Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  “To the grave,” Hyacinth replied. “Never a word, not even to Lily, Hattie, or Iris.”

  “I might tell Mr. Amherst,” Holly said. “But not until I’ve presented him with an heir, though I can’t become Mrs. Amherst if Clonmere flings his tiara at me.”

  “Nor can I become Mrs. Dersham. We had to do this, Holl.”

  “Lily or Iris will thank us for this, or she would, if she knew we’d done it.”

  “Which she won’t. Ever.”

  Iris hadn’t slept, she hadn’t eaten, she’d barely gulped down a cup of tea in the oddly silent breakfast parlor. She remained standing while Lily, Holly, and Hyacinth—all in lovely outfits—took the chairs in the family parlor.

  “It’s after breakfast,” Lily said.

  “We didn’t eat breakfast,” Holly replied. “Who could eat breakfast with this awaiting them?”

  Holly rose and went to the window. “That’s His Grace’s coach. He couldn’t walk five streets on a pretty morning to pay a call, he had to make a grand show. I already hate this day.”

  “He’s being impressive, the better to keep Falmouth in line,” Iris said, joining her at the window. Impressive was an understatement. Clonmere’s coach was pulled by four handsome greys, two liveried footmen rode on the boot, and a groom was up beside the coachman.

  “I don’t want to be a duchess,” Lily muttered. “How can I impress that sentiment on our daft papa?”

  “His Grace brought reinforcements,” Holly said.

  Hyacinth took the place to Holly’s left. “Is all of London to know we drew lots for a tiara? That hardly seems dignified.”

  “That’s Mr. Dersham,” Iris observed, “and Mr. Amhearst, and Mr. Everhart.” Their presence made no sense, and yet, they reassured Iris that Clonmere was up to something.

  “They make a dashing foursome,” Lily said, peering over Hyacinth’s shoulder. “But why are they here?”

  Cousin Hattie bustled in the door. “Away from the window, my dears. You don’t want the gentlemen to think you’re gawking. Iris, is that the oldest, plainest dress you could find? Honestly, what were you thinking? You’re to be courted by a duke today, see if you aren’t.”

  Oh, if only… “I’ve only been introduced to Clonmere’s mama once,” Iris said. “I doubt she’d choose me for his duchess.”

  “She’d better not have chosen me,” Holly murmured. “I have plans that do not include being dignified and speaking French.”

  “My plans don’t include the laments and airs of any Scottish farmers.” Lily resumed her seat. “Did somebody move these boxes? I was certain mine was sitting closer to the blotter.”

  The four boxes, looking as pretty as ever, sat on the desk in the same order they had the previous evening.

  “Mine is still closest to the window,” Iris said, though Lily was right. Holly’s box had been to the right of the blotter, not sitting half on the blotter.

  Masculine voices floated up from the foyer, and Iris’s tea threatened to make a reappearance. “I hate this.”

  “I do too,” Lily said. “If the tiara is in my box, I’m giving it to you, Iris.”

  “So am I,” Holly and Hyacinth said in unison.

  “You’ll make a much better duchess than we would,” Lily said, “and Clonmere will grow on you, Iris. You like a challenge, and he’s… challenging.”

  “He is,” Holly said, regarding the boxes. “Look at his notion of how to choose a duchess. He needs you, Iris.”

  “But Falmouth…”

  “Papa can’t disown all four of us,” Hyacinth said. “Or he can, but we won’t disown each other, and Peter won’t disown us once he runs out of his quarterly allowance. Benjamin is too young to disown anybody.”

  Iris considered her box, the one sitting farthest to the left. “I love you all very much, and to be honest, I fancy His Grace. He’s honorable and kind, he loves his family, and he can lift carriages when carriages need lifting.” He also kissed like a dream come to life.

  “A fine quality in a man,” Cousin Hattie said, “but do you young ladies honestly think you can refuse a duke?”

  Iris waited for a resounding, reassuring affirmative chorus and instead beheld uncertain glances.

  The earl strode in, Clonmere, Everhart, Dersham, and Amherst on his heels. Clonmere was very much on his dignity, while the other three were looking uncharacteristically serious.

