by Erica Ridley
Azureford’s tone was final. “No.”
Chapter 5
All the other Chippendale chairs around his long table were empty, but Adam was not alone. He was surrounded by half a dozen stacks of detailed notes, saved correspondence, and parliamentary reports. The golden hour after breaking his fast but before the bustle of the day properly began were his most productive moments.
Usually.
Try as he might to concentrate solely on the House of Lords projects before him, part of his mind could not stop thinking about Miss Quincy. He couldn’t claim not to feel at sixes and sevens in her company, but he’d had longer conversations with her than he’d had with anyone outside of the government. He had always looked forward to seeing her, but now he’d begun to look forward to speaking with her.
Not that there would be many more such encounters. They had packed up more than half the books yesterday afternoon, updating the inventory journal as they went along. This afternoon they would finish the rest, and that would be that. It wouldn’t even have taken this long, had Miss Quincy not insisted on penning a cargo list for the library. Perhaps she hadn’t wished for the afternoon to end, either. Perhaps that was why she had offered to design his new billiard room.
If the party hadn’t been so important, Adam might even have let her explain her ideas. He knew nothing about billiards and even less about architecture or interior aesthetics. How much worse could Miss Quincy be? But he hadn’t purchased this summer cottage in order to practice conversing with one woman. He needed this party to be perfect. The exact opposite of last year. He wanted to make friends with every gentleman, flirt—or at least, exchange pleasantries with—every lady. Which meant he needed to practice, so that this time when he returned to London, he’d be ready.
“Practice reading these reports,” he muttered to himself. The Marriage Mart wasn’t the only thing awaiting him next Season.
Adam had volunteered for the import and export committees, the Exchequer committee, and the highways and hackneys committees. He was also fighting for strict oversight of workhouses, full abolishment of slavery in all territories, and more humane treatment of the governing and custody of insane persons in or outside of asylums. Oh, and postage. Parliament couldn’t seem to go more than a year or two without another Postage Act.
Most of his fellows in the House of Lords used their six months off as a welcome break. They’d think Adam peculiar for bringing his work with him on holiday. But he didn’t feel like a true representative of the people if he didn’t do his best to represent them all year round.
That, and being a member of every possible committee gave him something productive to do. A way to be valuable to others, even if he never quite knew how to talk to them directly.
“That’s my hoop!”
“No, it’s my hoop!”
Adam grinned to himself at the sound of children playing outside, but did not turn around to look out of the open window. He was using the natural light to reread and organize his old notes in order to create a plan for next season, and he needed to make haste. Once he finished, he had to duck back into the library to find his last few cherished volumes before the castle footman came to take all the books away.
He might have finished last night, if he hadn’t got lost in an old favorite he’d already read at least four times.
A peal of infectious laughter floated in with the rays of sun. It didn’t sound like a child. Adam twisted in his seat. It sounded like—
Miss Quincy.
Of course it was. Her kissable lips and ubiquitous presence meant nothing. Yet he could not look away.
She was trundling a large iron hoop up the steep road with impressive ease. A little boy and a little girl chased after her with shining eyes, like comets caught in the orbit of a star. He knew how they felt. Miss Quincy had a way of lighting up a room with her mere presence. She was fearless and fascinating, game for anything at any moment. Be that spontaneous romps with children, or breakneck phaeton rides courtesy of “le Ducs, actually.”
He rolled his eyes at the thought of the fortuneteller. What balderdash! Miss Quincy didn’t believe in signs and neither did Adam. He shouldn’t have allowed “five golden rings” to spook him. An earring wasn’t a message from beyond. Neither was a bracelet, no matter how many gold bands it contained. Those were coincidences and nothing more.
His lips twisted wryly. It was a good thing she was trundling hoops made of iron, or thanks to Madame Edna, Adam’s overactive imagination would think those were “rings,” too.
The only reason that poppycock had got under his skin was because he was looking for a wife. As a duke, Adam had the responsibility to secure a respected and competent duchess, with whom he was to produce an heir and a spare to inherit the duchy. Only a very specific sort of young lady would bring honor to the title, aid his political career, and provide the right social opportunities for his future heirs.
That demure paragon certainly would not be whooping delightedly as her iron hoop flew down a mountainside at nine o’clock in the morning.
And yet.
Adam flipped to the final page of his planning journal and added a new heading to the top:
* * *
Required Qualities for my Future Wife
* * *
He dipped his quill in fresh ink and added:
* * *
Friendly
Fearless
Good with children
* * *
There. He would know he’d found the right bride when she not only possessed the proper decorum and feminine accomplishments expected by the ton, but also displayed the sort of personality Adam hoped to share the rest of his life with.
Swinton strode into the dining room bearing a silver tray.
Adam quickly shut his journal.
“Crown secrets my lord?” Swinton eased down into the chair opposite. “Or penning a love note to a future duchess?”
