Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  “Play it for us,” Lily said, when Iris would have asked the duke if he’d like more cakes.

  Mr. Everhart took the piano bench and folded back the cover from the keys. “You needn’t pretend we’re at the Philharmonic concerts. I’m happiest making music, but I don’t expect the company to cease conversing because I’m twiddling about on the keyboard.”

  “If you’re twiddling, that’s more cakes for me,” Clonmere said, holding his plate out to Iris. “I prefer the raspberry flavored sweets.”

  Holly and Hyacinth hadn’t said two words so far. They sat side by side on the love seat, like a pair of school girls goggling at the new art teacher.

  “Hyacinth is fond of raspberry jam,” Iris said, adding three cakes to the duke’s plate. “Holly is fond of plum tarts.”

  Clonmere took the plate and offered it to Hyacinth. “You must join me, my lady.”

  She took a tea cake and set it on her saucer.

  Mr. Everhart began his slow movement, a lyrical, dolorous offering that made the lack of conversation more painful. Lily was clearly riveted by the music, so Iris sent the twins a visual plea: Say something.

  Holly was munching on the tea cake, Hyacinth was staring straight ahead.

  “You prefer Mr. Burns as I recall,” Iris said.

  “The Scot?” Holly asked.

  “The very one,” Clonmere replied. “I find his airs memorable and pleasant, for the most part. An entire symphony is too much work for my untrained ears.”

  Lily sent him reproachful glance, as if nobody ought to be talking while Mr. Everhart’s sonata was plodding along.

  “I’d think an English duke would prefer an English composer,” Hyacinth said.

  “I am an English duke,” Clonmere replied, “also a Scottish earl, though perhaps it’s more relevant to say I’m a simple duke when it comes to music, and thus simple tunes appeal to me. Have you a favorite composer, Lady Hyacinth?”

  He could tell them apart. While one was blond and the other brunette, people did confuse them. They were the same height, had the same figure, used the same turns of phrase, and moved alike.

  Hyacinth had an answer prepared—Haydn, who, she assured the duke, was English in all but place of birth.

  “If you like him so much, Hy, why don’t you learn any of his sonatas?” Holly asked. “And you’ve never told me he was your favorite.”

  “You never asked. That is my tea cake Hollyhock Marie Georgia Fallon.”

  Holly’s expression went blank. She hated the name Georgia. Hated it with the passion most women reserved for incontinent house pets.

  “What is your full name?” Iris asked the duke. The question was inane and personal, but it stopped the twins from bickering. And Iris wanted to know this, wanted to collect this fact to store beside the duke’s admission that he preferred raspberry tea cakes.

  She also wanted him to leave before Holly and Hyacinth resumed their spat.

  “My name is Henning Perseus Mendel St. John Dunning Quayle Whitcomb. Quite a mouthful for a small boy. I tried to adopt Perseus as my given name, but my sisters refused to accord me any heroic associations.”

  Another awkward beat of silence went by,while Mr. Everhart fumbled for his melody.

  “Do you enjoy mythology?” Iris asked.

  “I was made to study the myths in detail,” Clonmere replied. “A subject to which a fellow’s attention is forced will usually fail to inspire his passion.”

  Oh… dear.

  “I agree,” Hyacinth said, a little desperately. “Better to read as your interests lead you, and let curiosity inspire your imagination.”

  Clonmere stuffed another tea cake in his mouth.

  Would this slow movement never end?

  “I’m glad Iris made me study Voltaire,” Holly said. “I thought him silly at first, but he’s not.”

  Clonmere stirred his tea. “Lady Iris suggested you read him?”

  “She taught us French,” Hyacinth said. “We had to speak French at breakfast, then at lunch. We learned the names of every dish ever served at an English table. Then we had to speak French when we went shopping, and I nearly gave up shopping.”

  “It was terrible,” Holly said, nodding gravely. “All summer this went on. Iris is very firm in her opinions—”

  “And very fluent in her French,” Hyacinth added. “Then we were to speak French at dinner, and then we were to go all day on Tuesdays speaking French.”

