He was here to meet with her brothers; they were to discuss the details of a hunt they had planned later in the week. Juliet was ecstatic. She would go on her first hunt with this charming boy so unlike her vexing brothers, and she would test her newly acquired skills. Her day had improved ten-fold . . . until she revealed her plan to join in this hunt. Her brothers arrived in time to hear her declaration and deny her dream. They jeered and taunted her with good measure, and she was mortified to be called a 'little girl,' 'shameless hoyden,' and precocious child.' Her brothers grabbed their friend, dragging him off to the house and their hunt arrangements, and Juliet's heart plummeted to her feet.
What happened next remained one of those moments that became a lasting memory for her: her new acquaintance turned back to her and dropped a formal bow, declaring, “this is not destined to be your hunt, but I've no doubt you shall be ready soon. You are a remarkable shot.” He smiled, dimples appearing in his cheeks, before turning to join her siblings in their trek to the house. She still did not know his name, but that trifling detail did not prevent her from vowing in her heart, I shall love you forever, whoever you are.
Juliet's mind rejoined the present and she could not prevent the grimace on her face as she remembered her old infatuation. She silently made a new vow, that the Duke would notice her now for her maturity and lack of fawning behavior that marked her schoolroom crush. She now wished him to see her as an independent and intelligent lady. Which would be hard, she had to allow as she chuckled to herself, since his sister was constantly exasperating him with what he perceived to be immature behavior that likely made her guilty by association. The six year difference in their ages had separated them effectively as well, as the Duke left for university then began traveling extensively to learn the management of the ducal properties.
"Oh, bugger off, Jonas! I will be packed and ready to go by your scheduled time. As if it matters whether we leave at exactly ten of the clock or not. And stay out of my room! You must ask permission before entering, you know."
"Watch your language! You sound like a hoyden! No wonder you are still unattached, with a mouth like that. And I will enter any room in this house any time I wish, you silly girl. Shall I ring for your maid?" Jonas moved toward the bell pull but waited for her answer, his booted foot making quiet taps on the uncovered floor by her bed. “And we leave at daybreak, which is much nearer seven than ten of the clock. I will advise your maid of this as well.”
"Ring it or not, it makes no difference to me. I will not start packing until I am good and ready," she added with a pout. At the return of her brother's ducal glare she stuck her tongue out in response. "You may now leave." Miranda waved in dismissal and fluttered her hands about her desk in an affectation of busyness.
Jonas stalked to the door. “Pack, Random," he tossed over his shoulder on his exit. The way these two talked to each other gave Juliet hope that all siblings talked as spiritedly as she and her brothers. She also gave thanks silently that her brothers were content to harass her verbally without physically meddling in her life. So far, they seemed content to engage in wars of words rather than deeds, which suited her very well.
"Bugger off!" Miranda yelled again before seeing the look of bemusement on Juliet's face and dissolving into a fit of giggles.
Chapter Three
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books; But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2
Jonas Leighton, seventh Duke of Dorset, was a man in torment as he quickly exited his sister's room, descended the stairs, and took refuge in his study. When he had first met Lady Juliet Quinn, the sister of his friends Charles and Marcus Quinn, and best friend to his own sister, she was but five years of age and he eleven. She was lively and precocious even at that early age, although he merely thought her too like his own sister, whom he regarded as an unfortunate responsibility, as brothers at that age often do. He and the “Quinn Twins,” Charles and Marcus, spent their boyhood days fighting mock battles, building fortresses, and making mostly harmless mischief. None were interested in spending time with their sisters.
The Duke collapsed in the strong leather chair behind his desk and dropped his head into his hands, lightly massaging his temples. He could still remember the time and place when he noticed that the Quinn's youngest child had ceased to be a child and was fast becoming a beautiful and intriguing young woman. Both families had decided to spend Christmas in London one year, the year all three sons were off to Oxford, as staying in Town would mean less travel for them to undertake over their winter break. The mothers decided to host a small affair of close friends and family to celebrate the New Year. Miranda and Juliet were allowed to attend, although both were only sixteen and not yet out in Society.
Jonas had not fully understood the meaning of the word breathtaking until he saw Lady Juliet that evening. Thankfully, she descended the curved staircase at Leighton House with Miranda, so when the teasing started over his gaping expression his friends assumed he was surprised at the appearance of his sister. His eyes saw only Lady Juliet, her hair styled not in braids but in an upswept twist, with several tendrils escaping to tease her cheek and neck. She wore a white gown with gossamer overlay, simple and demure in design but also hinting at the body of a lady rather than a girl. Her eyes were bright with excitement over her first true party, her face slightly flushed and glowing. For a moment time ceased to move and he had to remind himself to breathe.
