Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  “The day is a trifle warm,” the woman murmured. “A cool pint would appeal to anybody.”

  Clonmere abruptly became thirsty for a tall pint of summer ale, though the day was only warm by English standards.

  “Isaacs,” Dersham called, “walk the boys to Amherst’s mews and see them settled.”

  “Show him the way,” Amherst said to his tiger. “Try to put the phaeton up without letting the whole world see that wheel.”

  Forelocks were tugged, teams led off, and if Clonmere hadn’t been staring directly at her, he would have missed the tall woman melting back into the passing foot traffic.

  “Not so fast,” he said, planting himself in her path.

  She nipped around him as neatly as water sluices past a boulder in a stream bed. “Have we been introduced, sir?” Her tone made it clear she hoped not.

  “That was magnificent. You governessed a pair of grown men into exercising sense. I’ve never seen the like.”

  Her steps slowed. “Magnificent?” Her green eyes were wary, also fringed with long, dark lashes.

  “They will be fast friends for life because of how you handled that. Neither will go to Tatt’s without the other, they’ll swap conveyances when needs must, and their grooms will become drinking companions.”

  “All that from a few words?”

  Her smile was soft and a touch shy. Ferns bending over a woodland path made the way seem more inviting, and her smile had the same quality—a little mysterious, very quiet, entirely beautiful.

  “Instead of a drawn cork, Dersham got a budding friendship. Might I walk you to your destination?” Annis would despair of him. He was to be in the park, parading himself fashionably, and catching a first glimpse of Falmouth’s blossoms. The groom could see to his horse, but Annis would not keep silent about this deviation from strategy.

  “I’m not on foot,” the woman said. “The day was too pretty to remain cooped up in a sewing room all afternoon, so I’ve tended to some errands. Thank you for not interfering. Men will accept guidance from a woman that they’d never allow from another man.”

  She was no seamstress, if she had her own conveyance, and her clothes were first quality for all they were not the latest fashions.

  “That’s your mare?” Clonmere asked, nodding at a plain gig by the side of the road.

  A grim-faced older woman sat staring straight ahead on the bench, a reticule clutched in her lap with both hands. A groom held the horse’s bridle, though that precaution was unneeded. The beast was serviceable—solidly muscled, good size, lovely calm eye—but had a coarse hair coat and the start of feathers about its sizeable feet.

  Not a horse chosen to make an impression, but rather, a creature suited to its task.

  “That is my Rosinante,” the woman said. “She is getting on, but likes the occasional ramble about Town on a fine day.”

  The horse’s name was a literary allusion to Don Quixote, a half-mad romantic figure in an all-mad, unromantic world.

  The lady repositioned her hat again, tugged up her gloves, and sketched a curtsey. “I’ll wish you good day, sir, and thank you for exercising restraint when restraint was needed.”

  Before Clonmere could reciprocate with a bow, the lady was off across the street. She had a purposeful walk, one that set her hems swishing and covered ground at a good clip.

  That is my duchess.

  The notion was outlandish, and yet, it arrived in Clonmere’s brain accompanied by a warmth in his chest, a sense of joy and hope he hadn’t felt in ages. Perhaps what his mind was telling him was that he needed a woman like the tall lady. She was attractive because of her air of competence, her common sense, and her brisk approach to a situation others had been hoping would escalate to violence.

  Her ascent to the bench was nimble, her driving posture regal. When she tooled past Clonmere, he lifted his hat and offered her the bow she was due. She made no sign that she’d seen him. Her gaze was fixed on the traffic—and in London on a fine day, there was always traffic.

  And yet, as the mare trotted past, the lady was smiling.

  So was Clonmere.

  “I hope a journalist was present among the mob,” Hattie said. “When not one but three grown men listen to common sense from a woman, all of London should hear the tale.”

  Cousin Hattie was probably not a first cousin. She was a relation to the late Countess of Falmouth, and while Hattie was every bit as kind as the countess had been, she resembled a bulldog more than a fairy godmother.

