Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  “I’m not sure of our mother’s strategy.” His perplexed brother shook his head. “Or why she chose such a…youthful array of guests.”

  “Every eligible lady here could’ve been nursery playmates to the twins. Makes me feel ancient.”

  Handsome and ruddy, Ethan and Edward were the toast of Eton. Smart, well-mannered, and charming to boot, they seized every bit of joy to be had in their late May half-term. He grinned at their zeal. The mayhem was good. Richland had been a tomb.

  With the exception of one woman who swanned about on a steady basis.

  Mrs. Chatham. Their neighbor and his mother’s friend. She was older than him, a widow solidly in her third decade. With a smile too bright, her manner too friendly, and laugh too loud, she was a shade out of touch with proper decorum. Probably from her long rustication in Kent. Other ladies sat ramrod straight in Hepplewhite chairs under the fluttering canopy. Not Mrs. Chatham. Her spine had bumped her chair’s back rest several times this morning.

  Yet, she was a tempting morsel.

  He’d collected brief junctures with the widow since her arrival in Kent two years past. He’d savored them like a miser: the sight of her unshod foot tucked under her bottom when idling in the salon, an afternoon consoling his mother with a basket of kittens, and then there was the day she thrusted an armful of hydrangeas on the dowager. His mother’s smile had shined brighter than the sun from that simple, touching gift.

  Mrs. Chatham’s passion for gardening was legendary. It seemed to fill her days, but he couldn’t say how she filled her nights.

  Everyone knew attractive widows gadded about.

  And glory in her independence, she did…like two of her honey-colored locks which had tumbled free of their pins. The effect was too messy to be artful wisps. One curled tip teetered over her velvet-clad bosom.

  His fist pressed harder into the small of his back.

  What would it feel like to run my fingers through her hair?

  Air huffed past his lips. He was on the brink of dangerous ground. Twice today, her dark-eyed stare had collided with his, stealing his breath.

  These episodes were increasing. More furtive glances. More ambles near Mrs. Chatham for the thrill of hearing her amiable voice. This had to stop.

  At the moment, she was a comfortable distance away under the canopy. A breeze sent her serviette tumbling down her burgundy skirt. She tipped forward to retrieve it, giving him a sublime view of delicate breasts, sugar-white, and of tempting size. They were perfect. Of course, they were; they were attached to her.

  “Smile at them, Richland,” George coaxed.

  At Mrs. Chatham’s breasts? “That’s beyond the pale,” he sputtered.

  His brother looked askance at him. “Why? You’ll have to dance with them tonight.”

  He shut his one good eye. “You mean the young ladies in attendance.”

  “Of course, I mean the young ladies in attendance.” George gave him a I know this is unpleasant, but this is your duty gaze.

  His brother couldn’t hear his lustful musings, nor thankfully had George noticed him ogling Mrs. Chatham, the advantage of a piratical eye patch. He was rusty in the art of wooing. With flirtation in general. Until the ducal title landed on his head, he’d spent his days designing and building follies for country homes.

  He tried smiling, but searing pain lanced his leg, a residual effect of the cataclysmic carriage accident that had taken his father, his brother the heir, and the vision in his left eye.

  George choked on his tea. “Not that! You’re snarling at them.”

  “That bad?” Air hissing between clenched teeth, he rubbed his hip. Sweat nicked his hairline. His leg locked again. The familiar ache started at his knee and flared like molten nails digging into his thigh.

  His mother caught the move from her seat under the red-striped canopy. A delicate frown marred her features. She held up an elegant finger, pausing polite conversation with Lady Malmsey and the Countess of Kendal. The supremacy of that single gesture. Carriages braked hard for it, and servants snapped to attention at the sight of his mother’s raised hand. Given time, the Dowager Duchess would take a turn at stopping the sun, such was her power. Concern in her eyes, she rose from her chair and headed his way.

  “Leg acting up, is it?” George asked.

  “It will improve.” Someday. This was what the family physician had promised and the myriad of well-meaning physics who’d traipsed through Richland Hall. “But tonight, of all nights,” he managed to say between gritted teeth.

