I have heard of her!" Wyatt exclaimed, angered by her cutting words. "I have been traveling a great deal since coming into the title. In fact, I was out of the country when word of Christopher's death reached me. I would never have allowed my own niece to languish in an orphanage had I known of her plight. Good God, woman, what sort of man do you take me for?"

"But I—"

"Never mind," Wyatt interrupted with an impatient wave of his hand. "None of that matters now. The important thing at the moment is Amanda."

Although this was a sentiment Nia could readily understand, she wasn't certain she trusted his abrupt change of heart. "What about Amanda?" she asked warily.

"I want you to take me to her," he answered, meeting her suspicious scowl with equanimity. "I am taking her home."

Nia stared at the duke in disbelief. "You wish to take Amanda home?" she echoed, her eyes wide. "Tonight?"

"Certainly tonight," Wyatt replied, impatient to meet his niece now that he knew of her. After two years of desolate loneliness, he had a family. The thought filled him with joy.

"But, Your Grace, it is after midnight!" Nia protested, feeling rather like a novice rider strapped to a runaway stallion. "Amanda is already in bed, and I hardly feel yanking her from a sound sleep and thrusting her into a stranger's care will prove in the least beneficial to her."

Wyatt frowned at her words. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted reluctantly. "You're right, it might upset her."

"And you'll need to make arrangements with your household," Nia continued, warming to her theme. "A child isn't a piece of furniture, you know. You can't simply pick her up and cart her home without proper preparations. You will need to hire a maid, and a governess, and—"

"You've made your point, Miss Pringle," he said, coming to an abrupt decision. "Very well, I shall come for her tomorrow morning, then. Kindly have her ready by ten o'clock."

Nia paused, not certain what to say. This was the very thing she'd worked for all these months, but now that the moment was finally here she was aware of an odd urge to cry. She tried telling herself it was all for the best, but that didn't help the burning ache in her throat.

"Ten o'clock, Your Grace," she said, blinking to hold back the tears. "If you will please tell your driver to let me out here, I will be on my way."