Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  Her eyes flew wide as her mind registered that she was still on solid ground somehow, albeit leaning forward precariously. She flung a quick glance over her shoulder to find that a man had grabbed the bottom edge of her cloak and was holding it with both hands. Emmaline couldn’t see much of him, given her awkward angle and the way the fabric strained across her neck and shoulders to keep her from falling. She turned her gaze back to the water that still waited to claim her should the cloak—or the man—falter.

  “I’ve got you,” he repeated, his voice slow and rich and soothing. She’d heard the head groomsman speak in such a manner to antsy horses. She had to admit, the warm strength in this man’s tone calmed her rapidly beating heart just a bit.

  “Now, relax and breathe,” he murmured, “then set your feet so that I can pull you upright. You should be able to back away from the edge safely once you’ve regained your balance. Understand?”

  Emmaline nodded, then realized he might not be able to see the movement through her thick velvet hood. “Y-yes,” she croaked against the pull of the cloak.

  “All right,” he said, giving her a moment to brace herself. “Here we go.”

  She held her breath as his slow tug righted her. When her weight shifted from the balls of her feet to her heels, she heaved a sigh of relief and took a quick step back. Then another.

  And bumped into the hard chest of the stranger who’d just rescued her. The stranger whose arms now came around her to steady her. The stranger whose embrace she had the oddest urge to turn into and—

  “Milady!” It seemed her maid had finally caught up. “Milady, are you all right?”

  Molly’s breathless question saved Emmaline from further embarrassing herself. Whyever had she had such a thought? Gratitude, likely. That’s all. It had nothing to do with the warmth that had flooded her at the man’s unexpected touch—warmth she now missed as he lowered his arms and stepped back from her.

  “I am fine,” Emmaline stated, forcing a self-deprecating laugh. “Thanks only to…” She turned, intending to face her savior then, praying he wasn’t someone she knew, lest the story be spread throughout London’s parlors by the first of this afternoon’s calls. Young ladies of gentle breeding simply didn’t find themselves in the arms of strangers, even if she’d just been trying to save—

  “The puppy!” Emmaline cried, whirling back around to the lake instead. Her gaze darted up and down the shoreline, but she didn’t see the dog. She looked to the water. “There!” She pointed at the tiny head, which had drifted far from the bank. He was nearer the center of the lake now.

  Emmaline brought her pinkies to the corners of her mouth, letting out a rather unladylike whistle. The pup heard her, turning its nose toward the sound. She started clapping loudly. “Here, pup. Come this way. Good pup!”

  She even tossed in some kissing noises, hoping again that the man behind her—whose face she’d yet to see—had no idea who she was.

  The pup started paddling in her direction.

  But then its head disappeared beneath the water. Her throat clenched. She counted a good three or four beats before it bobbed back up again. The poor mite must have tired, as it seemed to struggle to stay afloat—and the dog was still too far from shore.

  “He’s not going to make it,” she said under her breath, and began tugging at the fastenings of her cloak. “Molly,” she called over her shoulder. “Run back to the carriage and fetch a blanket.”

  “But milady—”

  “The pup is freezing. I’ll need something to wrap him in when he comes out,” Emmaline said, turning back so she could keep her eye on the dog. She’d wait to shuck her velvet cloak to the ground until after Molly departed. The maid wouldn’t go if she knew what Emmaline was planning to do. “Go!”

  “But—”

  “It’s all right,” came the man’s voice. “I’ll see that your mistress comes to no harm.”

  Molly hesitated only a moment longer before Emmaline heard the maid’s footfalls heading away.

  Emmaline dropped her cloak, eyes fastened on the dog, whose progress was slowing.

  “You’re not really thinking of going in after him, are you?”

  His voice came from directly beside her now. Emmaline glanced over at the man and was immediately struck by two things:

  One—she’d (thankfully) never seen him before, which made it likely he didn’t know her either.