  George’s merry blue eyes softened. “Our mother will fret.”

  “I know.”

  Her worry was the millstone about their necks. This house party was Richland’s reawakening from a long, dark year of solace. The dowager’s sons wanted this for their loving matriarch. Last year had shredded them all, but their mother’s hurt was most profound. Seeing her wracked with sobs followed by weeks of disturbing silence had frightened them all.

  He would do anything, anything to ensure she lived the rest of her days in happiness.

  “Prepare yourself. She’s bringing reinforcements.” George clicked his heels and called out a cheery, “Mother. Mrs. Chatham. Come to check on us?”

  The duke froze his massaging hand. Pain subsided only to be replaced by new agony—the swish of velvet skirts and familiar orange and ginger perfume. He was at once tense and restless. Desire had a rhythm, and he found it in the cadence of the widow’s walk.

  Unrestrained womanliness. A certain…knowing.

  It drove him mad.

  Primal instincts flared to life when Mrs. Chatham drew near. His skin tightened. Muscles clenched. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why she appealed above all others. The pert smile on her wide mouth? Sparkling sherry-brown eyes? A natural sensuality?

  At the moment her eyebrows pressed a worried line as she dipped a curtsey. “Your Grace. Lord George.”

  “Mrs. Chatham,” they said in unison.

  His heart ticked faster. Did the sun shine brighter with her in his vicinity? He must’ve stared a fraction too long because the widow coughed delicately and directed her attention to the dowager.

  The grand dame swept forward and touched his elbow. “Your leg pains you.”

  “It will pass.”

  A motherly sigh and, “I am sure it will, but we must consider tonight’s ball.”

  He covered her hand with his and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Worried I won’t be in top form?”

  “You will have to drag him away,” his brother teased. “It’s all he can talk about.”

  The dowager’s mild laugh jiggled ruby earbobs. “Don’t be impertinent. I know each of my sons all too well.”

  She was a wonderful woman, his mother. Piles of silvery-gingered hair, a smattering of freckles that defied the best cosmetics, and a talent for winding her offspring around her little finger.

  He stiffened, fighting a flash of discomfort along his outer thigh.

  “It’s dreadful to see you like this.” She drew closer, worry threading her voice. “Perhaps we ought to cancel the ball, and call for another physician.”

  “And let this house party be for naught?” He forced a smile. “I’ll soldier on.”

  He’d had his fill of physicians.

  Since the accident, the dowager had summoned doctors from every corner of the realm. Their wisdom ranged from prescribing ample doses of laudanum, to bloodletting and more bloodletting and more bloodletting after that. Two had even suggested amputation of an otherwise sound limb.

  “My sweet dear,” she said sadly. “Always the stalwart one. I wish with all my heart I could make this go away.”

  Mrs. Chatham’s head dipped at the private moment. Her presence at this family tête-à-tête proved what he’d long suspected. The dowager held the widow in the highest confidence. Together, they’d constructed everything from the guest list to the entertainments for this week-long house party.

  When the widow’s gaze met hi
s, knowledge reflected in their depths. Tonight marked a separation of the wheat from the chaff. He would dance with three young ladies of style, comportment, and estimable status. His choices for the final selection. After the ball, quiet invitations for a longer stay would be extended to those three women and their families. The rest would return home tomorrow.

  But he’d have to dance in the first place.

  The dowager turned to her friend. “Charlotte, that remedy you mentioned last week. Would you consider administering it to the duke?”

  Mrs. Chatham’s eyes went saucer big. “Me? I rather thought Simms might.”

  The dowager huffed, a sign she’d not be thwarted. “His valet would show him all the tender care of a plow horse. It must be you. Who else would know the exact dosage? Or have the right touch?”

  A frisson feathered his groin. Mrs. Chatham touching me? No! No! No! “What the devil are you planning?”

  His mother gave him the gimlet eye and waved over a footman. “We’re in a desperate state, Richland. I’m willing to try anything.”

  Was he?