  “Then,” Holly said, “she added Thursdays and Saturdays. Lily would pretend to get her days mixed up if she didn’t know the word she needed.”

  Lily was sitting next to Mr. Everhart on the piano bench—when had she moved?—while Iris wished the mythic roc would flap out of the sky and transport her to some faraway isle. I was my sisters’ French tutor. I am a glorified governess.

  She had known this, but knowing it and hearing the situation laid bare before the Duke of Clonmere were two different orders of painful.

  The duke’s slight smile suggested the twins’ chatter charmed him, but the pity in his eyes said he knew the truth: Iris was a spinster in training, not even paid for teaching her sisters French. Or for doing their hair, embellishing their ballgowns, managing their social calendars, and teaching them to ride and drive.

  The sonata dragged on, pretty, sad, and sweet, while Iris’s heart broke. She wanted to know the Duke of Clonmere better. She wanted to ask him what literary subject he had enjoyed, if mythology had been such a forced march. She wanted to tell him her middle name was Ann—plain, boring, short Ann—but that had been her grandmother’s name, so she treasured it.

  And she wanted Clonmere to close his eyes, point to a sister, and get this whole farce over with. For however long his duchess lived, Iris would be forced into occasional proximity with him, and faced with what she herself had never been allowed to want.

  A man worth loving, worth being foolish and brave and trusting over. Clonmere was all of that, but he would never, ever be hers.

  Chapter 4

  The visit with Falmouth’s daughters had been an adagio cantabile hell.

  Clonmere jogged down the steps of the earl’s townhouse, the next weeks stretching before him like the labors of Hercules. Without magic potions, intervening goddesses, a friendly centaur, or some handy poison arrows, he would end up married to a woman who needed her twin to finish her sentences.

  “I must thank you,” Cousin Thomas said. “That was a surprisingly delightful hour.”

  “It felt more like an eternity.”

  Thomas was a few years Clonmere’s junior and had always loved music. “Not one but four lovely women shared their time and attention with us,” he said. “I’d always thought Lady Iris too serious, but I hadn’t realized Lady Lily was such a music lover.”

  Thank God that Lady Lily has ensconced herself on the piano bench and not budged until the visit’s conclusion.

  “What did you two find to talk about?” Clonmere asked.

  “The difference between harmonic, relative, and natural minor as they impact the emotional tone of a piece.”

  Clonmere paused at the street corner. “I have no idea what you just said. If Lady Iris were any more devoted to her sisters, she’d have to swear fealty to them in a public ceremony involving a sword and Latinate oaths.”

  And that was a problem. That was a serious problem.

  “Sisters are supposed to be devoted. Perhaps I’ll write an air to show off Lady Lily’s voice.”

  “Cousins are supposed to be devoted.” Clonmere took off across the street, entirely frustrated with the time spent with Falmouth’s daughters. He’d undertaken the call to get the initial introductions over with, and to gather information regarding the best means of courting Lady Iris.

  “How can a woman be so firmly un-courtable?” he asked.

  Cousin Thomas hung back, not quite keeping pace, not quite falling behind. “Lady Lily is eminently court-able. She’s intelligent, knowledgeable, pretty, soft-spoken, knows Beethove
n from Mozart and is pretty.”

  “You mentioned that.” Twice.

  “Well, she is. If you hadn’t been so busy stuffing yourself with tea cakes, you might have noticed that she’s the pick of the litter.”

  “Stop languishing at my elbow. Falmouth’s daughters are not puppies.”

  Cousin Thomas picked up his pace, barely. “As your cousin, I feel honor-bound to express my opinion that Lady Lily would make you an excellent duchess. The other two are chatterboxes who haven’t outgrown sibling rivalry.”

  “And Lady Iris?”

  Cousin Thomas linked his hands behind his back, a pose he probably practiced: Composer looking handsome in a creative fog.

  “Lady Iris is a perfectly pleasant woman but she lacks…. Sparkle. A duchess should sparkle, tastefully.”

  Clonmere barely restrained the urge to shove Cousin Thomas into the street. “She sparkles. You’re too blinded by music to see it.”