  And two—he was, quite possibly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

  Her eyes traveled over his thick, chestnut hair which glinted auburn even in the weak sunlight. It had a natural lift and curl that caressed his face without being the least bit feminine. His lips were full, his jaw was both long and square, his nose sat strong and straight on his face and his deep set, hazel eyes stunned beneath impossibly thick lashes. Staring at him was like looking at a painting by an old master.

  No, this man was the most beautiful human she’d ever seen.

  Even more beautiful than she.

  Goodness knew she didn’t mean that arrogantly. Her appearance simply was what it was, and if anyone knew what a curse beauty could be, it was Emmaline.

  “Yes, I am,” she said, eyeing the floundering pup again before turning her attention to her skirts. She couldn’t as easily shed those, and they would certainly hinder her in the water. Perhaps she could pull the bottom hem between her legs and tuck—

  “In that ensemble?” he scoffed, clearly thinking along the same lines as she.

  Emmaline shot him a disgruntled glance, only to find him doffing his own outerwear.

  “I can’t allow it,” he went on, removing his plain brown jacket and waistcoat. Though decently tailored, the fabrics were far from the finer cuts favored by the upper ten thousand, which relieved her mind further. He was not of her world. The chance that this encounter would make the rounds of ton gossip were slim.

  She really should look away, Emmaline knew, even as color burned her cheeks. An unmarried lady oughtn’t see any man in just his shirt and trousers, and yet the grace of his movements—and the form they revealed—held her in thrall.

  “With my luck, your skirts would drag you under and then I’d have your death, and the dog’s, on my conscience.”

  With that, the man bent low, braced one hand on the bank and vaulted down into the water below with a splash that sent stinging cold droplets back up to wet her, too.

  He cursed.

  She didn’t fault him for it.

  Emmaline watched in amazement as the man strode out into the water—first knee deep, then thigh, then waist—before finally accepting his fate and setting off with long, bold strokes toward the puppy.

  She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until he’d reached the dog, scooped the tired beast over one shoulder, and was headed back with the puppy safely tucked against him. She exhaled long and low.

  As he reached the depth where he gained his feet again, Emmaline sucked in her breath anew. Dear God, the man looked like a hero of myth coming up out of that water. His shirt clung to him, as did his trousers, accentuating muscular shoulders and thighs and—oh my.

  “Here,” he grunted when he reached the bank, thrusting the pup up with both arms.

  “Oh!” Emmaline snapped back to the moment, bending down to take the dog, who immediately starting licking her face in gratitude, as if she were the one who’d swum out to save him instead of just running off a few geese. “Poor little thing is wracked with shivers,” she said as she tucked the wet dog against her chest.

  “I can sympathize,” the man said wryly, then he placed his palms on the bank and jumped, pulling both of his knees up onto the ground first before coming lithely to his feet.

  “Thank you for saving him,” Emmaline said, valiantly trying to avert her eyes from the dripping man. His light cotton shirt had been rendered rather see-through by the water, and though his trouser fabric seemed more substantial, it really wasn’t that much more so. “And me,” she added quickly.

>   “The pleasure was mine,” he said, his teeth chattering only a little. “I was never one who could ignore a damsel in distress—or her dog.”

  “Oh, he’s not mine.” Emmaline bent to retrieve her cloak with the hand that wasn’t cradling the dog. She offered the garment to the man, but he shook his head, so she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped the front around the pup in her arms.

  “But I think he shall be,” she said, using the cloak to rub the pup dry. Upon closer inspection, he was an adorable little thing—a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, if she wasn’t mistaken. “Won’t you, sweet boy?” she cooed to the dog. “I think I shall call you Duke.”

  “Duke?” the man said, eyeing the dog’s stature with a raised chestnut brow. “A lofty name for such a small creature. Why Duke?”

  Emmaline snorted, remembering her heated discussion with her father over breakfast. With the Duke of Albemarle’s recent death, there might soon be a newly-belted unmarried duke in town, and the expectation had been made clear.