  “Ladies,” Clonmere said, bowing. The other men did as well, while Falmouth took the seat behind the desk.

  “His Grace has made a request,” Falmouth said. “I’m not inclined to grant it. He wants these boxes opened in order of age, oldest to youngest.”

  “Seems reasonable to me,” Everhart said. “Ladies usually do marry in order of age, my lord.”

  “My sisters did,” Amherst did.

  “Mine too,” Dersham added. “Meaning no disrespect, my lord, but Clonmere’s honoring a vague wish expressed in some old letter his pater sent you, likely before Lady Holly or Lady Hyacinth were even born, and yet he’s done the pretty with them both.”

  “True enough,” Amherst said. “I read law. If you only had the two daughters at the time the letter was sent, then common sense suggests only the oldest two daughters—”

  Clonmere was by the window, looking bored and handsome. “Enough. Falmouth, the ladies either open their gifts in age order, or I walk out of here without a prospective duchess. Before witnesses, I’ve expressed my willingness to honor my father’s wishes, however vague and however many years have passed without the late duke informing me of same. Your quibbling over this detail is unbecoming and more than my patience will allow.”

  The clock ticked. Nobody so much as breathed, though Iris wanted to kiss Clonmere for that little speech alone. Falmouth was turning pink. Cousin Hattie was positively beaming.

  “But,” Falmouth sputtered, “Iris is not even…”

  “Falmouth, have a care.” Clonmere spoke softly. “You never once consulted your daughters about their wishes regarding this scheme of yours. If I insist on a modicum of convention regarding the order in which the gifts are opened, you will accommodate me.”

  “Not well done of you, my lord,” Everhart said, looking much like his ducal cousin. “Your daughters are intelligent young women, and marriage is a very serious matter.”

  Falmouth looked like Puck just before that cat disrespected a carpet. “Iris, open your box.”

  Clonmere passed her the box, the first time he’d looked directly at her. He winked, though his expression remained so grave, so very dignified, Iris doubted the evidence of her eyes.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Holly had scooted to the very edge of her chair, Hyacinth was holding Holly’s hand. Mr. Everhart stood behind Lily’s chair. They made a handsome couple, and they deserved a chance to be a couple. Holly and Hyacinth shouldn’t have to adjust to one of them marrying into an exalted station. This whole blasted month had been wrong for all concerned.

  Iris had formed the intention to refuse to open her box when Clonmere spoke.

  “My lady, you keep us all in suspense. Won’t you please unwrap my gift? My dearest wish is that you open that box.”

  His dearest wish had been a woman who’d entrust her heart to him. Iris’s heart thumped against her ribs like a kettledrum, but Clonmere’s regard was so steady, so trust-worthy, she tugged on the purple ribbon encircling her box.

  “As you wish, Your Grace.” She wanted to preserve the lovely paper, and she wanted to tear it to shreds. Cousin Hattie took the ribbon, Lily leaned closer, and Iris gently slid a finger beneath the paper.

  “Do hurry, Iris,” Holly muttered.

  Iris lifted the lid of the box, but could not make her gaze drop to the contents.

  “Oh, my,” Hyacinth said.

  “Well, what’s in it?” Falmouth barked.

  “A tiara,” Cousin Hattie said. “A lovely, sparkly, antique tiara that the duchesses of Clonmere have worn since the days of Good Queen Be
ss.”

  Falmouth’s harrumphing was drowned out by Lily, Hyacinth, and Holly’s squealing and the applause of the three gentlemen.

  “That’s decided then,” Clonmere said, taking Iris’s hand and bowing over it, “assuming you’ll have me?”

  He was asking, he was sincerely, honestly asking, and for that Iris fell in love with him all over again.

  “Court me for a month,” she said, “court me, save your waltzes for me, introduce me to your family, make my dearest wish come true at least a dozen times over, and then I’ll give you my answer.”

  Clonmere kissed her knuckles. “Only a dozen?”

  Somebody sighed, certainly not Iris, for she was too busy admiring her prospective husband.

