Dukes, Actually: 12 Dukes of Christmas #5

by Erica Ridley

  Except for separating a dozen cherished titles Adam was unwilling to part with. “Two o’clock?”

  “It’s as good as done, Your Grace.”

  “Splendid.” Adam hurried from the castle to his waiting coach before he was forced into any more awkward conversations.

  “To the cottage?” his driver asked.

  “Please,” Adam replied with feeling.

  The encounter with Madame Edna had proven he was not yet ready to converse with strangers. His head still hurt from the effort. He could not wait to settle into the library and relax with a favorite book. At least it was a short drive.

  When his coach stopped in front of his silent, cozy summer cottage, Adam’s tense shoulders relaxed. Without waiting for the driver, he opened the carriage door and stepped out onto springy green grass. Ten decorative stones up the neat front walk, and he’d finally be where he was most comfortable: alone.

  As his shiny black Hessian touched the first gray stone, the wild sound of an out-of-control carriage rumbled down the hill toward him. Adam spun to face the narrow road, heart pounding in alarm.

  It was not a runaway carriage. It was a high-flyer racing phaeton with a madman at the reins and three equally insane passengers crammed into the two-person seat. They caught sight of Adam at the same moment.

  “It’s the Duke of Azureford!” shouted a voice. “Let me out!”

  The phaeton slowed to a stop, and the top of a young woman’s head poked up over the side. Did the driver not intend to help her down?

  Adam hurried in her direction.

  Before he could offer assistance, the young woman’s delicate kid half-boots landed on the colorful leaves below.

  Time seemed to slow. Adam could swear his spellbound eyes registered each bounce of her golden tendrils, each magnetic sway of her hips, each crinkle at the edges of her sparkling hazel eyes.

  This wasn’t any young woman. This was Miss Carole Quincy, Adam’s next-door neighbor.

  His heartbeat was so loud in his ears, he barely registered the phaeton rolling merrily away, its occupants apparently confident that their recently ejected passenger could fend for herself. Nor did Adam have any doubts.

  Miss Quincy was a beautiful hoyden, an unpredictable tempest disguised as springtime. Adam’s opposite in every way. She was gregarious and popular, wild and joyful, her easy manner and infectious laugh winning the hearts of every soul who crossed her path.

  Adam found such disregard for decorum and proper behavior both appalling and irresistible. Open unconventionality might be considered an insurmountable flaw in the beau mode, but up here in the middle of nowhere, she didn’t need to be a perfect lady. Villagers loved her because she was funny and fun, relaxed and friendly.

  And now she was standing at the edge of Adam’s meticulously manicured front garden.

  “Lovely to see you again, Your Grace.” Miss Quincy dropped a polite curtsey. “I was hoping to find you.”

  “You were?” Adam growled dubiously.

  The growl, because he’d long ago learned it was the best way to keep from stammering or making himself otherwise appear uncomfortable with the current situation.

  The dubiousness, because the last time he’d had the pleasure of Miss Quincy’s company, Adam hadn’t managed to speak a single word to her. Not even a growl. Why would anyone hope to go through that again?

  The one and only time he’d hosted a gathering, Adam had been so tongue-tied that his guests had mostly talked with each other. Not that there had been many of them. Adam didn’t know enough of his neighbors to muster up a proper crush. The primary reason he knew of Miss Carole Quincy was because their properties shared a border. From the wooden-latticed belvedere in his rear garden, Adam could watch her entertaining in hers. Near as he could tell, she was bosom friends with the entire village.

  Except for him.

  She joined him on the stone path as if they made a habit of strolling up to his front door side by side. “Marvelous day, is it not?”

  “Depends if you like sun,” Adam growled, then heroically refrained from slapping a palm across his overheated face.

  It depended if she liked the sun? Who hated the sun? Even his well-practiced growl couldn’t make a comment that stupid sound intelligent.