“Neither,” Adam bit out. The heat flushing his cheeks probably wasn’t helping. “Where were you when Miss Quincy and I spent the afternoon alone in the library?”
Swinton held out the tray of correspondence with wide-eyed innocence. “Guarding the door with my life, Your Grace. ’Tis my sworn duty never to abandon my post.”
Adam arched a brow. “Even if a certain next-door maid happened to also be inside that closed door for the entirety of the afternoon?”
Swinton leaped up from the chair and fled the room without a backward glance.
Adam shook his head. When he’d purchased this cottage and installed his lifelong butler as master whilst Adam was away, it had occurred to him to wonder what Swinton was doing in Adam’s absence. If there had been only one social call during the entire summer a duke was in residence, there would have been even less for a butler to attend to without him.
Adam had allowed his friend Theo the use of the cottage for a few months while the soldier recuperated from war wounds. Again, not exactly the hustle and bustle of a typical Mayfair town house, but at least there had been someone new to welcome.
The rest of the time… Perhaps Swinton hadn’t been as lonely as Adam had feared.
He placed his papers and the journal in neat piles out of the way, then reached for the new correspondence. As usual, every one of the senders served with him in the House of Lords. This time every year, Adam received a flurry of letters begging him to join this committee or head that investigation.
Usually, he said yes. He was proud of being a good leader, and pleased that his attention to detail and command of each subject were useful to the cause. Whatever the cause. Today, he found himself wishing that just once, a letter would appear in which the only thing the sender wanted from Adam was his friendship, not his labor.
To be fair, they had tried. Adam had tried. He’d trailed along on pheasant hunts, shown up in his best outfit at Almack’s. He’d managed to mumble something-or-other when the gentlemen gathered to boast after deer stalking, and a time or two had even participa
ted in a minuet with some lord’s daughter or sister.
Adam was fairly certain he was the only one who recalled his presence on those occasions.
The past didn’t matter. He was New Adam now. Or would be soon. This billiards scheme was going to work. Whatever Miss Quincy’s true motivation was for helping him with his library and his party, Adam appreciated it more than she would ever know. Soon, he would be well practiced and socially competent. Instead of just pontificating at parliament meetings, he’d develop a circle of friends and the capacity to win the hearts of ladies.
“Your Grace?”
Adam glanced up and smirked to see a footman, rather than Swinton, bearing a letter on a tray. The crafty old codger would shackle himself to the front door before returning to the dining room and allowing further questions about his interest in the maid next door.
“Thank you.” Adam had been waiting for this report. It had not been part of the morning post because it had come from his man of business, who was lodged up at the castle with a hundred other travelers.
Adam despised taking meals in posting inns because he hated feeling out of place in large public dining rooms. However, according to his man of business Paterson, Marlowe Castle’s enormous dining hall could not be improved upon. The kitchen and staff were second to none, but more importantly, dining services were open to the entire village.
Paterson claimed he amassed more contacts and useful information over a simple bowl of soup than he could elsewise acquire in a week’s worth of hard labor.
Adam opened the report. It contained a list of commissions and the expected times to be taken for construction proposed by master craftsmen in the area capable of creating a professional-grade, visually beautiful, physically perfect billiard table. Money was no object, although he appreciated being able to compare offers.
Time was of the essence. Adam had not explained the entirety of his plan to Miss Quincy because so much of it hinged on the billiards party. If it was a success, Adam would host another and another. After all, no matter how much he practiced being bold and conversational into a single evening, one night would not be enough. He wanted to build more than just a billiard table. He wanted to support the foundation for his future matrimony.
He pulled a stack of books toward himself and opened the topmost to the first page. A handwritten dedication slanted up from the bottom:
* * *
For Azureford,
The greatest lord, statesman, and fox-hunter England has ever known.
* * *
The inscription was meant for Adam’s father. All the books he’d rescued from the crates going to the castle bore dedications similar to this one. Signed by the author, by dignitaries, by friends. Adam’s father had been a legend among men. It was Adam’s duty to live up to the family name.
The first step to being a proper duke was choosing the proper bride. But Adam didn’t want to select some debutante willy-nilly because she happened to possess physical beauty and unimpeachable connections. That prevailing wisdom was how his parents had ended up at the altar. It had lasted only in the sense that divorce was not an option.
Neither Mother nor Father had ever been interested in the other—just what they could gain from the marriage. Her land. His title. Who cared about the rest? Once they’d produced Adam, they never spoke again. One roof; two lives. Adam refused to accept such a fate for himself or his future wife.
He opened his diary to the final page and added:
* * *
Must like each other!!
* * *
to the list of prerequisites. There. He had a plan. All he had to do was completely change his personality, return to London amid wild popularity, and select a perfectly pedigreed young lady in Almack’s who also possessed every trait on this list.
Given all Adam was demanding of himself, four little items weren’t too much to ask of his future bride, were they?