  “Having younger siblings forces one to develop skills,” Iris replied, steering the mare in the direction of the park. “By themselves, most men are fairly biddable and pleasant, but put them together, and common sense flees the scene. The big fellow was ready to start knocking heads.” A big, well-dressed gentleman who’d hopped off his steed as nimbly as a panther.

  Iris might have dismissed him as just another gawker but for two things. First, his proportions made him tall enough to see over the crowd and muscular enough that even street rabble gave way for him. He could have been in hostler’s attire, and they would have shown him the same respect.

  But he hadn’t been wearing hostler’s attire. He’d been exquisitely turned out for riding, boots gleaming, cravat pinned in elegant folds, gloves tight across big hands.

  And he filled out his breeches with the sort of muscle that didn’t come from standing up for a few waltzes. His thighs had shifted and strained the doeskin, announcing to any audacious enough to look that he rode often and well.

  And probably not only horses.

  Iris turned the mare onto Park Lane. I ought not to think such things.

  Though why shouldn’t a spinster notice a fine specimen of manhood when he was also willing to leave a situation that required a woman’s touch in a woman’s hands?

  The second aspect of the gentleman Iris had noticed was the sound of his walk. His bootheels had struck the cobbles loudly enough to warn of his approach, and to reinforce the perception of his sheer size. Had the fidgety blacks calmed because Iris had pet one of them, or because a presence of such clear authority waited not three yards from the arguing parties?

  “Do you expect to be home before your sisters?” Hattie asked. “On such a fine day, the park will be thronged.”

  “Exactly, we’ll creep along, and if Clonmere is among the mob, I’ll have a chance to take his measure. One can tell a great deal by the company a man keeps and the cattle in his mews.”

  “You sound like Peter.”

  “Peter sounds like me. The earl says our heir is not doing well at university.”

  “Peter misses his siblings, or perhaps he got wind that his lordship has hatched a mad scheme to marry one of you to a duke.”

  Iris pretended to focus on cutting across the intersection to enter the park, but in truth, Hattie’s words hurt. The pain was small, but times a thousand, such pains tempted Iris to self-pity.

  “Not one of us, Hattie. One of his other daughters, one of the girls, though they ceased to be girls years ago. I am to help my sisters drag Clonmore to the altar if I have to pop out of a linen closet at an inopportune moment to do it.”

  The Fashionable Hour had not yet begun, and yet there was traffic aplenty beneath the maples. Rosie knew her way, and the outing should have been pleasant.

  “You might consider dragging Clonmere into that linen closet,” Hattie muttered. Over the clatter of wheels and hooves, the groom on the back perch wouldn’t hear her, not that he’d peach. Falmouth’s staff took his coin, but their loyalty had been to the late countess. Because she had championed Iris’s situation, the staff was now loyal to Iris.

  “I barely fit into some linen closets myself,” Iris replied. “I’ve heard the duke is not petite.”

  Hattie’s silence reproved, and she was not by nature reserved with her opinions.

  “I’m not spying on him,” Iris said. “I’ve never laid eyes on the man, but Papa has said that coaxing the duke into marriage with one of my sis
ters is my responsibility. He’ll banish me to Devonshire if I fail.”

  “And you, daft creature, will be happy to go. I’d go with you, but then, who will be chaperone and companion to the featherbrains?”

  Iris drew the mare to a halt to allow another carriage to pull forward from the verge. “They are not featherbrains, Cousin. My sisters are exactly what they’ve been trained to be—pleasant, pretty, and marriageable. If they’d been taught some math, some logic, some literature…”

  Iris had a pair of maternal uncles who’d shamed the earl into providing her a decent education. The uncles were gone, and they too had left her a tidy sum. The more valuable legacy was the ability to read a ledger, manage a budget, discuss a poem, and comprehend political issues.

  “Your sisters will do well enough,” Hattie said. “The twins will likely marry into the same family, and Lily will make a fine hostess for some younger son.”

  Rosie could move no faster than a walk, because somewhere up the line, somebody had decided that the park could be enjoyed at only a placid pace. Iris was anxious to return home before her sisters, but she was also anxious to catch a glimpse of the duke.