  “Because I’ve been ordered to land a duke,” she muttered bitterly. Her eyes widened. Had she said that aloud?

  She glanced at the man, but an easy smile played about his beautiful lips, as if her slip of the tongue hadn’t registered. Of course, the matrimonial woes of the aristocracy likely didn’t concern him. She decided to play her words off as a jest, so she kicked her own lips up into a grin and added a jaunty shrug.

  “And now, with your help, I have.” She turned her voice softer, speaking to the puppy now, bringing her face close to his. “And you’re the only Duke I intend to have in my life, aren’t you?”

  The pup licked her nose as if to agree.

  Emmaline was saved from digging herself in deeper by a running Molly, brandishing a carriage blanket in front of her like a sword on a battlefield.

  Everything happened quite quickly then. The man gratefully accepted the blanket from the maid, wrapping himself in the coarse wool before making to leave—most likely so that he didn’t freeze to death.

  Emmaline offered to drop him in her carriage—it was the least she could do, she insisted—but the man demurred. He offered to return the laundered blanket if she would but give him her direction, but she told him it wasn’t necessary and they parted ways without even exchanging introductions.

  It was better that way, she knew, given the improperness of their meeting. And given their difference in station, it was unlikely she would ever see the man again.

  But as she watched him walk away toward Rotten Row and Kensington Road beyond, she found herself wishing it wasn’t so.

  Chapter 2

  Given his sodden state, Maxwell entered Albemarle House through the servants’ entrance. If he was lucky, he could reach his temporary rooms unseen—and un-smelled.

  Even in the country, he’d read about the big to-do in London last year when it was decided that the river which fed the Serpentine had become too polluted. The City had gone to much trouble to cut the lake off from the River Westbourne and instead, pump water in from the Thames. Well, perhaps the water smelled better, but the mud that now coated his boots and trousers?

  He stunk to high heaven.

  Thankfully it was still quite early. If he could just get through the kitchens—with profuse apologies to Cook, of course—he could take the back staircase and—

  “Good Lord, what is that stench?”

  Max froze at his cousin’s horrified query. Well, his cousin-by-marriage, that was. Damn. They’d only known each other a few weeks now, and under most unusual circumstances. They got on well, though, and he didn’t wish for her to think ill of him.

  He turned to find Kate, Duchess of Albemarle, staring at him, aghast. She’d pulled the corner of her shawl up over her nose and mouth in an effort to block the odor. He winced.

  “My apologies. I—” Max stopped short, wondering how to explain that while he’d left the house this morning intending to visit the Old Bailey, he’d found himself in Hyde Park fishing a pup out of the Serpentine instead.

  He knew why he’d veered to the park. He missed home. London was an impressive city to be sure, but he didn’t belong here. He supposed he’d been hoping a walk through the fading greenery of the park might lift his spirits.

  And it had, but for the most unanticipated of reasons.

  Who was she? Heat spread through him at the mere memory of having had the stunning young lady in his arms, for even the briefest of moments. Would the duchess recognize her, were he to describe the woman?

  “No, no,” Kate said, waving away his apology. She dropped the shawl and gave him a bemused grin, but then her nose scrunched and she quickly replaced the flimsy barrier. “I’m sure it’s not so bad,” she said, her words muffled through the fabric. “It’s just that my condition makes certain scents and tastes overly strong.”

  Her other hand dropped to cradle her very-pregnant stomach through her widow’s weeds.

  Max shook his head ruefully. “No, it is that bad, I’m afraid. I can barely stand myself.”

  Even with half of her face covered by black silk, Max could see the curiosity burning in Kate’s expression.

  “I’ll tell you the whole story once I’m cleaned up, I promise.” He’d play up the farce of it all, for maximum laughter. He liked Kate. The duchess was as kind a woman as he’d ever met, and she’d weathered much these past few weeks. They both could use some levity.

