How to Marry a Duke Without Really Trying Page 4

  Men were very odd.

  He must have been feeling very low and she’d cheered his spirits.

  Yes, that had to be it.

  She clasped her book to her chest and contemplated that last bit of their conversation. She nibbled the inside of her cheek. What else could it be?

  Shrugging at the strange mystery that was the adult male, she walked home, a smile on her face. For it had been lovely to see George again. And it had been lovely to do a good turn.

  She nearly laughed when she thought of his commentary on her future in the London Season.

  If there was one thing Eglantine knew, she would not be receiving hosts of offers. There would be no enormously wealthy man with a good title and a better brain. Not this year. Not unless the stars had gone completely mad. And she had a good feeling that when she looked up at the night sky tonight, the sparkling firmament would be exactly as it always had been.

  No, she’d be happy to follow in her mother’s footsteps, with a good husband who loved books, and a life spent furthering her causes. If such a person happened to be like her father, an earl, that would be well and good. But she doubted there was another such titled person in the world. She’d be happy with the rest.

  Grand men like the Duke of Harley were not for strange girls like her. And despite the way she’d felt the air fairly ripple about them as they’d stood side by side, she was glad of it.

  For she had a feeling that being a duchess was really a terrible lot of trouble.

  Chapter 5

  George felt exceptionally pleased as he sat at the inlaid mahogany Chippendale desk which had been his father’s. The large study, with windows that looked out over the sweeping gardens and rectangular reflecting pool embellished with Neptune riding his chariot out of the water, had seen few changes over the last few years. George had added a few new paintings. A Reynolds, a da Vinci and an El Greco. He’d chosen a new green leather chair but, really, little else had changed and he liked it very much, indeed.

  He loved looking at the tall cases of books, knowing that he could go to any of them and know exactly what books he would find. He had, of course, added to the collection but it was like being surrounded by his father’s old friends.

  And in this place where so much of the old duke remained, George felt like his father was with him through every tricky step, every tortured decision, every difficult transition that George made. Not only was it assuring, it was empowering.

  It was the perfect place to come after playing with his youngest sisters. After several hours in their company, as much as he adored them, he found he needed a few moments of silence.

  And now, as he pored over the long contract his solicitor had composed, his pleasure only increased. He was not the only one who would be pleased. Of that, he was certain.

  He smiled as he read the words again and again, his gaze trailing over the perfectly written ink.

  Yes, Eglantine would be most happy.

  He had given specific instructions and they had been heeded to the letter.

  It was essential she had a large amount of pin money. More pin money than any other duchess that he knew of. A woman like Eglantine needed some independence. She had her own house. And her widow’s portion was substantial. There was, of course, the rather trying and archaic financial awards for the bearing of children. Such things were the way of it for a duchess. For a son, she would receive twenty thousand pounds. For a daughter, though it galled him, ten. The ridiculousness of it was clear to him, but it was tradition. His own mother had been rewarded very handsomely at his birth. Though if one mentioned it to her, they would be met with an arched brow and the realization that it was best to keep such things to oneself.

  But all in all, it was the sort of contract which should make any lady veritably swoon with approval. No lady in England would receive a better one for the foreseeable future.

  Yes, it was perfect. He skimmed his fingertips over the thick paper. Eglantine would have no reason to ask for revisions, though if she did, he would certainly comply.

  He leaned back in his leather chair contented. More than contented. Free! At last, he was free from the nagging feeling that he had failed in his duty. This had solved his problem. She had. And he was overjoyed.

  In his desperate search for a mate, he had ruled out woman after woman with growing concern. Not because they had lacked the breeding or even personality, but because he’d known he wanted a lady that he felt at ease with. Surely, that was not too much to ask. It was really the only thing he wanted. Which, of course, was why it did not matter that Eglantine might not sparkle like the ladies everyone assumed would be his first choice. In his mind, sparkle often meant unintelligible and shallow.

  Eglantine was the perfect choice. For him.

  “You look most happy.”

  George sat up straight at the rich notes of his mother’s voice. “I am,” he replied, barely able to contain his good feeling.

  “May I ask why?” She smiled and came into the room, her sapphire gown swishing gently. “You’ve been most agitated as of late.”

  He gazed at his beautiful mother who eschewed matron’s caps and furbelows. She was as sleek as a racehorse and as sharp as a tack. He loved her more than he could ever say.

  And she did not pay him the tiresome deference that so many people did. He would always be her son first, then a duke, and he was so grateful for that.

  “Of course,” he said brightly. It was all he could do not to kick up his heels. Barely able to contain a grin, he said grandly, “I’m pleased to tell you, I have found a bride.”

  Her eyes widened. “Indeed?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, the secret bubbling up inside him. He could not wait to tell her but also was enjoying keeping her in suspense. “And I think you shall be most happy.”

  Her eyes shone with amusement as she stood before his desk. “I doubt you’d choose someone who would dismay me.”

  He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk, and bridged his fingers. “You’ll never guess.”

  His mother cocked her head to the side, her blonde hair catching the sunlight. “She is not on our list?”

