Never Have I Ever With a Duke

by Burke, Darcy

  She walked into the kitchen just as the cook set a bowl of food down for Biscuit. Mrs. Woodcock’s brow furrowed. “You were gone a long time.”

  “Biscuit ran off.” Arabella glanced fondly toward the dog as she wolfed down her breakfast.

  “Again? She did that to Millie last week.” Millie was Mrs. Woodcock’s daughter. The cook eyed Arabella’s costume. “You’d best get changed for breakfast. Millie will bring it up shortly.”

  Though Millie was a scullery maid, she often assisted their only other maid, Janney, who performed the tasks of a housemaid and ladies’ maid. Really, every retainer in the household performed all kinds of work. They had to. Just as Arabella helped in the kitchen and did all the sewing.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Woodcock.” Arabella took the back stairs up to the second story, where her chamber was located. Her parents’ room was on the same floor, and she would take breakfast in their sitting room with her mother—and father, if he felt up to it.

  Arabella quickly changed from her servant’s costume to a simple day dress. The style was three years old, so she’d relegated it to a work dress, and she planned to revise an evening gown after breakfast so she’d have something fresh to wear at the Thursby ball later in the week.

  When she arrived in her parents’ sitting room, she found her mother pacing before the windows that overlooked the street below. This was never a good sign. Pacing usually meant Papa had taken a turn.

  “What’s wrong?” Arabella asked without preamble. Her mother always preferred to get right to the heart of things.

  Mariah Stoke stopped moving, her face pale and pinched. White strands had begun to weave themselves through her blonde hair, and there were new lines around her dark green eyes. “He vomited this morning, and there was blood. I want to call the physician, but he made me promise not to.”

  Because there was no money. Or little money. They were barely managing the household on the pittance they had remaining.

  “What else can we sell?” Arabella asked, though she feared the answer. They’d sold their coach and four, any décor of value, which included a few paintings, a sculpture, and silver, and most of her mother’s small jewelry collection.

  “My grandmother’s pearls. Your father won’t like it, but it must be done.” Her gaze turned sad. “I’m so sorry, dear. I really hoped you’d be able to have those at least.”

  A year ago, Arabella might have felt sad, but the time for caring about material things had long since passed. She’d sell anything to save her father. They were a close family, just the three of them since her three older siblings had all died before the age of twelve. They clung to each other in the most primal, vital way, as if their survival depended on one another.

  Arabella crossed the room and took her mother’s hand. She gave her an encouraging smile. “It’s all right. I look better in diamonds anyway.”

  This had the desired effect, for her mother laughed, and the lines in her face eased. The warmth was short-lived, however, as darkness overtook her mother’s features far too soon. “I’ll take care of the necklace later today, after I send for the physician.”

  “What will you tell Papa?” Arabella asked. “That our benefactor is paying for it?” It was a bald fabrication. There was no benefactor, no family, wealthy or otherwise, no kindhearted friend who would loan them funds.

  Mother exhaled. “What else can we say?”

  That he believed they had a benefactor illustrated he wasn’t thinking clearly. How could he think when he slept so much of the time? Or stared out the window despondently? He felt so guilty for driving them into this situation with a bad investment scheme—and his expensive tastes.

  “Arabella, the need for you to wed has never been more urgent. You simply must find a husband. Quickly.”

  Not just any husband—a wealthy one. When their financial woes had first started to surface a year and a half ago, Papa had announced it was time for her to wed his best friend’s son, the Earl of St. Ives. The former earl—Papa’s best friend—had agreed shortly before he’d died. However, despite the current earl promising to honor his father’s wishes, the marriage had not come to pass. The earl had fallen in love with and wed someone else.

  While Arabella had felt relieved that she’d escaped an arranged union, she’d also been keenly aware of her father’s disappointment. Though at the time, she hadn’t realized the extent of his desperation. They were nearly bankrupt, and it was only a matter of time before they ended up in debtor’s prison. Or so Papa said. He refused to allow her or her mother to see their accounts, saying it wasn’t appropriate for them to have to worry about it. Except, how could they not?

