“I did not accept.” She took two steps back from him. “And I have heard that promise before and suffered the embarrassment of a runaway groom. Humiliation once was more than enough. No thank you, my lord.”

  He studied her for a long time. “A special license will be required for the swift marriage I want. I cannot linger about here a whole month waiting for the banns to be called. So, we will say nothing of our plan to marry before I leave for London this morning. Your brother will not expect my return. I have discussed my plans to wed with you, and only with you.”

  “It’s your plan, my lord, not mine,” she warned. “And a bad one.”

  “It’s a good plan,” he assured her, tugging down his waistcoat. “A marriage based on honesty, mutual respect, but not love. A family to grow and responsibilities to share.”

  “Lightening your load considerably while you reap the benefits of my lifelong servitude, too, as my brother has,” she replied, with more than a touch of sarcasm in her tone than was wise.

  Her brother made good use of her skills in managing the estate and never gave her any real credit.

  “Isn’t that what all marriages do for the husband?” he asked, then drew closer by one step to hold out his hand to her, palm up. “A home and a garden to do with as you please, abundant funds to spoil yourself and the children, and a husband who will never demand your heart. You will be mistress of all and more deserving of the honor than anyone else I know. Besides, when your brother does marry, his wife might have other ideas on how the garden should look, and you likely won’t be consulted if you stay.”

  She winced, but knew she did not have to stay. She had her cottage to escape to before that happened. “That is true. A wife should take control of her husband’s household and gardens. That is why women of sense marry.”

  “And you are the most sensible woman I have ever met,” he promised.

  Chatham had made a good argument for marriage, but it surely couldn’t be so simple or easy to wed an earl who was destined to become a duke.

  Amelia had one remaining argument up her sleeve to deter him. An impediment that would dissuade any widower who claimed his children were dear to him. “What if your family dislike me? Will you regret the match and blame me?”

  “I expect you to do your best, and that is all any man can expect in a marriage. The children might dislike you in the beginning, but only until they get used to the idea of having a mother again.”

  “Lucy and Adam,” she murmured, citing the names of children she’d never seen. Chatham left them behind when he visited Upper Folly and barely spoke of them.

  How could she be a mother to strangers?

  She rubbed her arms briskly, feeling anxious. She’d had no warning, no hint, that Chatham was considering her worth. She was smudged with dirt, her hair likely a mess escaping its pins, and still Chatham wanted to marry her.

  She moved out from under the tree to soak up the warmth of the sun. Chatham followed, falling into step with her again and saying nothing as she considered his offer as they walked farther away from the manor.

  She would have to share his bed to have those children he had dangled before her nose.

  She risked a peek at him again now, considering his appeal as a potential lover. There was nothing about Chatham that repulsed her, or encouraged her, either. He was a fine-looking man, healthy and fit, and if her heart had not been broken by another, and she was younger, she might have been offended by his offer of marriage without any real affection between them.

  And yet she wasn’t.

  Most women expected to be swept off their feet. To hear declarations of undying love and devotion from their beau before marriage. To receive tokens of their affection, flowers and love notes. To be envied by other women and made a fuss over.

  But Chatham was no besotted beau.

  He proposed a practical arrangement with a spinster who had no trust in men or expectation of marriage in her future. He was not offering to wed her because she was a beauty. His late wife had been declared a diamond of the first water by the queen herself, and she had been much sought after before and during her marriage.

  Chatham did not ask for her hand to claim a large dowry either, because Amelia’s was adequate but hardly exceptional.

  He was choosing her because she was as unromantic as him and matched his immediate need for a spouse. And that was more honest than the man who’d broken Amelia’s heart.

  So far, Chatham matched Amelia’s requirements fairly well.

  But if he came to his senses on his way to London and never returned to keep his promise to marry her, Amelia would not be surprised or disappointed. She would never tell a soul what he’d failed to do but would likely never speak to him again.

  Not that he would care by that point.

  And if he didn’t come back, Amelia did have her little cottage to take up, with its neglected garden and two small bedchambers, where no one would ever break promises again. She would claim her inheritance and make all her own decisions and forget the whole wretched business of love and marriage.

  It was time to move on, one way or another. One day her brother would find the courage to ask for a lady’s hand in marriage. Leaving might even speed up the process.

  Chatham offered an alternative that was more appealing than endless solitude for the rest of her days.

  She glanced at Chatham. “When can I meet the children?”

  “After we marry.”

  “Why not before?”

  “They are visiting with my father at Stapleton Manor, and we will collect them on the way to your new home,” he told her, and then held out his hand again. “I am impressed with the garden you created here but cannot wait to see what you create for us in Devon.”

  Amelia held firm a moment longer, then put her hand in Chatham’s and shook on their deal, hoping she was not making a grave mistake by trusting him to keep a promise.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Whoa, boy,” Milo crooned, when his horse would have continued its plodding path toward the Stapleton stables, where feed, water, and a warm stall awaited the tired beast. He patted the animal fondly and dismounted on the drive before the brightly lit manor house, and glanced behind him down the empty, long drive.