  “Let’s move to the formal parlor, shall we?” Cousin Hattie said. “A toast is in order. Falmouth, bestir yourself to order the champagne brought up, and somebody have the coach brought around. We have trousseaus to shop for.”

  Falmouth scowled at the three unopened boxes. “Trousseaus, plural? Harriet, do you know something I don’t?”

  “I know much that exceeds your grasp, my lord, but even you must recall that a couple embarking on a courtship is entitled to some privacy.”

  “That they are,” Everhart said.

  “’Deed,” Amherst added. “A fine tradition.”

  Falmouth looked like he wanted to rattle the remaining boxes,or perhaps even sniff them. Dersham gave the earl a little shove toward the door. “Champagne, my lord. Along with cakes, some chocolates. Amherst and I have a few matters we’d like to discuss with you.”

  “As do I,” Everhart said, offering Lily his arm.

  The lot of them trooped out, leaving Iris alone with her duke. “I am most exceedingly relieved to have found the Clonmere tiara in my box.”

  She was so relieved, she had to kiss him… and kiss him, and kiss him. Clonmere was apparently relieved as well, because he gave as good as he got, until Iris was perched on the desk with a duke wedged between her legs.

  A heavily breathing duke whose hair was awry, and whose cravat was off center.

  “What if the tiara hadn’t been in my box?” Iris panted, holding him close. “What if… I can’t bear to think of the fussing and carrying on and harrumphing.”

  “Neither could I,” Clonmere replied, “which is why the ancestral tiara wasn’t in your box. That little bauble is paste.”

  His heart was cantering along at a marvelous clip. Iris pressed her ear to his chest for the pleasure of feeling his heart beat. Though what had he said about…?

  “Paste? Because a fortune of jewels shouldn’t be carted all over Mayfair? Very prudent of you, Clonmere.”

  He took her hand and helped her down from the desk. “Not prudent, desperate. Open the other boxes.”

  He was looking both sheepish and proud, also a little disheveled. Kissably disheveled.

  Iris used the penknife on the desk to slit the ribbons on the other three boxes, and opened them one by one.

  “Oh, Clonmere, you clever, determined fellow you.” Three identical tiaras glittered in the three boxes. “As long as I went first, I’d find a tiara even if the labels somehow got confused.”

  “Because I could not trust Falmouth to leave well enough alone, and I suspect your siblings might have been tempted to meddle as well. Hattie warned me to plan for every contingency.”

  “And you did.”

  She hugged him, because she could, because she had to.

  “I have a new dearest wish, Lady Iris.” His voice had dropped to a register Puck’s purr approximated when the cat was exceedingly content.

  “Do you?” Iris nuzzled Clonmere’s throat. “This is an interesting coincidence, because my own dearest wishes are growing in number. One of them involves a special license.”

  “One of mine involves a very slow coach ride over to Ludgate, where we’ll find a jeweler who can fashion you an engagement ring.”

  Oh, he smelled wonderful, of flowers and excellent ideas. “A very slow coach, Your Grace?”

  “Very slow and comfortable.” He gathered up all four boxes. “How soon can you be ready to leave?”

  “Five minutes.”

  She and Clonmere were out the door in two minutes, and though His Grace did get a special license, he also spent the next month making every one of Iris’s dearest wishes come true, and far more than a mere dozen times.

  From Grace Burrowes

  Greetings, Dear Readers!

  I hope you enjoyed Henning and Iris’s story. The inspiration was a family incident recounted by my Aunt Sharon, about somebody (who shall remain nameless) purposely switching the tags on Christmas presents. Does every family have such a story?

  If you’re looking for a full-length Grace Burrowes Regency, I just released When A Duchess Says I Do, the second tale in my Rogues to Riches series. Duncan Wentworth meets his match in Miss Maddie Wakefield, provided they can overcome a few pesky obstacles relating to international intrigue, a scorned suitor, the king’s justice, and (of course) meddling family members. Excerpt below.

  If you’d like to stay up-to-date on my new releases, pre-orders, and discount deals, following me on Bookbub is a good way to do that. If you’d like the coming attractions reel and kitten pictures, as well as cover reveals and exclusive excerpts, my newsletter is the better bet. I am also fiddling around on Instagram as graceburrowesauthor and having great fun there too.