  “No,” he said before he pressed his lips together and looked down at the contract.

  His mother took another step towards the desk and spotted the documents. Her gaze scanned the black ink and then her eyes snapped up to his. “Eglantine Trewstowe?”

  He nodded, quite pleased with himself.

  “I did not know you had been courting her,” his mother replied with a surprising degree of caution.

  “I haven’t,” he said brightly.

  His mother eyed him carefully then turned and fairly marched to the silver grog tray by the marble fireplace. She whipped the stopper out of the crystal brandy decanter and poured two large glasses into matching snifters. Dowager Duchess Barbara was one of several unique women he knew who adored brandy citing that weak wines were for weak wives and she needed something a bit stronger to match her person.

  As she made her way back to him, she did not seem to be as joyous as he.

  “You don’t seem pleased,” he said, weighing his enthusiasm against her reaction. It had never occurred to him she would not be happy.

  She extended a snifter to him. “I think Eglantine is marvelous.”

  He took the glass, unsure as to what she’d say, and not enjoying that. “And yet?”

  His mother sat, her back straight, her eyes sweeping over him. “Is she aware of your intent?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, but not bothered. What young lady wouldn’t be thrilled to be a duchess? And they were already friends.

  His mother’s brow, so smooth for a woman of her years, furrowed. “I see.”

  Taking a drink, he nodded, assuring himself. “I will visit her this afternoon and make an offer.”

  A laugh rolled from his mother’s throat and then she took a surprisingly deep drink of her brandy.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked. />
  “With Eglantine?” she queried before cupping her snifter between her bejeweled hands. “Not at all. But she is a romantic sort who prefers reading to parties. Have you considered that?”

  “Good,” he said firmly, determined to find no fault with his future bride. “We won’t have to worry about a scandal.”

  “Do you think she wants to be a duchess?” his mother asked quietly but determinedly. “Have you asked her?”

  He gaped at his mother. “Don’t all girls wish to be a duchess?”

  His mother’s lips twitched. “You’re determined, aren’t you?”

  How the devil could he answer that question? So he did not. And asked one of his own. “Do you disagree with my choice?”

  “Not at all,” she replied easily. “I’ve always adored Eglantine and would be delighted if she were to take up my coronet. But she is independent, strong minded, and I think she wishes a love match.”

  George nodded, happily brushing the concerns aside. For they weren’t concerns at all. “All good. Yes. Her independence and strong mind will only be to the advantage. I’m sure we shall love each other in time.”

  For a long moment, his mother sat. She looked down to her brandy then took a long breath. “Have you ever been in love, George?” his mother inquired.

  “Of course not,” he replied. His mother knew he wasn’t a monk. Dukes were not supposed to be monks. Dukes were supposed to be men of the world. And he’d been a soldier to boot. But love? No.

  “And that is the silliest question,” he added.

  “No, it is not,” she added quite seriously before she eyed the documents on the desk. She gestured to them with her brandy glass. “I have a feeling that she mightn’t be persuaded to a contractual marriage.”

  “I’ve been exceedingly generous,” he defended.

  His mother rolled her eyes. “I would expect nothing less.”

  “Yet, you do not offer felicitations?”

  His mother tilted her head to the side as she reminded, “You have not asked her and she has not agreed.”

  George raised his glass in salute. “But she will, Mama. What lady could say no?”

  His mother made no reply but lifted her glass in turn.

  He took a satisfactory drink and wondered why his mother was now smiling quite so strangely. Love her as he did, he still found he did not always understand her. Ladies could be most strange.

  His mother eyed him carefully then said, “Good luck, dear boy.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “But I don’t think I shall need it. As you say, she is a very intelligent young lady. Our marriage makes a good deal of sense.”

  “Whatever you say, George,” his mother replied.

  He considered the odd tone of her voice for a precarious moment then shrugged it off, deciding it was her relief that he should finally begin the process of getting an heir, one of the most important tasks a duke could undertake. Yes, that was all it was.

  Taking another drink of the rich, French alcohol, he assured himself that this was exactly as it should be. That meeting in the forest had not been by chance. Oh no. Eglantine Trewstowe had been presented to him at the perfect moment. It was almost as if the stars had looked down and handed him his destiny. Yes, it was perfection and he’d be a fool not to act upon it.

  And in this he was certain, he’d be married by Michaelmas. The country would look on in pleasure and relief that his line was assured. It would be another achievement in his quest to be the perfect duke. Eglantine would be the perfect duchess, too, with a little bit of training. And the very fact that he had achieved all this in such a short space of time when he had been looking for so long was quite wonderful. Yes, most wonderful, indeed.

  All he had to do now was present Eglantine the contract and then that would be one less concern. Yes. He was very pleased, indeed.

  Chapter 6

  Eglantine glanced at the blob of thick, clotted cream which had fallen upon her person with some frustration. The scone was still aloft in her hand and she sighed. She did quite like this particular gown of daffodil yellow muslin, shot through with butter yellow ribbons. It did marvelous things to her complexion.