  Alarm bells careened through his head. He should stop this. He was the duke after all, but the dowager was equally determined. It was in the line of her mouth and angle of her chin. His mother was indomitable, well-acquainted with years of directing her sons. One had better luck stemming the tides than stopping her once her mind was set.

  Hands clamped behind his back, he’d tolerate this madcap remedy for the moment. The past year, he and the dowager had tactfully juggled their new positions in life’s hierarchy because she understood change was coming. She wanted it. For her happiness and the future of Richland Hall, he’d allow some leeway.

  Thomas strode to their circle, a flurry of scarlet and gold livery. There under the sprawling oak tree, the dowager beckoned the trusted servant to bend his bewigged head to hear her softly issued commands.

  “Deliver a heated tea kettle, several buckets of water, and our largest, empty butter churn to the duke’s sitting room. When you’re done, have a chambermaid go to Mrs. Chatham’s room and retrieve an amber vial.”

  “You will find it on the escritoire by the window,” the widow put in.

  “And Thomas…” The dowager’s tone was serious.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “You understand this requires the utmost discretion. I don’t want the duke and Mrs. Chatham disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.”

  The footman didn’t bat an eye. “Very good, Your Grace.”

  He was speechless, watching Thomas speed toward the sprawling Dutch-Palladian structure that was Richland Hall. His mother whispered like a conspirator in Mrs. Chatham’s ear, but the widow had eyes for him alone. Lively, seductive, experienced eyes. Her earthy stare sent exciting currents between them. Hair on his arms stood on end. A similar sensation had happened once when he’d stood too close to a demonstration of von Guericke’s frictional electrical machine. Agitation had sparked his skin.

  But this? This was a thrilling jolt. A prudent man would quash the madness now, but wisdom wasn’t foremost on his mind. Anticipation was.

  “What are they up to?” George asked in low tones.

  “I don’t know, but it involves hot water, a butter churn, and an afternoon alone with Mrs. Chatham.”

  “Sounds torturous.”

  Or a new circle of Heaven.

  Chapter 2

  There was delightful horror in being attracted to Lord Nathaniel, Duke of Richland. A lofty title and ridiculous wealth made him the crème de la crème of eligible men. He was leagues above her in birth and breeding. For those qualities alone, they would never suit. They didn’t interest her at all. What drew her to him were the small treasures that made the man.

  The way his hands held a letter.

  His attentive manner with his family.

  The firmness of his lips before giving an edict, and their pliant softness when listening with compassion.

  Oh, she could wax long about the little things that attracted her to the duke, but this infatuation had to stop. How demoralizing to lust after a younger man. Her first husband had been eighteen years older than her. Society smiled on those unions. An older woman/younger man liaison was deliciously naughty, a rarity, but such connections did happen.

  Marriage between a humble merchant’s widow and a duke? Nigh on impossible.

  Thus, striding up wide, shallow stone steps to the back of Richland Hall, she entertained not a whiff of hope that she was among the three to be selected. She hadn’t been invited here for that anyway.

  Biting her lower lip, she acknowledged her assignment. She had this afternoon to get the duke in dancing form—a difficult chore since she’d made avoiding him an artform. She couldn’t say the same about His Grace. He kept looking at her with an ardent eye. Nor was she fooled by his numerous trips to the canopy. He’d dawdle near her corner of the refreshment table, only to leave empty-handed.

  Men sniffed around her now and then. None interested her more than the distant duke.

  He was so, so…different.

  Before the accident, he’d lived as an architect and builder of follies for wealthy estates. Always a few days in Kent, gone the next. That Lord Nathaniel earned his coin made him an interesting varietal in Richland’s hothouse of privilege. Women flirted with him, and he’d smile back with unfailing politeness because his course was set. He was going to make his way in the world before he married.

  As the obscure second son, he’d stride through the halls lost in thought, rolled-up design plans tucked under his thickly muscled arm, his boot prints leaving bits of dirt behind him. Such concentration.

  What it would feel like to be the center of his focus?

  A delicate swallow followed that thought. I’m here to help. She’d keep that reminder in her head since the duke was taking the stone steps with care on their stately forward march.