  He shifted his weight and tried to ignore his accelerated heartbeat. Everyone else could do this. Small talk about the weather was something children mastered before they left the nursery. Well, almost everyone. He was working on becoming New Adam, but he wasn’t New Adam yet. He was still awkward and shy and desperately wishing she’d waited to speak to him until he finally figured out what to say.

  She grinned up at him. “My apologies if my arrival startled you.”

  He shook his head. Admitting being startled was like admitting he was completely out of his element. “Family of yours?”

  She laughed. “Le Ducs, actually.”

  Adam did not laugh. Le Ducs, actually was a mere extra syllable away from Madame Edna’s prediction of Dukes, actually.

  Was he the victim of some elaborate hoax? Embarrass the awkward duke whilst the popular set had their laugh? He’d hoped he’d left such games behind him at Oxford.

  Then again, how could anyone have orchestrated the fortune teller’s ruse and the coincidental timing of his arrival? Adam himself hadn’t known he would be at the castle, much less at what hour. He’d made the decision to donate his books in the coach on the way up. Even his driver hadn’t known until after they’d passed the Welcome to Christmas sign.

  None of that prevented him from putting on his imperious face as they reached his front door. Haughtiness was the one mask that never failed him.

  Miss Quincy bit her plump, rosebud lip. “Please excuse my forwardness, but do you mind if I come inside?

  Adam stared at her in stupefaction.

  “I won’t bother you,” she continued in a rush. “It’s just, your library—”

  His library? The place he planned to lose himself inside, in order to escape the embarrassment of not knowing what to say to others?

  “It wouldn’t be a good idea,” he interrupted coldly. No, that frigid tone was part of his problem. Adam started again. “I cannot invite you in. I’ve just arrived, and I don’t know in what state of readiness—”

  The front door swung open.

  “Welcome home, Your Grace.” Swinton, Adam’s beloved but maddening butler, guarded the entrance with his usual brisk efficiency. “We’ve been waiting for you. Everything is in order.”

  There went that excuse. Adam barely hid his sigh.

  “Ah, Miss Quincy.” Swinton took in her presence next to Adam as if he always arrived home with an attractive young lady at his side. “I presume you’re here because of the golden ring?”

  “The golden what?” Adam exploded in disbelief.

  Not Swinton, too! First Madame Edna blathering on about five golden rings, and now his no-nonsense butler saying things like—

  “Gold earring,” Swinton repeated, touching a finger to his generous earlobe as if this new explanation made any more sense than the one Adam had imagined.

  Miss Quincy’s lips parted in sudden realization. “Mr. Swinton, you’ve had a new haircut! Subtle, but handsome. This is a splendid look for you.”

  It was? Swinton did? How would Miss Quincy know?

  Before Adam could ask any of his questions, they were already inside the entranceway and Swinton was closing the front door.

  “I’ll just be a moment,” Miss Quincy assured him. “I lost my earring in your library during your party—”

  “Six months ago?” Adam said doubtfully.

  “That’s what I said,” Swinton murmured.

  Miss Quincy lifted her chin. “This was my first chance to come and look for it.”

  “Second chance,” came his butler’s bored voice. “You were here three days ago.”

  “Second chance,” Miss Quincy agreed. “If you don’t mind…”

  But he did mind. Rather th
an stalk after her as she turned toward the corridor, he loped past her to block the library entrance with his own body if necessary. The library was his private domain. The rest of the world might be random and overwhelming, but his library was the one place where every single book—

  Was completely out of order?

  A strangled sound burst from Adam’s throat as he forgot about Miss Quincy completely. His books! Who had touched them? Were they all still here? This was not how it was supposed to be at all! Adam had specifically ordered the contents transferred from his London residence to be presented in the same manner his father had kept them: displayed by size and color, making the library a veritable rainbow of literature no matter what the weather might be doing outside. It had been that way for generations. Adam would never have changed that. His servants would never have ruined the careful order. Miss Quincy…

  He whirled to face her.