Jonas paused his reminiscing to rub his eyes wearily. He suddenly felt all the pressures of his title and position weighing heavily on his shoulders. He further felt the irritation of his sister over the upcoming house party and he was not without some sympathy. He was dreading the party for entirely different reasons, however. With a deep sigh he leaned back in his chair, propping his booted feet on the corner of his desk. He closed his eyes and lost himself to the memories once more.
He had seen numerous debutantes at numerous balls, widows and the unhappily wed who simpered for attention, and women of the demimonde who populated the hells, but none had ever captured his attention like the young sister of his oldest friends. While not the new definition of a true English beauty she was still an arresting combination of creamy skin, chestnut colored waves, and startling silver-gray eyes. Within moments of his first awareness of her he began to feel every inch the lascivious cad.
From that night on, Jonas had sought to maintain as much distance from Lady Juliet as possible. Given the close relationship between their families it was often more difficult than not, but he had learned to school his thoughts and features to remain politely neutral. He threw himself into his studies and was persuaded to join the drunken revelries of his friends more often, although he rarely participated to their level of excess. After Lady Juliet's come out with his sister, he had dutifully danced the required quadrille or Roger de Coverly when called upon, but had otherwise covertly watched from the wings or eavesdropped on conversations from a polite distance. The more he observed, the more he courteously inquired after her health, the more infatuated he became. All of this he kept strictly to himself. Gentlemen did not pine for ladies. Gentlemen did not become enamored of any female. And gentleman certainly did not have any thoughts of any manner toward the sister of a friend.
His current torment lay in the coming house party and two weeks of country confinement with the woman he had secretly coveted, revered from a distance, and was forbidden to touch. He resolved to focus on the task at hand, of finding his sister a suitable husband, with the secondary objective of surviving the fortnight with as much retained sanity as possible.
Chapter Four
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.
William Shakespeare, King Henry IV Part II, Act 3, Scene 1
Hell's teeth, but I would not wish this on anyone, thought Jonas later that day as he again claimed the seat behind his desk, blowing out a heavy sigh. For a man who despised parti
es, attending only the bare minimum each Season to satisfy his mother, hosting his own fête was giving him a pounding headache. He needed to get Miranda married before the end of this Season, before any more wildness took root and spoiled her future. She had no lack of suitors these past two years since her come out; however, this third Season was literally off to an explosive start as she had somehow procured fireworks to 'enliven' the party of none other than Lady Courtland, possibly the stodgiest harpy of the beau monde. While he could appreciate the motive to find some amusement at a stuffy and stilted ball, he could not condone the deviltry his sister had undertaken at gleefully orchestrating such mayhem.
To say Lady Courtland was displeased would be an understatement, but thankfully she failed to ascertain the culprit for the resultant fire in her garden that completely razed her cherished collection of lawn cherubs and topiary fairies. The look on Miranda's face as the fire raged told Jonas all he needed to know: she was involved. After forcefully, albeit sneakily, removing her from the ball and into their carriage, he could tell by the smell of sulfur permeating her person that she had been actively involved in the barrage. She withstood his verbal harangue the entire ride back to their house in Berkeley Square, apologized for upsetting him, then raced to her room. He'd had to remove to his study before losing his composure, laughing so much and so loudly he was afraid he'd wake the staff. The sight of fat and flaming cupids lurching and swaying in fiery death almost made him feel proud of Miranda's orchestration. Almost.
Jonas looked down at the two columns he and his mother had scratched out on some foolscap a week prior and gave a growl of frustration. He ran his hands through his hair and bent his head over the desk. He felt too young for this responsibility, not to mention ill equipped. His father, the previous Duke, had prepared and trained him for the running of the properties of their family, and he had taken the instruction seriously, committing it to head and heart. He had enjoyed keeping company with his father as they toured the family holdings, meeting all the staff and tenants. He even enjoyed overseeing the accounts and ledgers, taking pride that his family was not content to be members of the idle rich as so many of their set were wont to do, wasting funds in shallow pursuits. The Dorset holdings were wealthy and prestigious, the tenants happy and hard working, the crops and livestock plentiful.
It was the leadership over his family that was giving him pause. He needed to make sure Miranda avoided the rakes, fortune-hunters, gamblers, and all-around blackguards that populated the ton while he strove to facilitate a good match for her. He had observed her behavior at several functions and noticed her general lack of interest in all the males who flocked to her company. While it was easy to see she enjoyed the attention, it was just as easy to ascertain she took none of it seriously, which had both its merits and drawbacks. It was good that she was indifferent to those with shady and pernicious motives, but her apathetic air could soon lead the serious suitors to doubt their compatibility.
Jonas leaned back in his chair and propped his legs on the corner of his desk, crossing his booted ankles, when his butler Bixby entered the study. "The Earl of Aylesford and Marquis of Hertford to see you, Your Grace."