  Arabella tamped down her irritation. She hated this situation, but she couldn’t change it. She could, however, fix it by marrying a wealthy gentleman. Too bad none had offered. “There’s bound to be someone at the Thursby ball,” she said to her mother with a bright smile.

  An image of the gentleman she’d met at the park burst into her mind. Would he be at the ball? She hoped so. With luck, he was wealthy and would declare himself in love with her. He wouldn’t care that she’d masqueraded as a servant and would insist they wed at once via special license. All their problems would be solved.

  She’d prefer to choose a husband by weighing factors other than financial security, but based on their short encounter that morning, he was helpful, considerate, and nearly lethal with a sword. Also bone-meltingly handsome.

  Actually, she preferred to choose no one at all. After expecting to wed one man and now being expected to wed whomever she could, the idea of becoming a member of the Spitfire Society was far more attractive.

  “There has to be someone,” her mother said, clasping her hands together until her knuckles turned white. “If you don’t receive an offer soon, we may need to consider forcing one.”

  Arabella froze. “You aren’t suggesting…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  Mother nodded firmly and dropped her hands to her sides. “A compromise. It’s not ideal, obviously, but we are in a desperate situation.”

  Yes, they were, but would they really sink so low? “I don’t know if I can do that,” Arabella said softly.

  “Neither do I.” Her mother burst promptly and completely into a flood of tears.

  Arabella rushed to put her arms around her, stroking her hands over Mother’s back in soothing circles. “We’ll find a way. I promise.”

  After a few moments, Mother reined in her emotions, pulling back from Arabella’s embrace with a pat on her back. “You c-can’t t-tell any-anyone,” Mother said for the hundredth time. “No one m-must know. If they find out, you’ll never receive an offer.”

  “Yes, I know.” Why else did she work so hard to redesign her dated wardrobe and study the latest fashion and hairstyles? She did her best to look as though they weren’t destitute and thought she did a fair job. But someone was going to puzzle it out eventually, particularly when they noticed she and her mother traveled to balls in a gig with a tiger—their young groom—on the back.

  Mother sniffed. “We’re running out of time. Your father could very well die, and then where will we be? If I don’t end up in debtor’s prison, we’ll have to impose on my cousins in Hertfordshire, and they are hardly in a position to provide assistance. What kind of future is that for you? Obscurity on a farm in the middle of nowhere, probably spending your life alone.” She shook her head. “This is not how things were supposed to go. You should have wed that gentleman your first season. What was his name?”

  “Miles Corbett.” Papa had refused Miles’s suit, insisting she would wed the heir to the Earl of St. Ives when the earl was ready.

  Miles had asked her to elope to Gretna Green, but she hadn’t possessed the courage to leave her family. No, that wasn’t quite right. She hadn’t possessed the will to disappoint them. She didn’t regret her decision. Most of the time.

  “Whatever happened to him?” Mother asked.

  “He left England to fi
nd his fortune.” Because Papa had made it clear he wasn’t worthy of Arabella. She sometimes wondered what had happened to him, for he would always be her first love.

  “Ah well, he wouldn’t have the funds to save us from our misfortune.” Was it misfortune if Papa had been able to avoid it?

  Arabella stiffened her spine. Such thoughts were unhelpful. This was their reality. This was what they had to face. “I’ll wed soon, Mother. I promise.”

  There was simply no other option.

  Chapter 2

  Hell and damnation.

  Blast it all.

  Son of a bitch.

  A dozen other curses pounded Graham Kinsley’s brain as he strode from the bank toward the hack he’d just hailed. After instructing the driver of his destination, Graham climbed into the vehicle and scowled.