  Milo had spent the whole of the day in the saddle, determined to reach Stapleton Manor before his new bride to share his good news with his father, the Duke of Stapleton. Thankfully, the afternoon weather had been perfect for riding…and judging by the sound of laughter, it appeared the night was perfect for his father to be hosting a party he’d not known about, as well.

  He wasn’t expected tonight and had no invitation to attend this party, so his arrival and news were bound to cause a great stir.

  Milo tossed the reins over the horse’s head and led him toward the front steps. At the base, he dropped them and forced a spring to his stride as he climbed flagstone steps to ring the bell beside the great oak doors.

  The sound would ring out loud enough to alert a servant to his arrival over the din of the party taking place. He stepped back, removed his hat, and raked a hand through his hair, nervous, but also glad to have arrived well before his bride. His news was a delicate matter to be discussed privately, but he was satisfied he’d made the right decision.

  Amelia was perfect for him. She would have nothing but honesty from him.

  It wasn’t long before the Stapleton butler, Mr. Brown, cracked open the large doors, his eyes wide with surprise in a wrinkled face at seeing Milo standing there.

  “My lord, we had no idea to expect you,” Brown whispered, gesturing wildly behind him. A footman immediately slipped outside and rushed to take up the reins of Milo’s tired horse to take him away.

  “Well, that was my intention, Brown,” Milo promised, smiling at the shorter man. “I wish to see my father.”

  “He will be delighted to see you, of course.” The butler hesitated. “But it has been a difficult week and…”

  Milo paused. “Nothing serious, I trust?”

  “No, no. We are currently overrun with guests, and other matters demand his attention.”

  Intrigued, Milo turned toward the tired horse, removed his saddle bag himself, and then flicked a coin to the footman. “Take him to the stables, if you please, and have him spoiled, sir,” Milo called. “We rode a long way today.”

  “Of course, my lord,” the footman promised, rushing away toward the stables with the horse in tow.

  Milo strode inside, following the butler into the hall. Stapleton Manor itself did not appear changed during his absence. Everything was exactly where he expected it to be, and he liked that. The new duchess, Gillian, had still not put her stamp on the estate or manor house by moving things around unnecessarily, it seemed. The entrance hall was exactly how he’d left it after the holiday greenery had been taken out.

  He handed off his hat and greatcoat to the butler and straightened his waist coat. “Please let my father know that I’ll be waiting to see him in his study.”

  “Of course, my lord. Would you care for refreshments while you wait?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I can find a decanter of something and a glass in the usual places,” he promised.

  The butler nodded and scurried off into the nearest servant staircase, while Milo walked down the dark hall to the study. There was a fire burning there, and he reached for the decanter of brandy kept behind the nearest bookshelf to ease the pain of his long ride.

  He filled a glass and took a sip, but he was anxious about how his news would be received. Father should be pleased, but he would be surprised by his choice of bride no doubt.

  He glanced around, noticing it was rather quiet.

  That hadn’t ever been the case when he had lived here as a young man. But at that time, his siblings were roaming the halls at all hours, creating chaos wherever they went, arguing with each other as they played silly games, and making a damn mess.

  His siblings had married and moved away now. Stapleton reminded him of his small estate in Devon, a place far enough away from everyone, where the children had nursed their grief…and Milo let his rage simmer for the last few years.

  The thought of his first marriage, and how it had ended, made his shoulders rise with renewed tension even now, four years later.

  He downed his drink, determined that he would think no more of those difficult days. Not that the marriage had been in trouble at first. He had, of course, been deliriously happy to be newlywed and in love with his beautiful bride.

  But the bloom of love and devotion had worn off for his wife quite quickly, and she’d betrayed him with other men soon after his heir was born—and had done so repeatedly in her last years, he’d later learned. He’d spent years trying to forget his first wife’s betrayal.

  But he would never forgive her. He couldn’t ever forget, either.

  A rush of steps alerted Milo to the return of the butler. He turned toward the door.

  “His Grace will see you now upstairs, unless you’d care to freshen up first,” the butler offered, glancing him over.

  “I…” he began, looked over his clothing and dusty boots, too. He didn’t look too bad, and Papa normally didn’t mind if he wasn’t freshly pressed when they met. But he did run a hand through his hair, striving to neaten it. After he spoke with his father, he’d request a servant to act as a valet, so he was properly turned out for when he saw his bride again. “I will see him now.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Brown gestured toward the main staircase. “His Grace begs you to keep your voice down.”

  Milo frowned at the request for lowered voices when there was a party going on. Was the duchess ill? Or was there something wrong with his new brother?

  Brown led him quickly and silently into the family wing and scratched at the duke’s door before pushing it open.

  Milo walked inside, suddenly struck by the unexpected thought that perhaps it was Papa who might be unwell.

  He was standing at the window, dressed in a banyan, barefoot, and his hair tousled horribly.

  “Father?”

  Papa hurriedly put his finger to his lips as he turned. In his arms was a small wriggling bundle, and by the duke’s gesture, the boy was fighting sleep.

