A Stranger at Castonbury(22)

The duke’s voice faltered, and Jamie remembered how Harry had said their father had become so fond of Alicia’s child. It almost made him wish the boy was his, so that duty would have been done.

He squeezed his father’s shoulder and stepped back. ‘There is time for all that later, Father. Let me see to more pressing matters first.’

‘More pressing?’ the duke sputtered. ‘What could be more pressing than seeing to the future of Castonbury?’

‘With Giles and Harry here and married, I hardly think the future is in doubt.’

‘You have seen what happens when the heir is gone, James! No, you must marry and have children now.’ The duke nodded firmly. ‘I didn’t want to see this wedding become so elaborate, but now I’m glad so many guests are coming. It will serve a most useful purpose.’

Jamie didn’t like the sound of that. He gave his father a suspicious frown. ‘What purpose is that?’

‘To get you a wife! A real wife this time, a suitable one. A proper duchess.’ His father nodded again. ‘Your mother’s cousin Lydia—you wouldn’t remember her, she died ages ago, but she was a pretty thing who married a viscount. Her daughter is coming to the wedding. I hear she’s a pretty girl herself, and just made her come-out last Season. She should do well enough.’

Jamie had to laugh. He had only been home a matter of hours and he was already being married off to some cousin he had never met. ‘Father...’

‘You will do your duty now, James!’ his father shouted in an echo of his old self.

‘Settle down, Father,’ James said in his quiet voice. ‘The girl isn’t even here yet, so we have time before I must propose. We will see what happens.’

The duke nodded, as if he was at least slightly mollified. ‘Very well. Just remember what I said. Duty!’

‘Of course. Duty.’

‘Now it grows late. You should go and dress for dinner, if you have any decent clothes after gallivanting around goodness knows where.’ The duke reached for a bell on the little table beside his chair and rang it vigorously. After a moment, Mrs Stratton reappeared.

‘Send Smithins to me,’ the duke demanded. ‘I want to dress for dinner.’

‘Your Grace?’ Mrs Stratton said. She gave Jamie a startled glance, and he shrugged. ‘You haven’t been downstairs to dinner in an age.’

‘Then it’s time that changed,’ the duke said. ‘My son is home now. Things here are going to be different. Starting with dinner.’

‘I should go and change myself,’ Jamie said, not wanting to be there for what appeared to be shaping into an argument. ‘If you will excuse me, Father.’

‘Just remember what I said,’ the duke shouted after Jamie as he left the room. ‘Duty!’

Jamie shook his head. Duty—it had followed him all his life, like a ghostly spectre. He had fled from it to Spain, but still it was always with him. And now it was all he had. A consolation as well as a burden.

He knew his father was right. He would have to marry. But not yet. He had an imposter wife to dispatch and money matters to organise before he could start to restore Castonbury.

And he had another wife to forget.

Jamie made his way to the head of the grand staircase and peered down over the carved banisters to the entrance hall. It was as grand and forbidding as he remembered, with its carved columns soaring up to the Marble Hall above and the vast empty fireplaces. The classical statues in their niches stared out blindly.

It was quiet for the moment, all the servants off preparing for dinner and his family in their rooms dressing for dinner.

Jamie braced his palm on the banister and remembered how, long ago, the dignified silence of the house had been broken by him and his siblings as they dashed across the floor, shouting at one another, driving Mrs Stratton and the starchy, proper butler, Lumsden, to distraction. If his father had his way, soon enough Jamie’s own children would be breaking free of the nursery to run through the house. But Jamie could not picture it. Not without Catalina.

Suddenly the solemn hush was broken when the front door burst open, letting in the light and wind of the dying day. A tall woman appeared there, the train of her dark green riding habit looped over her arm and a crop in her hand. Her boots rang out on the floor as she hurried towards the staircase, the sunset bright on her honey-coloured hair.

‘Late again,’ she muttered, dashing up the steps. ‘Bother it all!’