  The mortgage hadn’t been paid in three years, and the bank was done being patient. They planned to foreclose on Brixton Park unless Graham could deliver the overdue payments. It was an astronomical sum, and since Halstead Manor, his entailed estate, wasn’t profitable and the former duke had left him a mountain of debt, there was simply no way to stop the foreclosure.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  Graham scrubbed a hand over his face and tossed his hat onto the seat beside him. There had to be a way. He refused to lose Brixton Park. The third Duke of Halstead had built the stunning country house just outside London, and the seventh duke wasn’t going to lose it on account of the sixth’s duke stupidity.

  The realization that he, Graham Kinsley, son of a secretary and a secretary himself until six months ago, was now the Duke of Halstead washed over him again as improbable and unbelievable as when he’d first heard the news that he was heir presumptive.

  The bank manager’s advice echoed in Graham’s brain: “Sell Brixton Park before we take it from you.”

  Sell the one thing Graham’s father had cared about the most aside from his late wife and beloved son? Graham couldn’t do it. Though neither he nor his father had ever lived there, it represented their legacy, the life that had been stolen from them. Their attachment to the estate was very personal and very real. There had to be another way.

  Two ways, actually. The first was to recover the money the former duke had invested in a terrible scheme. He’d literally lost a fortune—a fortune he didn’t have because he’d already been in debt up to his eyeballs. Graham had pored over the records a hundred times and still had no clue whom he’d invested the money with, and the duke’s secretary claimed he didn’t know either.

  Without recovering the investment, that left only one other option: marry an heiress.

  Graham had just inherited a dukedom. His entire life had been upended. Finding a wife was the furthest thing from his mind. Rather, he wanted it to be. He knew he had to marry someday—duty and all that—but right now, he simply needed to find his feet.

  The hack pulled to a stop in front of Graham’s former employer’s—and best friend’s—residence. Graham paid the driver and walked up to the house belonging to the Earl of St. Ives. The butler, Trask, opened the door and greeted him.

  “His lordship is in his study, if you’d care to join him. And her ladyship is in the drawing room entertaining Lady Northam and Lady Ware.”

  “Thank you, Trask.” Graham handed his hat and gloves to the butler, then took the stairs to the first floor.

  The door to the drawing room was just to the left of the stairs, so he stopped in to say hello to the ladies before continuing to David’s study.

  “Well, if it isn’t the new Duke of Halstead!” The Marchioness of Northam, who was a dear friend of the Countess of St. Ives—Fanny—exclaimed with a welcoming smile. “Fanny was just telling us that you spent the night. Are you leasing a house for the Season, or is Brixton Park close enough to make it unnecessary?”

  He dropped into a chair. “Definitely unnecessary. Brixton Park is just five miles away.”

  “I do hope you’ll plan to host an entertainment,” the marchioness said. “The last duke didn’t extend invitations.” Likely because he’d been selling off the interior of the house piece by piece to pay his creditors.

  “She wants to investigate the rocks on the estate,” Lady Ware explained from beside the marchioness on a settee.

  Graham recalled that Lady Northam was a geologist. “I’m sure there will be occasion for you to explore.” Though not this Season. It was going to take time—and money—to restore the estate to what it deserved to be, to what it once was, to what his ancestor had built.

  “When do you plan to make your debut as the duke?” Lady Northam asked.

  “I’ve been trying to convince him to attend the Thursby ball,” Fanny said, glancing his way before looking toward her friends. “Six months is an appropriate length of mourning, especially for a family member he didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t know the former duke at all?” Lady Ware asked.

  Graham shook his head. “Never met him. We were distantly related. No one was more shocked than I when I became the heir presumptive last summer.” That had been when his father had died suddenly, just weeks after he’d become heir presumptive. The duke had followed him within two months.

  Nearly two months in which the duke could have—and should have—invited Graham to visit the estates he would inherit, to review the accounts, to prepare him for the crippling debt he was about to be saddled with. But he hadn’t. He’d ignored Graham as much then as he and his predecessors had ignored Graham’s line of the family for four generations. All because of a lie.