The cavalry has arrived, he thought. No doubt they had come as soon as they received their party invitations, but he was still surprised to see them out this early. While most invitations had been dispatched last week, Jonas had purposefully waited for the last possible minute to invite his closest friends. "You gents are just in time. Sink into a seat and get comfortable."
Miles Fairchild, Marquis of Hertford, plopped lazily into a soft leather chair facing the Duke's desk, indolently throwing a leg over one arm of the seat. His cousin, Tobias Kitteridge, The Earl of Aylesford, remained standing, staring at Jonas with a jaundiced eye. The cousins were rarely seen apart, having grown up together in Warwickshire, their family estates separated by just twenty miles of good road. They were of an age and even favored each other in looks, their dark brown hair given to wavy curls when allowed to grow slightly longer than was fashionable. Their different eye colors gave them away, with Hertford having expressive hazel eyes, the color of which changed with his moods and passions, and Aylesford having eyes so brown as to be almost black.
"Where are Stafford and Bristol?" asked Jonas. "I expected to see them with you as well."
"I last saw them arguing over a wager at White's around three of the clock this morning. I rather suspect they are abed – somewhere – as I need be." The Marquis' lids were heavy yet his bloodshot eyes were still discernible, a testament to a night of frivolity that had not yet ended with much-needed sleep. “You look disgustingly well-rested, Jonas,” Hertford accused.
The Duke leaned back again in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, observing his friends carefully. He could not remember the last time he had indulged in a night of drunken revelry as it was now several years in the past. He was somewhat surprised to find that he was satisfied with that notion, and did not miss the headache, thick tongue, and fuzzy memory that usually accompanied those adventures. "I did sleep well; being in ones own bed tends to allow that. But no matter the others, they can catch up. I assume you saw your party invitations and came immediately?" At their nods he continued. "Invitations to the other guests went out last week while I sent yours this morning. I wanted to give you no time to prevaricate and waffle at your attendance, nor flee the city. My lords, I have a problem by the name of Lady Miranda. She needs a husband."
"Well don't look at me," chorused the two gentlemen with looks combining shock and horror.
"Nor I," volunteered Roman de Courtenay, Marquis of Stafford, as he strolled into the room. Closest in temperament to the Duke, the two had formed a fast and lasting friendship that began as young boys at Eton, continued through their studies at Oxford, and was refined by fire when both lost their fathers without warning in the same carriage accident a few years past. His rich brown hair and green eyes made a nice foil for the raven hair and icy blue gaze of the Duke.
The Duke barked out a laugh, holding up his hand. "This is my sister, after all. Believe me, the last place I would look for her husband would be the famed 'Lords of Oxford,' especially as she gave us that ignoble title herself. As you read on the invitation, I am unfortunately hosting a house party down in Sussex, the main purpose of which is to put my sister in the path of some suitable gentlemen and pray she makes a match. I find myself, as host, requiring the presence of you three esteemed lords to keep me from losing what precious little hold I have left on my sanity. Bristol will of course be there as well, as his whole family has been invited."
"You have got to be kidding! Why would I leave the distractions of the city for the boring confines of a manor party? I don't even attend the ones my mother throws," grumbled Aylesford.
"I promise to provide you with copious food and drink, and plenty of outdoor diversions to occupy your time."
"Do these diversions have beautiful endowments and long legs, by any chance?" leered Stafford.
"Some do, actually," returned the Duke evasively, not revealing they were of the four-legged variety and would be the object of their guns. There would be no willing widows nor available matrons for the gentlemen to wade through at this party. "I will mark this as a personal favor you each pay me with your attendance. I am asking you, nay, begging you to please keep company with me at this wretched event."
The Duke looked out over three pairs of sleepy, bloodshot eyes, silently praying for their commitment, dreading the bargains he might need to make to secure their cooperation. The party would be tedious enough without the companionship and entertainment of his closest friends. The group had been together since attending up at Oxford and had remained loyal companions ever since. They had caroused and drunk their way through their youth, earning the apt “Lords of Oxford,” or LOO, from Miranda one Christmas when all five had decided a bibulous sleigh ride in the nude around Kent was of the utmost necessity. The friends had also studied hard and obtained good marks a
t university, supporting each other in all matters inebriated and sober. Jonas and Roman, Marquis of Stafford, had both come under the weight of responsibility that accompanied their fathers untimely deaths too young, and the rest of the lords had rallied and carried their hurting friends. Jonas stood up and walked around from behind his desk.
Hertford rose to his feet and clapped Jonas on the back a few times. "You were there for me when my mother tried twice to trap me with that odious Lady Crumpton and her insipid daughters, so I will travel and partake of the ennui you offer. Truthfully, 'tis no hardship to rusticate at your palatial manor on the sea, eat your food, and drink your spirits." He looked at the other men in the room. "What say you boys? Do we assemble the LOO south for a spell?"
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