  “You think Clonmere will disregard his father’s promise?” That would simplify matters, though it would leave all three sisters devastated and the earl furious.

  “He’s said he will honor the letter, and a man’s word is his bond, if he’s a gentleman.”

  A title was no guarantee of gentlemanly deportment, witness Falmouth’s indifferent parenting of Iris herself.

  “Holly is my choice for the duke,” Iris said. “She’s overshadowed by the other two, smarter than she lets on, and she’d be kind to her siblings if she became a duchess.”

  Iris nodded to a pair of dandies on horseback. The one on the right—Horatius Threadneedle—looked like he was interested in a chat, which would not do. Mr. Threadneedle was an agreeable fellow of modest tastes but Iris had a duke to inspect.

  “Clonmere might not be here,” Hattie said. “Or if he is on parade, we won’t be able to find him in this crush because—”

  She fell silent while a blond young lady driving a phaeton came up on Iris’s shoulder. The way was narrow, the young woman was flirting madly with the man laughing beside her on the bench. Rosie switched her tail at the matched chestnuts pulling the phaeton, and then…

  Both vehicles lurched to a stop.

  “Oh, dear,” the blond said. “You seem to have locked wheels with us.”

  “Give me the reins, darling,” the gentleman drawled, though his on-side leader had started to prop in the traces.

  A pang of sympathy for Mr. Amherst tempted Iris to shout, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” but a lady did not shout.

  “Perhaps if I back up?” Iris suggested, asking the same of Rosie.

  “No dratted luck,” the gentleman said. “Best get down ladies. Lightning and Thunder aren’t the steadiest pair.”

  Except getting down was impossible. To Iris’s left, the phaeton, jiggling and jouncing as the horses grew increasingly nervous, prevented her escape. On Hattie’s side of the carriage, a closed coach had stopped to watch the goings on.

  “I’m not giving up the reins just because she couldn’t steer her nag,” the blond said, tossing her curls.

  “God spare me,” Hattie muttered, as Rosie whisked her tail twice.

  The blond left off batting her eyelashes at her companion and smiled over the back of her vehicle.

  “Your Grace, a pleasure to see you.”

  “Today is the day for carriage mishaps, apparently,” said a tall gentleman… the same tall gentleman. He was off his horse and surveying the entangled wheels from behind. “Berringer, this is your fault. Never let a novice drive in traffic, and certainly don’t give her the ribbons when you’ve a half-wild team put to.”

  My sentiments exactly. “Sir, if you could…” Except the blond had called him Your Grace. “I beg your pardon. Your Grace, if you could assist my companion down, I’d appreciate it.”

  The duke was still scowling at the wheels, one sturdy, one delicate. He paused with one glove stuffed in his pocket, the other in hand and turned a pair of cerulean blue eyes on Iris.

  “You have a habit of turning up in the most interesting locations, Miss.”

  “That’s Lady Iris,” Hattie said. “Your Grace.”

  “Lady Iris.” The duke bowed. “John Coachman!” he called to the closed conveyance on Iris’s right, “Walk on or I’ll call out the gawking nitwit who employs you. Berringer, take the damned reins. You there,”—this was directed at Iris’s groom—“get hold of Berringer’s cattle and explain the rules of gentlemanly deportment to them or prepare to be trampled.”

  The groom went grinning to his task, Berringer appropriated the reins from the now pouting blond, and the chestnuts ceased hopping about.

  “Sit tight, ladies,” the duke said, stuffing the second glove into a pocket. “This will only take a moment.”

  Iris was used to men giving orders. Young Peter had come early to the habit, though she ensured his puerile commands were never directed at his sisters. Falmouth, however, was forever barking at the servants and ordering Iris about.

  She was not used to men solving problems. Not used to them sorting out cause and effect, studying a situation, and literally getting their hands dirty to provide aid.

  The duke grasped the back of Iris’s gig, bent at the knees, and hoisted the entire vehicle several inches.

  “If you’ll have your mare step forward,” he said, as if he was holding a wine glass instead of half a carriage.

  “Rosie.” The mare assayed two steps, enough to free the wheels from each other. She stood like a saint thereafter, while Iris’s groom led the chestnuts onto the verge.