  Fanny’s countenance dimmed. “About the Thursby ball—” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll let David explain.” She summoned her usual sunny smile. “You will be the most sought-after bachelor of the Season.” She cast a look toward Lady Ware. “Along with Anthony, of course.” Anthony was Lady Ware’s brother, the Viscount Colton.

  “Anthony might be sought after, but he’s not doing any seeking.” Lady Ware’s brow puckered. “He’s still struggling after our parents’ death.” She brightened, clearly not wanting to dwell on that unhappy memory—they’d been murdered by a highwayman last year—and focused on Graham. “What about you? Will you be seeking a wife straightaway?”

  Lady Northam chuckled. “He won’t have to look very hard. Misses will flock to him, I’m sure.” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You aren’t a terrible rake like the Marquess of Ripley, are you?”

  Graham wasn’t entirely aware of everyone’s titles and reputations, but Ripley he’d heard of. In fact, he’d seen him at Brooks’s last night—with the Viscount Colton. He decided not to mention that. “I am not a rake. At least I don’t think I am.”

  “Nevertheless, you will be studied and discussed—be forewarned,” Lady Northam said.

  “Thank you?” He laughed. “So if I’m to be dissected, I should like to know whom I should steer clear of. If I were to be interested in the Marriage Mart, which I am not. I’d rather not find myself leg shackled just yet.” Unfortunately, want and need were not the same thing, and he needed an heiress. Perhaps they could help without realizing what he was after.

  “Definitely stay away from anyone who is in their first Season,” Lady Ware said. “They are the hungriest. You’ll be safer with more mature ladies.”

  Lady Northam nodded in agreement. “Like Jane and Phoebe, though I daresay they won’t be at many events.”

  Lady Ware reached for a cake on the table in front of the settee. “Not since forming the Spitfire Society.”

  “What on earth is that?” Graham asked.

  “Their own private club of sorts—for spinsters,” Fanny explained. “Phoebe—Miss Lennox—inherited a vast sum of money last year and set herself up in Cavendish Square as a spinster. Jane declared her own spinsterhood and joined her.”

  “It’s marvelous.” Lady Northam’s tone was deep with respect and admiration. “If I hadn’t met Beck, I would have joined them.”

  Graham heard what they said, but his mind was
rather fixated on one part: that Phoebe Lennox had inherited a vast sum. She sounded perfect—mature, uninterested in marriage, and rich. Well, he needed her to be at least vaguely interested in marriage, but perhaps they could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. Her money for his…what? She didn’t sound like the type to be swayed by a title, not even duchess.

  Oh, hell, he had an uphill climb.

  But Graham had never backed away from a challenge… However, they’d also said Miss Lennox didn’t attend social events. No matter, he’d simply pay a call.

  David, Earl of St. Ives, entered the drawing room with a smile. “I thought I heard you, Your Grace.”

  Of course David didn’t need to use such formal address, but it was a game, and Graham had started it. They’d been friends for as long as either could remember and had always called each other by their first names. Until David had inherited the earldom, which had been expected, of course. Graham had insisted on calling him “my lord” most of the time, despite David telling him not to. Now David took great delight in addressing Graham, who’d never expected to be a duke, as “Your Grace.”

  Graham had taken to embracing it. He smirked up at David. “Yes, that’s right, I do outrank you.”

  “Quite,” David said, stifling a smile. “Though I do chair a committee in the Lords, while you do not.” David had just recently been put in charge of roads.

  Graham flattened his palms against the arms of the chair. “Thank God. If I had to manage something like that right now in addition to everything else—” He stopped speaking before he uttered something he didn’t plan to, then jumped to his feet. “We’re boring the ladies.”

  “Not at all,” Fanny said.

  “Let them go so we can talk about the Duke’s prospects after they leave.” Lady Northam winked at Graham, who laughed in response.

  “Please tell me how I fare,” he said before departing the drawing room with David.

  They went into his study across the hall. “How was your appointment?” David asked.