  “Is your gait tentative because of your leg, Your Grace? Or the new shoes?”

  A smile cracked his profile. “I’m pretending my discomfort doesn’t exist.” His chuckle was endearing. “Apparently without success.”

  Another stone step was breached, then a second, and a third. They made fine work of avoiding eye contact on their promenade.

  “You’re not answering me, Your Grace.”

  A ducal brow arched in her side vision. She was over-bold, but faint hearts never won the day.

  “You won’t allow me to suffer in silence?”

  “Not when I’m tasked with healing you.”

  His arm flexed under her fingertips. The duke was equal parts quiet and certain. Acknowledging the extent of his pain was tantamount to admitting weakness…of yielding to a woman.

  No man relished that. Well, some did privately.

  “Both the shoes and my leg bother me,” he said with clipped efficiency. “Thank you for noticing.”

  “I’ve noticed a good many things about you, Your Grace.” The way your sleeve tightens around your upper arm. The keen expression on your face when you read. The wool of your breeches molding to your backside.

  “Regale me, Mrs. Chatham. What have you observed?” His baritone was smooth as simmering chocolate on a lazy morning.

  They passed butterflies flittering over the dowager’s roses, and two orange tabby cats lolling in the sun, stretching with satisfaction.

  The duke invited discourse.

  How tempting.

  “I’ve observed your preference for boots over buckle shoes. You like your coats in unembellished shades of blue, brown, or green. Never black. You’re given to brooding when a design does not materialize as planned.” She grinned, mostly for her own pleasure. “And you have a penchant for steak, chops, and mutton stew.”

  “I sound a trifle boring.”

  “I prefer to call it quietly fascinating.”

  The duke hummed thoughtfully. “That would be a first.”

  The world abounded with rogues. An intelligent man, handsome and appealing in character
and visage, was a rare find for women of her ilk. How she came upon that nugget of wisdom would not be a topic of conversation. Ever.

  Stoic footmen flung open the doors to the formal salon. Once inside, their footfalls were muffled by densely piled carpet. Landscape paintings by Dutch artists she couldn’t name trimmed one wall. A bank of floral arrangements and marble busts lined another. This room was predictable. Overdone and meant to impress like so many of the peerage. The same couldn’t be said of Lord Nathaniel, Duke of Richland, which was why he intrigued her.

  When they reached the east wing stairs, she let go of his arm. The subtle loss left her empty. She craved connection with him. Grabbing a handful of skirts and the cold, hard banister was her consolation with the duke climbing the stairs beside her.

  “Whatever this remedy of yours is, Mrs. Chatham, I want a minimum of fussing.”

  Ah, now we’re back to cool politeness. “In my experience, men usually enjoy a woman’s attention.”

  “This week has filled me to the brim with feminine interest.”

  “Perhaps not the right kind?”

  His head turned sharply toward her. Nostrils flaring and posture erect, the duke was imposing, a dragon ready to breathe fire on the unfortunate maiden who entered his lair.

  But she was no maiden.

  Carnal want flashed in his eyes, there and gone. “Since I am about to surrender to your tender mercies, I shall take the high road and hold my tongue.”

  She laughed, enjoying his mild censure. “It’d be better if you loosened it, Your Grace.”

  A male grunt was his answer. Of all the Richland men, Lord Nathaniel was known for his abiding honor.

  Their lineage bequeathed him with a blade-straight nose and defining jaw, but his hair was a dark auburn among a family of gingers to reddish-blonds. The duke’s eyes were his most distinct feature, a penetrating silver-gray when his brothers had variants of blue.

  At present, his stormy gaze narrowed on her.

  His Grace armored himself with unshakable manners. Today, she would breach them and touch his bare leg.

  Her palms tingled at the idea of it.

  Their approach drew the attention of Mrs. Staveley, half in, half out of a doorway ahead. The housekeeper’s face brightened, and she nipped into the ducal apartments. There was a quick clap clap, and two charwomen, their mob-caps aquiver, rushed out of the room. They executed speedy curtseys, murmuring Your Grace, Mrs. Chatham before scurrying down the stairs.