  Kate nodded, backing away from him. “I’ll meet you in the breakfast room then,” she said, and her eyes crinkled above her shawl in what must have been a smile. “Although, let’s be honest. It will be second breakfast for me and this little one.” She patted her stomach once more.

  “Second breakfast it is,” Max agreed before bolting up the servants’ stairs.

  “And how is my nephew today?” Max asked as he entered the breakfast room three quarters of an hour later.

  Kate was already seated at the long table, eating heartily from a heaping plate of eggs, sausages, kippers, and rolls slathered in marmalade—and that was just what he could see atop the mound.

  She smiled sheepishly as she speared another forkful.

  “Starving,” she said, then brought the bite to her mouth and resumed chewing.

  Max laughed and went to the sideboard to fill his own plate.

  Once he was seated, Kate said, “I don’t remember this constant hunger when I was confined with the girls.”

  Max smiled as he swallowed. “All the more reason I’m certain he will be a boy.”

  Hell, he prayed her child would be a boy. Then the babe would become the new duke and he could return home and remain simply Maxwell Granville, country barrister.

  “Perhaps,” Kate allowed. “Although the betting book at White’s apparently disagrees.” She rolled her eyes to the ornately plastered ceiling and back again. “My brother tells me that several wagers have been made and the majority believe that the child will be daughter number four.”

  The duchess’s countenance was soft and serene, as if either outcome would make her equally happy. But he wondered if her smile was hiding the same worries his polite one did, simply in reverse.

  They’d teased back and forth about it, but surely she hoped just as much as he did for a boy.

  She’d never said, of course—she’d never be so gauche. And he would never ask her outright.

  Just as she’d never asked him what his desire was, though he’d made it clear from the beginning. She likely didn’t believe him. She probably just thought he was being considerate of her feelings, given all she had to lose.

  After all, who wouldn’t want to be a duke?

  It was like an unspoken weight hanging in the air all the time.

  Besides, it mattered not what either of them wanted. Both of their futures depended on the sex of the child Kate was carrying, fairness be damned.

  It was time to change the subject.

  “I believe I owe you a story. Let’s see…” He proceeded to regale her with the hap
penings of the morning, starting with his desire to see Hyde Park without all of the fashionable people who would descend upon it later in the day. Then he told her of the banshee he’d seen chasing off the geese, his rescue of her and finally of his swim to save the puppy—playing it all up in a most hilarious manner.

  By the time he finished, Kate was wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks.

  “I’m dying to know,” she said as her chuckles subsided. “What name did your mystery lady give?”

  “She did not,” Max said. “But you should have seen her. She was quite fierce.” And lovely. Exceedingly lovely.

  Kate’s brows dipped. “You said she had a maid with her? Do you think she was one of us?”

  One of us. Max knew Kate meant one of the aristocracy. Just the question made his laughter flee and his cravat tighten. He might be a chance birth away from becoming a duke, but as a distant second-cousin who’d lived his entire life far removed from this world, he hardly felt like ‘one of us’. Nor did he wish to.

  But he understood what Kate was asking. “I would say yes, given the quality of her clothing, the way she spoke and how she carried herself—apart from when she was running down the geese, of course.” It was on the tip of his tongue to give a description of her—given her striking black hair, startlingly green eyes and uncommon beauty, he was sure Kate would recognize her if she’d ever seen her before.

  The words died upon his lips, however. He knew enough about life in the ton to know that even their innocent encounter could be misconstrued by gossips, and he didn’t wish the young lady any harm. He decided her identity was better left unknown.

  As if echoing his thoughts, Kate said, “It’s probably for the best. You must be more careful. Once your identity becomes known, many an enterprising young miss will be after you. It’s not often a young, handsome duke comes on the market. One with all of his teeth, no less.”

  She smiled at him, but her eyes clouded with sadness. Her own husband had been young and handsome, he knew—a man still very much in his prime. Theirs had been the match of the season thirteen years ago. His sudden death had been a shock to all who knew him. He’d simply grabbed his forehead, wincing in pain, and then he was gone.