How to Marry a Duke Without Really Trying Page 6

“Mother.”

  She blinked innocently. “Yes, dear boy?”

  “You are not helping.” Nothing was going to help. That, he knew. For in the end, this had nothing to do with Eglantine’s sense or lack thereof. He’d been an idiot and he could not take it back.

  “Eglantine Trewstowe was never going to throw herself at you or thank her lucky stars she’d been offered a fortune. That’s not important to her.”

  “Then what the blazes is?” he demanded, taking another drink and then possibly ill-advised, he downed it. Truthfully, a part of him admired the fact that Eglantine couldn’t be seduced by a fortune and a coronet. He couldn’t think of any other woman who would not.

  “You already know that, George. You always did,” she said softly. “I do not know how you forgot.”

  He grumbled then forced himself to confess, “Because I so badly wished her to say yes.”

  His mother’s face softened. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  Looking away, he felt his heart pain. “I don’t have an heir.”

  “You have time.”

  “Do I?” he challenged, wishing to God they were not having this conversation. “I’m not a boy.”

  Sympathy warmed her usually witty gaze. “You have years yet to—”

  “You don’t know that,” he cut in, his voice deeper than he meant. “I could be dead tomorrow. Life promises nothing. We never thought father would die.”

  His mother blanched. “Oh, my boy, I should have known what this is about.”

  He straightened. He wasn’t going to discuss the why of all this with her. The fact that he could still feel his father’s body in his arms. . . “It’s about duty.”

  “Is it?” she asked softly. “If you say so.”

  “Well, I can’t waste time,” he said quickly. “Make a new list. I’ll practice my proposal so I don’t sound quite so much like it’s a foregone conclusion. Clearly, it’s not.”

  His mother shook her head, clearly trying to understand him. “You’ve already forgotten her then? Our Eglantine.”

  “She turned me down. What else is there to say?” he said flatly, even as he felt a sort of dread pooling in his stomach. He had the most terrible feeling he’d had a chance at happiness, then blithely shoved it off a cliff.

  “I don’t know, darling boy. But right now, I’m quite glad she did not say yes.” Her lips tightened. “Not if this is how you mean to behave.”

  His mother’s censure surprised him, but he could not relent. “I mean to be a good duke.”

  She nodded then put the brandy glass down upon the small Italian table beside her. “Then best you go about it. We leave for London in a few days in any case. The Season is upon us.”

  He groaned. Harriet was to be launched. That would take up far more time than he liked. . . and throw him into Eglantine’s path. Well, she didn’t wish to wed him? He’d respect her decision.

  After all. . . he grabbed the brandy decanter and poured another glass. He took a long swallow, ignoring the burning and surprising pain in his heart. . . what else could he do?

  Chapter 8

  Eglantine planted her fists on her hips and tried not to kick the delicate French chair beside her. It would do neither her nor the chair any good. How infuriating! How troublesome!

  How could George be such a featherbrained fellow? It wasn’t fair. For she liked him. Liked him, indeed! But she could not believe he had thought to engage her in what amounted to little more than a business endeavor.

  Why hadn’t he simply had his solicitor speak to her father’s solicitor! Or perhaps, he could have proposed the idea to her mother, as she’d heard such things were sometimes done.

  Ha! He might as well have interviewed her to be his housekeeper!

  For such was the arrangement he had in mind. She would bear his children, tend his houses, and ensure that the Harley Dukedom remained the jewel in the English crown.

  Bah!

  She paced, trying not to throw up her hands and begin cursing in a fashion most at odds with a fine young lady.

  The library, which she adored, was packed with books from floor to soaring ceiling. It was her refuge and it was rarely empty. She did not mind sharing it. For books were always better off with many friends to admire them.

  Still, at this moment, she was quite glad to be alone. Who could she confess this debacle to? Her heart fairly longed to shout it to the rooftops.

  Harriet? No. Her dear friend would never look at her own brother the same. Besides, she wasn’t prepared to tell Harry that she had considered the appealing possibility of kissing George.

  Such a thing was impossible to consider.

  Her friend would, no doubt, be both astounded and shocked.

  Friends’ brothers were off limits. Or so all great literature and seeming tradition did say.

  She could tell her mother, she supposed. But her mother really was too busy at present and the whole thing was ludicrous beyond words. No doubt, her mother would list the perfidy of men and the idiocy of the current system in which women became property of the men they married.

  “You are wearing a hole in the carpet.”

  She stopped at the sound of her father’s voice from the doorway.

  He stood, spectacles perched on his slightly crooked nose. He bore a book in hand and was peering at her as though she was positively daft.

  “You must have seen the most recent article on Mary Wollstonecraft,” he said as he entered. His gaze immediately went to the bookshelves as he sought out a tome.

  It was tempting to readily agree and simply say nothing, but she adored her father. He’d always been a good listener and, opposed to her mother, was quite calm when it came to such things.

  “I have not,” she confessed, “though I’m sure they were terrible to her. As always.”

  “Here now,” he said, as if he’d already dismissed the idea that she would share her indignation with him. “Have you gotten on with your French translation of the Rights of Women?”