  “Are you daft, Clonmere? I mean Lady Iris no insult, but she’s not youthful, she’s not musical. She’s not… I have danced with Lady Iris several times in an effort to gain closer acquaintance with Lady Lily. Lady Iris is oblivious to my cause, and now I know why.”

  Thomas presented as a placid, dreamy soul who would nonetheless work himself to exhaustion when in the grip of inspiration. He was in the grip of something now, something interesting.

  “I say Lady Iris is the most duchess-like of the sisters,” Clonmere retorted. “She is gracious, kind, dignified, selfless, and uncomplaining.”

  “And that won’t result in any grand finales.”

  “What are you going on about?”

  “Molto appassionato,” Thomas said, waving his hands. “Vivace, Con brio. Fire, Clodpate-mere. I fear the Portuguese sun has addled what few wits God gave you, if you can’t see those qualities in Lady Lily.”

  Clonmere had read Cervantes, and he knew a man enthralled when he saw one. “You are an honorable man, Thomas, and a good cousin.”

  His shoulders slumped. “You’ll marry Lady Lily then?”

  Hercules had pulled off more than one of his labors with the aid of loyal companions. In a pinch, a cousin could be recruited to that role.

  “I haven’t made up my mind. I’ve only met the ladies, and marriage is forever.”

  Thomas paused at the next crossing. “If you break Lady Lily’s heart, I will break your nose.” He’d do it, too, despite the damage to his own knuckles.

  “Good decisions are made based on good information. I don’t know enough about Lady Lily to make any decisions about her.”

  “Then you’re a dunderhead, though we knew that about you.”

  “Take pity on a dunderheaded duke and get to the know the lady. I must find a way to pry the twins apart long enough to become familiar with them individually. That will take effort and time, leaving you to scout the terrain where Lady Lily is concerned.”

  Thomas gazed off across the square. He was a handsome devil, his dark hair fell over his forehead a la Byron, and while he was tall, he wasn’t a brutish looby who went around lifting carriages in public.

  “Lady Lily will need friends,” Thomas said. “Especially if she’s to become your duchess, she’ll need friends.”

  Clonmere clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you. Now, do you happen to know which clubs Amherst and Derwood frequent?”

  Thomas brushed at his coat sleeve as if a cousinly display of affection was unwelcome. “They frequent them all, depending on where they have credit left. This time of the month, the Brigadier is your best bet. The ale is good quality, the spirits reasonably priced. Nobody plays too deeply.”

  “Then I’m away to the Brigadier. My thanks for your assistance.”

  Thomas sidled off down the walkway, humming a minor tune. Clonmere let him go and ducked into the nearest flower shop. He sent a bouquet to the ladies of Falmouth’s house—sweet pea, in thanks for a lovely time—but for his lapel he chose an iris.

  Iris watched Clonmere dance with her sisters at one ball after another, watched as each lady grew in confidence and grace for having become one of very few whom His Grace partnered. She listened to the envious speculation of the wall flowers, the sighing asides of the chaperones.

  And she’d smiled more in the past three weeks than in the previous four years, then gone home and hugged her pillow in solitude.

  Clonmere was nothing if not conscientious about getting to know her sisters. Soon he’d make his choice, and Iris could retire to country with Cousin Hattie.

  Though the countryside had few bookshops, and Iris didn’t have any friends there.

  Then too, Puck would be a member of the rural household, and he had a disagreeable habit of leaving evidence of feline dyspepsia on carpets and stairs, and cat hair everywhere.

  “I’ll have you to cheer me up,” Iris said, patting Rosie’s shoulder. Though Rosie was getting on in years, and she preferred driving to going under saddle, while Iris loved a good gallop.

  Iris’s groom was a good dozen yards back, chatting with another groom. The path ahead was quiet with the stillness of pre-dawn, a good time to feel sorry for oneself or to canter away regrets.

  “My lady.” The bushes to the right rustled to reveal Clonmere on his gray. “Good day.”

  Must he look so delectable in his riding attire? Must he sit that horse like he was born atop it?

  “Your Grace, good morning.”