  Milo tiptoed the rest of the way to his father and, because of the child, awkwardly embraced him with one arm. Then, when the boy saw him, patted his back with his other hand.

  His father looked beyond tired, and as Milo studied his face more closely, he noticed the presence of deep lines around his eyes, far more than there usually were when he laughed. The gray in his hair had increased, too.

  “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “It’s been a difficult few weeks,” the duke murmured, rocking his youngest son, but an indulgent smile played over his lips as he looked down on the infant. “I should never have been persuaded to host another gathering so soon after the last one.”

  The duke continued to regard his youngest with obvious affection and a rueful smile. Milo had seen that look of devotion many times before. They had all tried Papa’s patience at one time or another but still had him wrapped around their fingers.

  “Is the child unwell? Are my children in good health?” Milo asked anxiously. His pair had been staying upstairs in the nursery for the last weeks since Christmas, while he called on Reynolds then went to London to fetch the special license. He hoped they hadn’t been forgotten in the excitement of the party.

  The duke shook his head. “No, and yes. Your children missed you. However, this little one is ill-prepared to sleep when we expect him to and demands attention when we have other things to do.”

  “Oh.” Milo exhaled in relief as he looked upon his little brother, but he had no advice to offer his more experienced father. Papa had raised his first children, largely on his own after Mama had died. And Milo, caught up in the struggle to understand his late wife’s actions, had left his offspring in the hands of capable and less-emotional servants. But that was all about to change. “Where is Her Grace?”

  “At least she takes a nap when I tell her to,” his father grumbled. “It’s been difficult for both of us. The child suddenly will not sleep unless one of us holds him. Gillian has borne the brunt of it, but there’s only so much holding she can do.”

  “Can the servants not be more useful to you?”

  The duke shook his head. “We prefer not to involve the servants too much. They have their hands full enough looking after your offspring and our guests. I should have postponed, but Gillian would not hear of it.”

  Guilt slashed through him for leaving his children here at such a busy time. Had he known about the party, he would have made other arrangements. But when he’d left his children here, he’d been assured it was no imposition. Papa had wanted them to stay at Stapleton with him.

  Milo set his hand on his father’s shoulder and squeezed. “If it’s any consolation, they do grow out of this stage. Eventually.”

  “I long for that day to arrive quickly,” the duke said. “Hopefully, I’ll still be alive by then.”

  Milo blinked. “Father. What do you mean by that?”

  The child stirred and grumbled.

  “It means I am feeling my years tonight,” the duke answered, patting the boy’s rear. “This used to be easy for me, but things have changed, or perhaps I have.”

  Milo reached for his brother. “Here, give him to me. I remember walking Jessica about when she was like this.”

  The duke relinquished the child, exhaled in relief, and rolled his shoulders. “It’s good to have you back home, son.”

  “I’m glad to be home, too,” Milo promised, settling the child in his arms and rocking him. “Now, off to sleep with you, Charlie boy. I insist you obey your big brother and do as I say. Papa has guests to entertain and must dress appropriately. Dinner, port and cigars later, all of which you are far too young to partake in yet.”

  Father chuckled weakly, turned away before sinking into a chair by the fire with a groan. He rubbed his hands over his face. Milo paced the room, concerned about his father’s state, while he studied his brother’s chubby face.

  From what he could see, Charlie resembled the duchess slightly more than the duke, but at this young age, his features could still change a great deal more, and perhaps his hair might turn fair like they all once were.

  Charlie seemed darker but his hair was turning to curls. His small fist was clenched against his mouth, and a look of discomfort suddenly crossed his face.

  Milo adjusted him up onto his shoulder, drawing up his knees beneath him, and after a moment, the boy passed wind loudly.

  The duke looked around in surprise. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Milo smiled. “Because you haven’t slept properly for days, I expect. Have you eaten today, Father?”

  “Yes,” Papa promised, but then he squinted at Milo. “You came directly here from somewhere?”

  “Yes. I was at the estate of a friend. Reynolds.”

  “You rode from there?”

  He nodded. “My carriage will arrive soon.”

  Father subsided with a heavy sigh. “Well, your sisters will be overjoyed to know you haven’t abandoned your children. Rebecca was asking only yesterday what kept you away for so long.”

  “And Jessica, too, I suppose?”

  The duke sighed. “Jessica is preoccupied with offspring of her own these days.”

  “Of course. How is Whitfield taking to fatherhood?”

  “He looks astonished every time he holds his son. He never expected children of his own, I suspect.”

  Milo laughed softly. “No one thought the last bachelor in the district would ever wed. And to my sister? But he was always fondest of her. Once she decided it was love between them, he stood no chance of escape.”

  “I don’t believe he’s once complained about the loss of his bachelorhood,” the duke said with a laugh.

  Milo believed his sister’s marriage to his oldest friend—his father’s best friend—was a good match for Jessica, but it had caught the family by surprise. Gideon was not titled, but he was sensible and wealthy in his own right. A good man. The marriage also kept Jessica close to the ducal estate, and to Papa, which made it instantly acceptable to everyone.