How to Marry a Duke Without Really Trying Page 2

  The black typeface on the first lush, ivory page beckoned her like a fairy urging one off the path into wild worlds. She let out a sigh of excitement. For she’d been waiting, with as much patience as it was possible to muster, for several minutes for the last of her several siblings to scamper off with the nanny to take them butterfly watching.

  Spring had finally come to their part of the world and as children often did, they’d become a veritable horde of excited voices and movements.

  One could scarce read the Times, let alone poetry, surrounded by such a gale of delightful enthusiasm.

  The rather self-important marmalade cat, Marlowe, who had a tremendous sense of dignity, had tucked himself underneath the table. He, too, had waited for the storm of jam-covered hands to recede, wise old fellow that he was.

  Eglantine smiled, contented, for what better could one hope for than a book, a cat, and toast with tea?

  One could hope for no better in her mind.

  The soft scent of lavender wafted in through the open windows, fluttering the lace curtains.

  This was paradise.

  Yes. Now, she could let her mind ramble off into romantic worlds she’d never known herself.

  “Eglantine!” Lady Trewstowe rushed into the room, her cap ribbons fluttering about her beautiful, if slightly harried face. “Have you seen the Times? For the life of me, I cannot locate it.”

  With an inward groan as paradise vanished in a puff with her mother’s entrance, Eglantine shut her book quickly and chewed her toast. Eyeing her determined mother, she thought quickly.

  Without a doubt, her mother was going to be most displeased when she learned what had become of the respected news sheet. Her mother devoured the Times every morning. Upon finishing the reading of it, she would then sit down to write every member of the House of Lords which had put her ribbons in a twist. It was an admirable feat her mother performed, and Eglantine had no wish to be the bearer of bad news. But really there was no getting around it. Still, she wasn’t about to admit that the news sheet had been lost to an overturned pot of tea. Both a scandal to the tea and the turning over of said pot. Marabelle, the youngest, had been leading an imaginary military parade when the incident had occurred. Incidents were always wont to occur with so many children about. It was a veritable way of life.

  Even so, the news sheet and books were sacred in their house.

  “I do think Chaucer snatched it,” Eglantine said with as much vigor as she could manage before she took another bite of rich toast. Hoping her mastication would give her time to formulate her next reply, the bite was far bigger than it should have been.

  Her mother let out a cry of dismay. “He shall have it chewed to shreds! And I have yet to read it.”

  Eglantine widened her eyes. Swallowing, she managed to sound truly appalled. “How terrible, Mama.”

  Her mother rushed across the room, sifting through a stack of books on the sideboard.

  Some homes kept their books secluded in the library. Not the Trewstowes.

  Oh no. In the Trewstowes’ home, books, pamphlets and news sheets were everywhere. They would never think to have books in only one room of the house. Such a thing seemed barbaric. For surely, one should be surrounded by the written word and the voices of the ages wherever one was.

  The servants had long ago learned to lift or dust around the collection of literary material that her mother and father collected over the years which had been added to the already substantial number of books that had been her grandfather’s.

  Really, it was quite marvelous. For her parents grew quite despondent in an overly tidy house. As far back as she could remember, they had always been surrounded by stacks of correspondence and treatise. There was a sort of mad, eclectic feel to their home that she felt might rival the lost library of Alexandria.

  Now, some husbands would have been most alarmed by their wives’ obsession with the latest news.

  But not Eglantine’s papa. When he could manage to lift his gaze from his work, he beamed whenever he laid eyes upon his learned and passionate wife. They were of an accord in their view of the world. It was something that had kept them deeply in love after so many children and so many years together.

  Eglantine cleared her throat, hoping to turn her mother’s mind away from the loss. “Mama, perhaps today you could—”

  “I must find it,” her mother cut in, undaunted. “There is to be a piece on the Earl of Catesby and his ludicrous thoughts on female education.”

  Eglantine winced and she put down her toast. Perhaps they should have attempted to dry the Times on the clothesline but the ink had run rather a lot. Still, her mother’s work was particularly important given the position of ladies in society or their lack thereof.

  At last, Eglantine brightened. “Mama, shall we not send round to Harley House? I’m sure they would be most happy to lend you their copy?”

  Her mother beamed. “I do love my intelligent daughter. An excellent idea. And I shall send the footman posthaste.”

  Usually, Eglantine would have volunteered to go herself. It was not three miles, a very pleasant walk at any time of the year. But if she did go, there would be the risk of losing herself in conversation with her dear friend, Harriet, sister of George, the present Duke of Harley. And then her mother would be wringing her hands at the door, awaiting her news. No. She would allow Fredrick to do it. Besides, she was most eager to read her book.

  She paused. She’d seen one headline that she knew was going to have her mother pacing for hours, formulating an adequate reply to the government.

  Eglantine had eyed Napoleon’s foray into Europe with great trepidation. Her mother was quite a reasonable person, except regarding the French.

  For truthfully, her mother seemed certain that, at any moment, the French would cross the Channel and invade.