  “I am almost finished, Father,” she replied. She loved the playwright Olympe de Gouges. But even her works at present could not alleviate her present distress.

  “I say, what is wrong?” her father asked, pulling a thick volume of Voltaire from the shelves.

  She bit her lower lip. This was such a coil. “The Duke of Harley visited.”

  “Oh?” Her father eyed his book like a favorite child. “Pleasant chap. I like his ideas.”

  “I do, too,” she replied before folding her arms under her breasts. “Usually.”

  “Did he say something foolish?” he asked, turning the pages, looking for a particular passage. “Men often do, my dear. Don’t think on it over long, or. . .” Her father pursed his lips. “Write him a letter instructing him how best to improve. Letters are quite good for those things.”

  She almost laughed, imagining it.

  Dear George,

  Do try not to be so arrogant, overbearing, cocksure, and passionless. . .

  “If it is politics,” he said, “you could always protest. I fancy a good protest, my dear, outside parliament. We can throw eggs at the coaches.”

  “Papa!” she gasped, marveling at how happily her father contemplated such an act. “This is not France.”

  “Thank God. I do hope we can avoid such bloody birth pains of justice here.”

  They had already lost the plot of her distress, but she did feel a good deal better just for having chatted with her father.

  Still, she wasn’t ready to let the afternoon’s event go yet.

  “Would you. . . would you marry without love?” she asked suddenly.

  At that, he clapped his book shut and tucked it carefully under his arm.

  He peered at her again. “That is a most interesting question. Has something prompted it?”

  “Possibly,” she hedged, her feet shuffling.

  He cocked his greying head to the side. “I shall not press, but my immediate answer is no. I would not.”

>   She sighed with relief. “Even if the advantage was great?”

  “What advantage is there in such a cold affair?” he asked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Your mother and I have always been in accord and lucky enough that we need not fear the financial reprisals of love matches for our children. I would not have you give yourself to a prince if you did not love him. Nor the bread maker. A great deal of resentment and recrimination. . . and loneliness lies down that road, dear daughter.”

  A wave of relief washed over her. She had not realized how she’d feared she’d made a decision he might not admire. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Good.” Her father smiled. “Now, that’s settled. How’d you like to visit the stranger’s gallery when we arrive in London?”

  She dropped her arms to her side, not sure she understood. “Parliament?”

  Her father’s smile turned mischievous. “Indeed.”

  She grinned. “I should like that a great deal.”

  “Marvelous,” her father announced. “We need a good show of the female sex. Too many dry old men run things. And I need all the cheering I can get. You see, I’m delivering a speech in favor of Mr. Wilberforce and the abolition of the slave trade in England and all our colonies. If the French have got one thing right, that’s it.”

  “I would be honored.”

  He smiled kindly then crossed to her. Gently, he kissed her brow. “It is I who is honored. Honored to have a kind, sensible, intelligent daughter who cannot be tempted with wealth or coronets or power. If one is to be tempted, after all, let it be by love.”

  Her heart warmed then.

  She had made the right decision. Even if, at this very moment, she did wonder if the Duke of Harley could have come to love her after all.

  But George? George would never have time to love her. Not in the way she hoped. For he was a grand duke. And as she’d always known, a grand duke was not for her. Never would be. And for the first time that afternoon, she had a very good idea. Whilst she might never be able to fully talk about the events of the day, she could most certainly write about them.

  Kissing her father’s cheek, she turned towards the desk and pulled out parchment and quill. Deftly, she cut the nib, all while her father sat quietly reading in the corner. She dipped the quill and prepared herself to tell the tale of a love that could never be.

  Chapter 9

  George sat in the teeming coffee house, trying to absorb the energy about him. The square room was packed tight with perhaps twenty tables, most full with gentlemen in black coats, cream cravats and hats beside them. They were either reading or discussing what they were reading in full voices.

  The rumble of coaches, carriages, and vendors from the street mixed with the voices to make one of the greatest symphonies of people the city knew.

  Pot boys in pristine aprons darted between the tables, clearing cups and bearing steaming pots of coffee to the eager customers.

  Today, the raucous room was in particularly fine excitement.

  There was a great deal of news going about regarding a particularly sensational highwayman and the lady he had robbed the night previous. Some reports insisted said highwayman was a gentleman in disguise. The lady who’d been his victim seemed most impressed by his manners and his manner.

  Given who said lady was, George was not surprised. The widow. . . was a high-spirited lady who loved a good bit of drama. And he couldn’t blame her. Her husband had been a terribly boring, crusty, old fellow who’d swilled port and game fowl at the rate of a High Flyer. If he’d been trapped in such a marriage, he likely would have had a very good time upon being freed, too.

  Still, he could not give credence to the idea that the highwayman in question was an actual gentleman. Some insisted he was even a lord.

  Balderdash.

  Whilst the news sheets might proclaim him a thief with honor, in all truth the description was but a pretty flowering of an actual villain. After all, how good or gentle could a highwayman be?

  It made for much gossip and the place was atitter with it. There was also the usual conversation about the developments of the war. A large group was insisting that Napoleon could not be stopped. Others argued that he was a stain that must be stamped out.