  “Did you do this?” he demanded, his growl this time very real indeed.

  “You didn’t do it?” she countered with obvious surprise.

  Of course she hadn’t snuck in and rearranged his books. Swinton would have tossed her out by her ear, missing jewelry or no.

  At this point, Adam didn’t give a fig about Miss Quincy and her earrings. What mattered was ensuring the dozen volumes he had planned to keep for the rest of his life were still here.

  If not, heads would roll.

  Chapter 3

  Carole leaned into a shaft of sunlight shining over the freshly ironed billiard table and carefully missed her shot.

  “That was a near miss,” said her father in surprise and admiration. “You almost made it.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured in reply.

  Although the le Duc family often joined the Quincys for their weekly billiards game, this afternoon Carole and her father were enjoying a rare moment together. She was taking extra care to ensure neither one of them gained too many points, in order to ensure the too-brief game lasted as long as possible. In her family, a foul shot cost two points—which erased most of her three-point lead.

  “How are your sketches coming?” Father asked.

  “Very well,” she prevaricated.

  As far as Carole knew, her best sketchbook was making the rounds with the neighbors or bobbing at the bottom of a well. The Duke of Azureford had sent her away without giving her a chance to look for it. Her chest tightened.

  Father sent her a fond smile. “You’ll have to let me see your drawings one day.”

  “One day,” she agreed vaguely.

  As far as Father knew, her sketchbook was full of ladylike images: still-lifes of fruit at the breakfast table, watercolors of the bright yellow rapeseed flowers in their rear garden. He considered himself progressive to allow his daughter to play billiards with a proper cue rather than a ladies’ rack. If he found out she’d sketched the elegant castle ballroom as a billiard pub for whisky-swilling ladies, he’d never let Carole near a billiard ball again.

  “Corner pocket.” Father positioned his cue and sent his ivory ball flying toward hers, which knocked it into the bright red object ball. “Cannon. Watch out, daughter. Now we’re tied.”

  “Twelve to twelve.”

  Carole bit her lip as her father took his next shot. She longed to fill the final pages of her sketchbook. If she had it, she would not draw him eager to win, but rather a scoreboard showing fantastical numbers high in the hundreds. After all, before each match, players agreed on how many points each type of shot was worth, and how many were necessary to win. If Carole ruled the world, games wouldn’t end at twenty-one, but last for as long as the players pleased.

  As she watched, her father scored two more cannons and a hazard, before losing his turn with a foul.

  He grinned at her. “Seventeen to twelve. Can you catch me?”

  Of course she could catch him. Carole could have won this game on her first turn.

  She stalled by taking a long moment to chalk her cue’s leather tip. It wasn’t necessary. She’d already chalked it after every turn. But it gave her a few more moments with her father. This morning, she’d even let Judith smarten her up for the occasion. A French twist in her hair, a braided gold bracelet on her wrist, the fancy day gown she hated because the puffed sleeves’ lacy trim scratched.

  Father’s gaze was toward the table. “What’s your play?”

  With a sigh, Carole eyed the green baize. Her ivory cue ball was marked with a black dot. From this angle, she could shoot… pretty much anything.

  So could Father, to be honest. Part of her yearned to believe he was stretching the game out as long as possible, too. He’d never allowed her to play until after her mother died. Then he’d stopped inviting friends over. Stopped smiling altogether.

  Teaching her to play had been their common ground. A way to escape the crushing loneliness of a too-quiet, too-empty house. At first, eight-year-old Carole had agreed to play because she worshipped her father—which was the same reason she borrowed his tomes on accounting and mathematics, determined to learn everything he knew.

  Before long, however, the game itself was in her blood. She’d played every spare moment she could. Geometry, as it turned out, was a competitive advantage. The ability to calculate spin and angles at a glance let her make shot after shot, time after time. Billiards and mathematics had given her life purpose.