  “Our thanks, Clonmere!” Berringer called, trotting off. The blond clung to his arm, tittering about the stupid beasts, and why was it always a duke who got to play the hero.

  “Not a duke,” Hattie said. “A gentleman.”

  “A gentleman would not presume to introduce himself,” the duke said… the Duke of Clonmere. “But fate seems determined that we further our acquaintance. Clonmere, at your service.”

  His smile was everything a gentleman’s smile should be and too often wasn’t. Friendly, intelligent, genuine without hinting at anything impolite. A touch of mischief in his eyes, a hint of merriment about his mouth, all bounded with good manners and tied up with adult self-possession.

  Oh, damn. Oh, double drat and perdition. He was wonderful, and he was Clonmere, and he’d make the best brother-in-law ever. He’d be patient with Holly’s shyness, kind about Hyacinth’s insecurities, and tolerant of Lily’s anxieties.

  “I am Lady Iris Fallon, and this is my cousin, Miss Harriet Fallon. Thank you for your assistance, Your Grace.”

  The smile faded to a look of puzzlement. “You are Falmouth’s daughter? I don’t recall an Iris among the bunch.”

  Nobody did. “Perhaps you’d like to return to your horse. I’d rather not draw any more attention.”

  “His Grace can escort us,” Hattie said, the traitor. “Lest we come upon any more incompetent whips.”

  “I’m nominally escorting my sister, but she is off amid a troupe of her friends, where I dare not venture. I’d be happy to ride along with you.”

  Go away, oh, please, go away. Iris needed time—years perhaps—to sort out her feelings. She should be pleased that he was sensible, attractive, healthy, and well-mannered. She was instead unaccountably furious.

  She was to take notice of this man the better to marry him to one of her sisters, and the unfairness of that, the sheer injustice, brought her near to tears.

  “An escort would be appreciated, Your Grace.”

  “Then an escort you shall have.” With that, he strode back in the direction of a big gray. Already Iris was attuned to the pattern of his footfalls, already she was tempted to watch his retreat.

  Hattie patted her hand. “It could be wors
e. He could be a madcap buffoon like that Berringer fellow, flaunting his lightskirts before proper society. He could be cruel, stupid, slovenly, or a drunkard. The earl knew what he was about when he unearthed that letter from the previous duke. At least one of Falmouth’s daughters will end up with a happily ever after.”

  Iris gave the reins a shake. That happily ever after won’t be mine, though. Of that much, she could be certain.

  Chapter 3

  One thing was certain, Falmouth had a daughter worth further consideration as Clonmere’s duchess. Lady Iris was sensible, brave, self-possessed, and pretty. Not pretty in a loud, look-at-me way, but pretty in a quiet, I-am-a-duchess way.

  She, however, had not looked at Clonmere as if he were her duke. This was unusual. Word had gone out among Mama’s cronies and correspondents that Clonmere must find a duchess. He was besieged by sweet young things, by their widowed mothers, by their ambitious chaperones.

  While Lady Iris had driven away without sparing him so much as a glance.

  Clonmere steered Boru to Lady Iris’s side of the carriage, prepared to earn her notice as something more than an untangler of carriage wheels.

  “Were you aware that we might become family?” he asked.

  She wrinkled her nose. “One must exercise discretion discussing such a topic in public, Your Grace.”

  “No, one must not. If the matchmakers, merry widows, and debutantes were any more determined in their efforts to drag me to the altar, you’d see harpoons protruding from my backside.”

  Was that a twitch of the lips? “You poor, beleaguered dear.”

  “I’m hounded, I tell you. I’ve been waltzed to exhaustion, partnered at whist until my exchequer is down to two bent farthings, and musicale’d to the point that one more marvelously talented soprano will drive me to Bedlam.”

  “Lily is talented soprano,” Lady Iris said, a hint of glower coming into her eyes. “Holly and Hyacinth sing a marvelous duet.”

  The companion or cousin was smiling at her reticule. Clonmere took courage from that, for a companion would know Lady Iris well.