An Ideal Duchess by Evangeline Holland

mother made a moue of distaste. “There must be other options—”
                  “I have no choice,” He said bluntly. “As you said, I am the duke and maintaining Bledington is my responsibility.”
                  His mother looked thoughtful. “I needn’t ask if you’ve made a good impression on the girl. This new breed of American heiresses aren’t as easily led down the church aisle by a title. You need to court them.”
                  Bron snorted in ironic amusement at this—five years ago such a sentiment would have been unheard of so thick on the ground were grasping rich American girls out for a title. But he supposed it must be true, recalling with startling and unsettling clarity Miss Vandewater’s condescending remark about impoverished dukes after her money. He had reacted so badly, he reluctantly admitted, because it pricked his pride. He might be new to his title, but he was the Duke of Malvern, dammit, with the impressive and awe-inspiring Bledington Park as his primary seat. Artists, politicians, royals, and famed beauties passed through its doors, monarchs had slept in its beds, and verses composed to its magnificence. 
                  He glanced through the lime trees planted along Lord Bledington’s Walk to the glimpses of Bledington Park. Its magnificence was a little faded and threadbare, and the Townsends had declined in significance due to a succession of wastrels, but it was his home and his legacy, and he was duty-bound to save it. He smiled sardonically again; courting the American heiress who careened so precipitously into his life would be of little hardship. She was very beautiful and alluring and seemed inclined to like him despite his quick-tempered annoyance. His mother seemed to sense his shift in mood, and nodded, ever in one accord. He tipped his hat to her and they both nudged their horses to continue down the path.
     
    *          *          *
     
                  “Amanda, dear,” said her mother over breakfast, three weeks after the shooting party. “I can’t quite make out the name on this envelope? Do we know of any Melvins?”
                  Her mother held her spectacles up to her eyes as she stared at the thick vellum envelope in her hand.
                  Amanda paused in the act of spreading fresh orange marmalade on her English muffin (crumpets the English called them—how singular).
    “Melvins? I can’t think of any…” She gasped, nearly dropping her knife on the table. “Is it Malvern , perhaps?”
    “Oh, why yes,” Her mother brought the envelope closer. “M-a-l-v-e-r-n, it is spelled. Not M-e-l-v-i-n!”
                  “Still, do we know them? It isn’t quite correct to push an acquaintance on strangers,” Her mother lowered the letter into the pile of letters she designated as unimportant.
                  “Mother,” Amanda said slowly. “I think that is from the duke…”
                  “The duke?” Her mother’s reaction would be almost comical if Amanda hadn’t been so shaken. “My word, the Duke of Malvern?!”
                  “Neily, look!” Her mother waved the envelope at her father, who entered the dining room with her brothers, Lulu and Quintus.
                  “Let me have some breakfast, my love.” Her father said gruffly as he moved to the sideboard.
                  “When are we going home to America?” Quintus complained as he lined up beside their father with a large plate in his hand.
                  “Yes, Father,” Lulu sighed. “It’s deadly dull in this country. All everyone talks about are dresses and parties , and there are never any boys our age around.”
                  “They’re all at school—or in the nursery,” Amanda said to her brothers. “Where the two of you should