  Happy reading!

  Grace Burrowes

  * * *

  From When A Duchess Says I Do….

  A stolen moment catches Duncan and Matilda by surprise….

  * * *

  “I am embroiled in a situation that has consequences at the highest levels, Mr. Wentworth,” Matilda said. “If I share with you what I know, you will find yourself embroiled along with me.”

  She’d expressed a wish to study their chess game, but now she was taking pieces off the board, lining them up in order of rank. Her white pawns, Duncan’s black pawns. Her bishop, knight, rook, and queen, her king.

  “Matilda,” Duncan said, getting to his feet. “Please calm yourself. You have made a minor slip by letting Stephen see your prayer book. He will carry your identity to his grave if need be, as will I. I’d rather not. I’d rather see you free of the burdens you carry, else I shall never have an opportunity to properly court you.”

  She went still, Duncan’s king in her hand. “Did I hear you, aright, Mr. Wentworth?”

  “My name is Duncan. Your hearing is excellent.”

  She set the king down slowly, next to the white queen. “You seek to court me?”

  “I most assuredly do.”

  Based on the lady’s expression, this disclosure astonished her almost as much as it surprised Duncan.

  * * *

  Order your copy of When A Duchess Says I Do!

  LOVE LETTERS FROM A DUKE

  MAY

  Gina Conkle

  Preface

  The Duke of Richland needs a proper duchess, but he wants his thoroughly fun, entirely inappropriate neighbor, Mrs. Charlotte Chatham. She’s widowed, older, and if the whispers prove true—barren.

  Chapter 1

  May, 1788

  England’s best and brightest young ladies flittered about his lawn, each one as colorful as macaroons of mint green, pale orange, and fragile pink. Sun drenched their stiffly curled hair. Meringue-white smiles dazzled the eye. A delectable assembly to be sure. The women preened and played (croquet as it were). One click of mallet to ball, and mind-numbing giggles floated his way. The match’s tempo had been the same since luncheon ended. A man could set his pocket watch by it.

  A contretemps by the refreshment table highlighted the stakes. Another game of greater consequence was afoot—the competition for Richland Hall’s next duchess.

  “Our mother’s trimming the ranks. Those who don’t pass muster will be dismissed.” His brother chuckled at the flouncing skirts of one perturbed miss. “No biscuits for you, young lady.
”

  “You’ve used military metaphors all day,” he said dryly. “Do you see our ancestral home as a battlefield?”

  George grinned. “With our mother hunting for your duchess, I expect a skirmish or two. She has exacting standards, and the competition is fierce.”

  His duchess. A wife. He ran a finger between his neck and stiffly starched cravat. The mantle of ducal authority sat squarely on his shoulders, but the fit wasn’t quite right, and George knew it. It was why his ginger-haired brother kept vigil with him under the cover of a gnarled oak tree. Both understood a deeper truth was at play: restoring Richland after devastating loss. Their mother wanted laughter ringing in the halls again, the tapestries bulging with gleeful children hiding behind the antiquated weaves. She needed this next, inevitable step to heal. They all did.

  George should’ve had his place in the birth order, but nature was a fickle mistress. She’d cast his younger brother as the family’s impeccable dresser with an ability to navigate social events with ease. At this very moment, a breeze toyed with the ribbon securing George’s queue, yet not a hair was out of place. If it ever was. The same couldn’t be said of him. A few strands escaped their mooring, sausage curls above his ear itched from heavy pomade, and new shoes pinched his toes.

  “It’s all about finding a diamond in the rough,” George said between sips of tea.

  They winced at Miss Pettyfer’s exuberant upward swipe, which nearly toppled a baroness and her daughter. Hips shifting, Miss Pettyfer took aim and swung her mallet with indelicate fervor. Whack! A yellow ball blasted across the green.

  “Is that your gentleman’s way of saying they’re all too young?” He cast an eye to the south lawn where his brothers, Ethan and Edward, played a rousing game of cricket.