  Shrugging, she carefully wiped at the spot with a linen napkin and made a note to eat with more care when reading. It didn’t matter that she had already made this note a dozen times. She was, if anything, an optimist.

  And following such optimism, she did hope her maid, Rose, would be able to take out the stain. Really, she needed to convince Papa to raise Rose’s wages this year since she was such trouble.

  But really, it was impossible to eat tidily when one was ensconced in The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling. The poor man really was so good hearted, but a total fool. How was it possible to get into so many scrapes? She often wondered if the author, Mr. Fielding, could have a very good grasp of what ladies did enjoy. For the heroine of the story, Sophia, seemed very foolish, indeed, to continue in her love of the quite outrageous Tom.

  She for one would never have tolerated the like.

  But all the characters’ antics did make for very good reading. Such good reading that she had not paid attention as the cream had slid off her scone and landed with a rather wet drop onto her lap.

  But really, this book had so much that one might wish for! Intrigue, adventure, comedy, heartbreak, lovers kept apart, and villainy!

  She bent her head, ready to read the latest trouble to befall the hero.

  The sudden knock at the door surprised her. For though they were not hermits, her parents hosted many intellectuals and artists, she did not expect a visitor today. And the butler never knocked if it was Harriet. Harriet always simply just entered. She might as well have been one of the myriad of her mother’s brood, they were so familiar.

  But knock the butler did. As the door opened, Hargrove’s eyes were quite large under his pomaded hair. As he slipped into the room, he grandly intoned, “The Duke of Harley.”

  Her scone, still betwixt her fingers, was held aloft as she gaped. And much to her annoyance, her heart did a devilish little dance at the idea of seeing George again so soon.

  Before she could even close her book, stand, put the scone down upon her porcelain plate, or smooth her much besmirched skirts, George had bolted into the sunlit room.

  No. George could never bolt. He strode in with a jolly arrogance than nearly made her laugh. He looked so at ease, so pleased, so confidant as if the world was his drawing room and all were guests in his presence wherever he went.

  Whatever it was, he looked like the cat with the cream.

  Perhaps, he had a horse that was going to win the Derby this year. Yes, that might do it. Or perhaps, a bill he’d backed would soon be brought to Parliament when it took up its session.

  But there was no mistaking that he looked quite chuffed with himself.

  My, he really was handsome. In the warm sunlight of the Morning Room, his dark hair shone ebony and his blue-green eyes fairly danced with some secret which amused him.

  His black coat clung to his shoulders in the most appealing of ways. His cream cravat was tied simply but had a jaunty set as if nothing could bother George.

  And she had a feeling that very little did. Or if it did, he quickly went about setting whatever it was to rights. There wasn’t a touch of angst to him.

  After placing Tom Jones down on the linen-covered table to wait, she gestured to one of the delicate, blue chairs beside her. “Would you care to sit? Have you come to visit my father?”

  Suddenly, George beamed and the mischievous, secretive grin only increased.

  “No, Eglantine, I’ve come to visit you. And I’d prefer to stand if you don’t mind.”

  “How very nice,” she said as she sat back down, arranging her skirts. “And I don’t mind. I’ve always thought you to be a rather vigorous person, not prone to sitting.”

  “You know me well,” he said, which for some strange reason caused him to smile. Again.

  “Do I?” she asked, sm
oothing her hands down her skirts, a ridiculous gesture as she’d just adjusted them. No. She refused to admit that George made her at all nervous. He was just George.

  “I believe so.”

  “How is such a thing possible, Your Grace?” she queried, batting her lashes at him dramatically. “We have not spent above fifteen minutes at a time in each other’s company in the last two years. You’re a most busy fellow.”

  “That is true,” he agreed, “but we were jolly friends before.”

  She laughed, thinking back. “And you’ve recollected it and wish more of the same?” She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Shall we search for toads then in the creek? I did see a splendid group of them the other day.”

  “Your turn of mind is delightful.”

  She eyed him. It was an odd thing to say. “Thank you.”

  He paced to the fireplace then paced back. “I must confess, the hunting of toads was not what I envisioned.”

  “Oh?” she asked, taking up her teacup as she studied his suddenly rather frenzied movement. Then she realized she was amiss. “Would you care for tea?”

  He shook his head as though something else besides the drinking of tea had absorbed his thoughts. “I am content.”

  It was a good thing for there was but an inch of it left in the pot.

  “You look as if you have received some very good news, or are you always in such buoyant humor these days? You’re also wearing a spot in the carpet.”

  He stopped, then laughed. “I have had a revelation.”

  “My goodness.” She placed her teacup back in its saucer. “That sounds most important.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  Eglantine picked up her cup again. “That we should be friends again?” she asked merrily, waggling her brows at him over her teacup. “I do like this idea very much. You can help me with my waltz which is not at all up to snuff. Mustn’t tread on any toes, you know.” She rounded her eyes and whispered, “Can you imagine the shame?”

  He laughed softly.

  “I say,” she suddenly said, feeling quite odd at this meeting. What was he about? “Do you know something I don’t?”