  “Keep me company, won’t you?” he said, steering his horse to Rosie’s side. “I’m without siblings today, and the rare solitude has left Boru fidgety.”

  “He’s Irish stock?”

  “A present from my godfather. So which of the Fallon sisters should I marry?”

  Me. You should marry me. Except that made no sense. Iris was the oldest, the plainest, the least outgoing. Her settlements were modest, while her sisters would likely bring handsome sums to the negotiations.

  “You should marry the lady with whom you are most compatible, though all three of my sisters would try hard to make a marriage to you successful.”

  I’d try harder. The earl would be furious, though, and likely banish his daughters to Surrey. Peter might try to intervene for his sisters, but he was still not of age and had no funds of his own.

  Clonmere took a turning onto a narrower path, so that Rosie and the duke’s gelding had to amble along shoulder to shoulder.

  “I ask your opinion,” Clonmere said, “because your sisters have given me no clue which of them esteems me most highly. They are all that is charming, they waltz very well, and ask me the polite questions a lady is trained to ask her dance partner, but they are sphinxes when it comes to the matter of their regard for me.”

  He sounded honestly puzzled, as if young women who struggled with French might have no instincts when it came to preserving their privacy before a potential suitor.

  “You could ask them,” Iris said. “You ask them if they want to marry you. I’m sure nobody has.” Iris certainly hadn’t.

  “Fine thing, when a woman is supposed to be thrilled to marry a man because three hundred years ago, his ancestor chose the winning side of some battle or endowed a cause dear to an impecunious monarch.”

  Clonmere, a handsome, single, wealthy, young duke, felt invisible, precisely because he was handsome, single, wealthy, and a duke. Oh, the irony.

  “I’d marry you,” Iris said. “Not because of your lucky ancestor.”

  The horses stopped beneath a canopy of green. “Why would you marry me? I lack refinement, I like making wine, my siblings run roughshod over me, I have the singing voice of a drunken donkey, and I will spoil my children rotten so they can run roughshod over me as well. Any duchess with an ounce of sense will find me utterly unimpressive.”

  Do you promise, about spoiling the children? “I would marry you,” Iris said, “because you are kind and honorable, you like to laugh, you enjoy being useful, and you are tolerant of fat felines. Puck’s singing voice does not recommend him
, but he seldom wants for the companionship of pretty females.”

  The duke fiddled with his reins, then straightened the angle of his hat. “Thomas says Lady Lily’s soprano is extraordinary.”

  I lay my heart at your feet, and you bring up Lily’s warbling. “His opinion would mean a lot to her.”

  “Could it be that Thomas means a lot to her? Every time I lead her from the dance floor, he seems to be her next partner.”

  “And Mr. Dersham and Mr. Amherst have apparently taken an interest in Holly and Hyacinth, respectively. This is your fault, Your Grace.”

  He sat straighter in the saddle. “My fault?”

  “Because you show such marked interest in my sisters, they have become sought after by all. They are treated differently in the shops, when they go for an ice, when they merely tarry in the churchyard on a fine spring morning. You have caused them to be seen and appreciated for the jewels they are.”

  “You say Amherst and Dersham are taken with the twins?”

  “You are so busy paying court to your prospective duchesses that you aren’t minding the gossip, Your Grace. The twins have gone driving as a foursome with Misters Dersham and Amherst on three occasions.”

  Leaving Iris in the sewing room with Puck, and a bad case of suitor-envy. Dersham and Amherst had, as Clonmere predicted, become best of friends, and they were well situated bachelors. Were Clonmere not in the picture, either man would have made an admirable suitor.

  Though Clonmere was in the picture, and looking delectable on his grey gelding.

  “I suppose if I marry Lady Lily, then the twins will be pleased to have other options. I believe Thomas has taken a fancy to Lily, though, so marrying her could be problematic. I don’t see a way forward that doesn’t leave somebody disgruntled and unhappy. Have you any advice for me, Lady Iris?”

  That he was concerned for the feelings of others, especially for the feelings of Iris’s sisters, spoke well of him, and yet, Iris was annoyed.