  Billiards had rules the players agreed upon. There were no sudden surprises. No permanent disappearances. If one’s ball fell into a pocket, one simply returned it into play on one’s next turn.

  Mathematics was just as lovely. Physics made sense. Geometry made sense. They had logic. They didn’t change. They could be counted upon to always be there to help her no matter what day of the week it might be.

  “Eighteen to seventeen,” she said after she made a cannon and two winning hazards—and a foul to temper her lead.

  “Let’s see if I can fix that.”

  But Father missed his next shot. Carole frowned. His hands were steady as ever, but he’d squinted oddly before taking his turn.

  She made a mental note to have his vision tested. Perhaps he spent all day in his study not because work overwhelmed him, but because his eyes weren’t sharp enough to see it properly. Maybe all he needed was a pair of spectacles, and things would return to how they used to be.

  Well, almost like old times. It had been her mother’s time to go, and Carole’s time to grow up and do her part. She had thrown herself into being the best caretaker for her father with the same zeal she’d given billiards and geometry.

  Carole knew what that meant. She had performed the calculations. Life was like mathematics: there was a single true, perfect solution to every problem. She’d analyzed their situation a dozen ways and the answer was always to stay home. Stay a spinster. Take care of her father for as long as she still had him.

  He was the only family she had left.

  “Twenty to seventeen,” she said after two cannons and a foul.

  Father scored a cannon and a hazard before losing his turn. “Twenty to twenty. You’re getting pretty good at this, love.”

  “Thanks for noticing,” she murmured.

  Before she could take her shot, a footman strode into the billiard room with a folded missive on a tray.

  Carole stepped out of the way so that her father could accept his letter.

  The footman held the tray to her instead.

  “Whose seal is that?” Father squinted. “Wait, I know… Is that Azureford?”

  It was, indeed. She lifted the square of paper from the tray with a slight tremble.

  Yesterday, the duke had sent her away as soon as he saw the condition of his library, which meant he had not been the one to order the books rearranged. This was good news: He hadn’t found her sketchbook. It was also bad news: Perhaps someone else had.

  Carole had to get back in there.

  Father furrowed his brow. “What does His Grace want with my daughter?”

  She opened the letter t
o find out.

  * * *

  Miss Quincy,

  Please excuse my rudeness yesterday. If you are free this afternoon, you are welcome to search for your earring.

  Azureford

  * * *

  “I left something behind the night of his party.” Carole refolded the paper. Her father did not ask when or what party. He paid even less attention to the goings-on outside of his house than he did inside of it. “I’ll drop by to get it when we’re finished with this game.”

  “After I win, you mean,” Father teased. He surveyed the table. “Sorry, love. You haven’t got a shot. This game is mine.”

  Irritation flashed. She was tired of being overlooked by the one person she cared about most. If Father bothered to come out of his study for more than an hour a week, perhaps he wouldn’t underestimate his daughter.

  Without stopping to chalk the leather tip, she yanked her cue into position. Her bracelet jangled against the wood and a carefully curled ringlet fell into her eyes, but none of that mattered. She could hit this shot with the cue behind her back.

  So she did.

  Her father’s mouth fell open. “Have you been letting me win? How long has this been going on?”

  She kissed his cheek. “Better luck next week.”

  With that, Carole lay her cue across the green baize and walked out of the billiard room. She almost even made it to the front door before the housekeeper flagged her down.

  “What is it, Mrs. MacDonald?”

  “I’m afraid there were no apples today at the market.” Mrs. MacDonald wrung her hands. “I’ll have to make pear tarts instead. Will that do?”

  “Of course it will do. Pear tarts are lovely. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  “But apple tarts are Mr. Quincy’s favorite. He eats them every evening after your billiards match.”

  Father ate his favorite tarts after every billiard match because Carole had arranged it that way. A delicious, cinnamon-spiced treat to thank him for not forgetting her altogether.