  At present, it did seem as if the general was unstoppable and he also agreed that Napoleon was a terror on Europe.

  Sometimes, he found it damned difficult to be in the halls of power and not the fields of battle.

  He’d felt effective with his men. Storming a field, racing against oncoming fire or cavalry felt immediate. Necessary. Here? In London, he was forced to play his hand in the politics of war. And seeing the death lists and the way in which Napoleon was ravaging Europe, it was damned hard, not to demand a full remaking of Horse Guards. It drove him half-mad the way any fool with a commission was given power. Money bought the command of men, no matter the aptitude of the commander.

  It was enough to enrage him. He was aware of the irony. Even he had benefitted from the system. After all, how else would an eight and ten-year-old heir to a dukedom have been made a leader of men if not through a purchased commission?

  He had been lucky, or unlucky, depending on the point of view to have an aptitude for war.

  So, it was that he was forced to read reports and curse his distance from the front lines.

  Still, it was arguable that he held a good deal of sway here. Even so, it was difficult to stomach.

  And while he had not thrown himself into dissipation upon his return from war as so many men he knew, he hadn’t exactly kept himself pure.

  The nights since his return to London had been filled with party after party, all held by various Whig leaders. The middle classes would be shocked at how their betters behaved. But when one had both money and power, what else was there than to revel in it? And revel they all did. It wasn’t exactly Versailles. . . but it wasn’t very far from it.

  After vast amounts of champagne, he’d still not found any sort of jolliness last night.

  He was not by nature a melancholy sort of person. No, he was a man who saw a problem and fixed it. But his most recent problem was not easily solved and, to be frank, he’d not quite rallied since Eglantine had turned him down. It surprised him.

  It had been his assumption, after the stunning rejection, that he would learn from his mistake and simply return to normal and resume the search. He’d been mistaken.

  The multitudes of ladies who had a desire to revel with him had approached and been deflected. He had no interest in them. Not a single one flamed his desire which was quite odd. He loved women.

  He didn’t always understand them. But he loved them and not as pieces with which to enhance himself.

  “You look like the dog’s breakfast,” Damian Avonby, Duke of Drake, drawled as he sat with his usual languid self-assurance.

  George snorted. “Long night, old boy.”

  “No longer than mine, though less sporting.” Drake lounged easily on the bench across from him and gave a wicked smile.

  “I’m in no mood for sport,” George replied with little humor.

  Drake cocked his head to the side. “Don’t tell me you’re in love.”

  George arched a brow, surprised by a dose of panic. “Why the devil would you say that?”

  “Men are not given to looking woebegone for any other reason than frustrations from the other sex.” Drake frowned. “You don’t have a mistress just now?”

  “I do not,” George scoffed. “You know, I’m not interested in the contractual business.”

  Drake nodded. “Very wise. Very wise. All those commitments. All those rules. How very tiring.”

  He, like most of his friends, was far happier in dalliances with widows.

  But there were many men who entered into a contractual relationship with a lady that had nothing to do with marriage, though in many ways was very similar.

  “The lady refuses to be caught?” Drake asked brightly as he waved to a pot boy, and ges
tured for coffee.

  How the devil could Drake be so perceptive? Was the man a seer? He had an uncanny way of simply knowing things. Sometimes, he did wonder if the man had a touch of the occult about him, what with his ability to see through people and their prevarications.

  Likely, Drake just had a very good understanding of humanity. . . which was why he didn’t admire it much.

  “There is no lady,” George said, praying he sounded disinterested enough that Drake would let the subject drop without further questions.

  Drake arched a brow. “No? Then your favorite horse has died?”

  “Drake,” George warned.

  He waggled his brows. “Harley.”

  George picked up his coffee and narrowed his gaze. “Why are you here?”

  “For the gossip, of course.” Drake pulled slightly at his cravat. “And the coffee. Glorious nectar of the gods.”

  And as if to confirm his feelings, the coffee arrived and Drake drank in the aroma, looking positively transported. His eyes fluttered shut with pleasure.

  George took a drink, annoyed that his own coffee had cooled slightly. “I’m dreading my sister’s first Season if you must know.”

  “Why?” Drake opened his eyes then took his first sip with a sigh. “Charming girl. No fool there.”

  “Of course not. She’s a Cornwall.”

  Drake laughed. “A veritable point. There isn’t a fool amongst you, is there?”

  George leaned back. “You’re damned lucky you can avoid the marriage mart.”

  Drake shuddered. “Horrible term, if accurate. I think when I wed, God help me, I shall send out for the goods and inspect them in the comfort of my home. None of this going shopping, so to speak. The sellers are so very forceful.”

  “The mamas?” he queried, knowing Drake was mocking the system. There was not a man alive who was as opposed to the commodification of women as Drake.

  Drake’s eyes widened. “Indeed.”

  “I understand their game,” George said woefully, “but good God, if a man isn’t careful, he’ll be overcome by a horde of lace wearing, plump mothers.”

  Drake’s lips twitched. “Tell me your true feelings.”