  Eglantine supposed such a reaction was not without cause, but there were days in which she did not have to constantly be reminded of the world’s current and ongoing turmoil.

  Her mother sighed but then gave a nod. “It is no matter. I have a speech to write in any case while I await its arrival.”

  Eglantine hid her own large dose of relief.

  “You can help me,” her mother said brightly, clapping her hands together. “You are so excellent with words, my dear.”

  Eglantine jumped out of her chair. “Alas, I promised to help find butterflies.”

  “Well, if you must.” Her mother peered at the window as if it was the first time she had contemplated the outdoors that morning or perhaps all spring. “It is glorious outside.”

  Eglantine nodded, popped the last bit of toast in her mouth, and pushed her chair back.

  Marlowe popped up and darted out from under the linen with a protesting meow.

  Eglantine tucked her book in her arm and made ready to escape.

  She did love her mother’s passion, but if her mother had her way, Eglantine would be her personal secretary. Her dear mother was a most disorganized person. It wasn’t that she didn’t support her mother or passionately believe in those causes, too, but she wasn’t quite ready to lose herself in them. Not yet.

  She’d also never have an opportunity to read anything by what her mother referred to as that man.

  Hiding the title in her skirts, Eglantine kissed her mama’s cheek then rushed into the hall and hurried for the woodland.

  Much to her good luck, which had to be a good omen about the content of her book, the children were nowhere to be seen, No doubt, they had gone off to one of the wildflower-strewn fields to find the winged bugs.

  Eglantine grinned, feeling quite wild as she strode into the woodland. In fact, she all but skipped. It was only the hints of decorum which kept her at a ladylike pace.

  Bluebells bobbed beneath the trees, snuggled in the green undergrowth.

  Ah, yes. This was a far better place to read Byron.

  She tilted her face, allowing the soft breeze to tickle her cheeks and she drank in the blessed
quiet of forest sounds. Sunlight spilled through the intertwined branches of ancient oaks, leaving rays of yellow to pool upon the ground.

  She did love children. But she was often amazed that her mother had so many of them, given how busy she was with her work.

  So, Eglantine decided to choose her reading spot most carefully, lest she be interrupted. Again.

  Yes, a good, long walk to the lake which bordered her father’s land with the Duke of Harley’s seat would be a perfect spot.

  She lengthened her stride to as long as her skirts would allow over the forest floor, loving the scent of verdant earth. It had rained hours before and the scent of earth and trees surrounded her. It was divine.

  With a grin of anticipation, she came upon the lake which was particularly still at present. She picked a tree to lean against and sat upon the soft earth.

  The willow’s bows danced about her, doing a good job of shading her from the rising sun yet giving her a view of the lake.

  It was heaven. If one could not have a cat and tea with toast, surely a book read under the branches of a weeping willow was the next best thing.

  She crossed her booted ankles, smoothing her striped pink skirts down her legs and leaned back against the tree, enjoying the feel of the bark against her back. Then she gave a surreptitious look about. On days like this, she missed being but a girl. For as a child, she had run wild. She and the neighboring family, that of the Harley dukedom, had always been in each other’s pockets. Their passions had ranged from tree climbing to toad collecting and, of course, the ever delightful thing of keeping childhood confidences.

  It seemed as if those days had long passed, though she was still very dear friends with Harriet, the eldest daughter. Once. . . she’d know the present Duke of Harley as she’d known her own hand. But they had drifted apart as soon as he had been put to the task of being a lord. While she saw him and she still dared to call him friend, they were no longer close. They did not gallop across fields, stare at butterflies or lay in the tall grass and watch the stars shine. No, he had gone off to become a man and now was one of the most powerful men in the country. She had dived into books and readied herself for the mad whirl of her first Season. His fate seemed far more eventful than hers, though she had no complaints.

  Except she was not looking forward to her launch.

  If she was quite honest, she doubted it would go particularly well. She did have the terrible habit of talking about books and politics, the only things she really understood. Such commentary was usually met with either horror or incomprehension. Sometimes both.

  Really, so many of the people she was supposed to circulate with had very little conversation.

  She frowned at her book, dismayed by the turn of her thoughts. She did not think she would end an old maid, but nor did she think she would make a good match upon her launching onto the marriage mart.

  Eglantine gave a little shake of her head. She would not allow herself to be despondent. Surely, her passionate suitor and equal in love of the esoteric was out there somewhere. She just had to wait for him to stumble into a ball one day and ask her to dance.

  He would be a younger son. A scholar, no doubt. They’d fall madly in love, discussing Coleridge, and be united in their love of literature. They’d read the latest poetry to each other by candlelight.

  She smiled. Then feeling overcome by the desire to be free as she’d once been, she snuck another glance about her. When she was certain that she was, indeed, alone in the large wood, she reached down and slipped off her walking shoes and peeled her cream-colored silk from her legs.

  Wriggling her toes, she all but giggled as she slipped them into the cool grass and watched the bluebells dance over her pale feet. It felt so marvelous! So decadent. And with that decidedly naughty feeling, she adjusted her book on her lap, flipped the newly-bound cover open, and pulled the page cutter from the back of the book. Again.