“Stop glooming,” he muttered to himself. This would work. It had to. But first, he had some parliamentary notes to tidy up.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” called a sunny voice. “I didn’t see you there at first!”
Good God, Miss Quincy was yelling to him from the side of the road. Did she even grasp the meaning of proper behavior?
“A lady doesn’t shout,” he called back. “Or peek inside her neighbor’s windows.”
She grinned at him unrepentantly. “What are you doing? Should we finish clearing up the library?”
No. He was busy. Doing important ducal things. Taking care of Parliament and the like. His morning was rigidly scheduled, and he wouldn’t have time for library antics until after noon at the earliest.
As he leaned his tailored elbow on the windowsill, he heard himself shout, “Come on over!”
Chapter 6
“No, there is not time to curl our hair.” Carole tried to tug her lady’s maid away from the dressing table.
Judith looked longingly at the tongs. “What if I just curl my hair?”
“You’re lucky I came back for you at all,” Carole reminded her. “We both know how well you intend to chaperone.”
“A chaperone in name only is better than none at all.” Judith added with a wicked grin, “A bad chaperone is leagues better than a good chaperone if you’re spending your time right.”
Carole rolled her eyes heavenward. “I have no intention of physical impropriety with the Duke of Azureford.”
“Then why did you fetch your chaperone?” Judith asked archly and swept out of the bedroom door.
Carole groaned and gave chase. “I told you. The castle footmen come today to pick up the crates. I have to find my sketchbook before they arrive.”
“Assuming it’s still there,” Judith added darkly. “Maybe it’s already being copied into the next quarterly gazette.”
Carole slanted her a flat look. “You’re not helping.”
“But I will,” Judith promised. “I’ll keep Mr. Swinton far away from the library.”
“Thank you.” Carole pushed open the door and exited their cottage with her maid hot on her heels.
“If you’re not interested in ‘improper behavior’—which, if you’ve never tried it, is a great oversight on your part—then is His Grace the reason you walked out of the library so miffed yesterday afternoon?” Judith’s eyes narrowed. “Because if he took liberties you didn’t wish to give, I’m happy to stab him with a—”
“No,” Carole said quickly before some passer-by overheard and the entire town began speculating. “I was vexed because he rejected an offer without listening to me, but I can’t blame him. He’s a duke and I’m a nobody. He probably has a team of architects and craftsmen locked in his guest room for whenever the urge to renovate strikes his fancy. He doesn’t need me.”
Judith’s concern melted into a knowing smile. “So you do like him. Mmm, all that rugged, ducal power.”
“He’s nice,” Carole replied primly. “He’s more complicated than I first imagined. And funnier.”
“The Duke of Azureford has a sense of humor?” Judith said with obvious skepticism.
“You’d already know the answer to that if you were ever in the same room as him,” Carole pointed out. “Now hush. We’re here.”
Before she could reach for the brass knocker, Swinton opened the front door.
Judith immediately simpered, “Why, Mr. Swinton, surely it’s a crime to be more handsome every day than the last.”
Carole marched past them into the corridor before her tender ears overheard whatever the butler planned to murmur in reply.
Azureford was still seated at his dining room table, his back to the open window. When he caught sight of her, he glanced up and smiled.
She felt that smile all the way to her toes. It wasn’t just a curve of those wide, firm lips, but a full-body smile that relaxed his posture and lit up his handsome face as if he’d spent all morning hoping she would walk through his door.
The silly smile spreading over Carole’s
face no doubt mirrored his reaction.
She cleared her throat. “What are you working on?”
“I can put it away.” He started to stack a pile of journals.
“I don’t mind.” She stepped into the room. “Are you redoing the inventory list?”
“And risk dismemberment? That’s your domain.” He lifted a sheaf of documents. “These are House of Lords projects.”
“All of this?” She moved to take the seat opposite him, but he motioned to the empty chair at his side. Soon, their elbows were touching. “I thought you were finished for the summer.”
“Parliament closed in July and the new session won’t reopen until November, yes. But there is always work to be done. These two journals chronicle the changes in imports and exports, this pile of correspondence has to do with choosing leadership for a few committees, and this stack of reports—but of course I’m boring you.”
She shook her head. “You’re not. Really. The first book I ever read twice was a tome on descriptive geometry, so if you’d like to make a wager on which one of us is more likely to out-bore the other…”
“Ooh, descriptive geometry,” he echoed with wide eyes. “Is that one by Radcliffe or Walpole?”
She swatted his arm. “Gaspard Monge, actually. Perhaps more people would read those gothic novels if they applied more logic than swooning virgins and dark fantasies.”
“No they wouldn’t.” Azureford affected a dramatic pose. “‘I must flee the Castle of Otranto with its ninety degree angle flying buttresses.’”
“Well, that explains why the castles are always so frightening,” she replied with a straight face. “Buttresses cannot properly support their weight unless they’re installed at forty-five degree angles. A good, solid swoon is completely understandable when there’s a castle falling down about one’s shoulders.”