  Wielding it as a master swordsman does a blade, she cut the first page open and nearly swooned over the very first stanza. This was bliss. Yes, there was more to life than balls, and dance cards, and answers and questions that did not tax one’s thinking at all. Here, with Byron and the bluebells, she knew life was one remarkable place and one day. . . one day, she would be swept up in it. And when that time came, she would be ready to enjoy every moment of it.

  Chapter 3

  Lord George John William Cornwall, Duke of Harley, strode through the woodland, grumbling. He was, in general, quite a good-spirited fellow. He loved the trees, the birds, the forest flowers, the foxes and the other creatures that were protected on his vast lands. The park renewed him and gave him much joy. Little got him down, for what did he have to lament about in this life?

  Nothing.

  No, he came from a powerful dynasty with parents who had loved him very much and several sisters he adored. He was a superb parliamentarian, if he did say so himself, and he walked the halls of power as though it was second nature. . . because it was.

  His estates were in superb condition. His tenants lived in good, clean houses. There were schools for their children. And he had a doctor at every estate to ensure the wellbeing of every person under his care.

  He, too, was in excellent health and the envy of his peers.

  He’d left war a much harder man, it was true. He’d seen the vagaries of men who would blow each other to ribbons for power. And he’d further seen the way the country people of Europe were considered little better than cattle in the games of war played by great men.

  Yes, it was imperative that France and, thus, Napoleon be stopped. The wars had gone on for far too long.

  There was still so much to be done in the cessation of the bloody Reign of Terror that, in many ways, had never ended for the people of France.

  But beyond the practical politics of being responsible for the country and its guidance, he also had a duty to his tenants. A duty he had yet to fulfill.

  He scowled, bent and picked up a long stick and shook it satisfactorily. And then he was quite annoyed with himself, for it felt like the action of an old man. He dropped it and charged on, determined that his long walk would unravel the problem in his recalcitrant, though usually clear brain.

  There was only one sticking point in his essentially perfect existence.

  He had no brothers.

  He had no male cousins, shocking though it seemed.

  And his father had died at a remarkably young five and forty years of age.

  George was already well past the age that his father had been when he’d married and sired him. It was the one area of his duty in which George was truly remiss. He had not married. He had not sired an heir.

  It was a gaping hole in an otherwise perfect dukedom.

  One would have thought that marriage and the getting of an heir would be quite simple to do for a man such as himself. He was good tempered, pleasant to look upon, immensely wealthy. . . and, frankly, one of the most powerful men in England and, thus, the world.

  He had attempted to have his mother and his man of business sort out the best possible candidates and then choose amongst them. They had tried, making a great effort over several weeks to sort through the hundreds of eligible young ladies that might make a suitable duchess. It had been an utter failure.

  Obviously, there was something truly wrong with his person. For, surely, it was no difficult thing to choose a lady of good breeding, manners, looks, and go about the business of ensuring the Harley line.

  But alas, he had not been able to bring himself to be quite cold enough to marry any of the suggested ladies. He had hoped to at least like and understand the woman who would become his wife.

  Every woman he had considered, curtsied, and treated him as if he were some sort of Grecian god to please. It had been most demoralizing. He was not interested in being worshipped. One could not have meaningful or equable conversation with an acolyte.

  Harley huffed out a frustrated breath.

  His parents had been madly
in love, to the happiness and great embarrassment of their children. George did not think he should ever be so lucky as to find such a match. In his experience of the ton, there was but one marriage of that kind in a thousand. But surely, he might not feel a stranger with his wife or that she was terrified of displeasing him at every turn. Was that too much to hope for?

  Perhaps it was.

  As he strode through the forest that had been preserved by his and the Trewstowe family for generations, he wondered how he was going to face another Season and, this, his sister’s first. If he had to dance with another sheep-brained miss who looked up wide-eyed, braying about the weather, he was going to gouge his eyes out with a dance card.

  Just as he was about to make a turn and head up towards the stream that ran down from the hills to the west, he spotted a pair of slender feet nestled amidst the carpet of bluebells.

  He stopped short, his breath seizing in his chest at the very sight. One did not usually come upon delicate, naked feet on one’s constitutional. One did not usually have such a reaction either.

  The forest seemed to grow strangely quiet as he took in the sight.

  Carefully, he surveyed the curve of those arches, the turn of the ankle and the way the pink striped skirts skimmed the woman’s calves.

  His breath slowed as he took in the view. It was hardly shocking, given his experience. But there was something about a woman, her feet bared, in the forest which did something quite primal to him. It brought to mind the Bacchanalian decadence of the days when proper women would go into the woods and dance wild beneath the moon.

  Slowly, he walked forward. Though it was tempting to stay hidden, he hardly thought that the honorable thing to do. Still, he wasn’t quite ready to eschew the moment.

  So, as his exceptionally-made boots continued on the earthen floor, he was silent in his study of her.

  The skirts denoted a woman with funds. And as he curved around the sweeping branches of the willow, he realized that whoever was sitting there was reading a book.