No Other Duke But You--A Playful Brides Novel

by Valerie Bowman

  Thomas cupped a hand behind his ear. “Pardon?”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “You heard me.”

  He gave himself a moment to swallow the urge to laugh, then schooled his expression into one of careful solemnity. “Handsome and kissable?”

  She scrunched up her nose. “You promised not to be mean.”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s an impressive list, but are you certain the fabled Duke of Branville can live up to all of those qualities?”

  Delilah folded the paper and pushed it back into her reticule. “I’ve no idea, but I have every intention of finding out.”

  Thomas lifted a brow. “How do you intend to do that?”

  “By spending time with him, of course. Lucy plans to introduce me to Branville at the Penningtons’ ball tomorrow night.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Thomas unraveled his cravat for the second time. He wasn’t particularly adept at tying the neckcloth, but he was better than Will. Thomas hated to embarrass his friend by making him attempt to tie his blasted neckcloth half a dozen times. They’d worked this way for years. Thomas did most of his own dressing with Will adding what he could to the process. It may have resulted in Thomas going out into the world wearing a few slightly wrinkled shirtfronts and some askew cravats, but Thomas would never hurt his friend’s feelings by criticizing him.

  He stood in front of the looking glass in his bedchamber and worked on the neckcloth while Delilah’s Future Husband Qualities List repeated itself in his mind. He’d spent the better part of the day mentally checking off each of the requirements she’d cited. Specifically, ensuring he met all of them.

  Eligible? Yes. Decidedly.

  Kind? He’d like to think so.

  Intelligent? He had gone to Eton and at least begun Oxford, hadn’t he?

  Funny? That was best left for someone else to determine, but he’d always been able to make Delilah laugh. That was promising. And Branville was not funny. He’d known Branville at school, and the man had never made him laugh.

  Healthy? That was one criterion Thomas could resolutely say he met. He’d always been fit as a fiddle. Oh, he’d broken the odd bone a time or two doing things he probably shouldn’t have in his youth, but he’d never had any lengthy illnesses or lingering health problems.

  Forgiving? More forgiving than Delilah’s awful mother, but that wasn’t exactly saying much. Besides, he didn’t agree with Delilah that she needed to be forgiven for anything. A crystal bowl could be replaced, but Delilah was a true treasure. All of her so-called detriments (according to her mother) would never add up to the joy she brought to her friends’ lives.

  Handsome? If others were to be believed. He certainly had never had any trouble attracting the opposite sex. But his heart had always belonged to Delilah, so he’d never much attempted to attract other ladies.

  Kissable? That remained to be seen. It depended entirely upon who was on the other end of the kissing. He could only hope Delilah would want to kiss him when the opportunity presented itself.

  He’d got himself in a bind. He’d always known he and Delilah were a perfect match for each other. Delilah, however, seemed to look at him as nothing more than a friend. That had been entirely appropriate given their age when they first met. However, now they were plenty old enough to marry, and he loved her madly. But he knew two things about Delilah. She was stubborn, and she didn’t like anyone else to tell her what to do. She had enough of that from her mother.

  He let the damnable cravat hang for a moment and rubbed his hands over his eyes. It would be awkward to be the first to divulge his feelings. Thomas was rather expecting she’d figure it out on her own. He always hoped that one day she’d look at him and realize he’d been there the whole time, her perfect match. The woman was a purported matchmaker, for God’s sake, one who seemed to be frustratingly obtuse when it came to her own match.

  The Duke of Branville was a decent man, but he would never appreciate Delilah’s uniqueness. Branville would be the type of husband who would expect Delilah to become the perfect duchess, and Delilah wasn’t conventionally perfect. Far from it. She ripped her gowns and stained her slippers and brought home all manner of strange creatures that needed to be healed or helped, and she did a hundred other outrageous things on nearly a daily basis. These were the things Thomas loved about her, the same things her ridiculous mother disapproved of so highly. Delilah needed a husband who would accept her exactly the way she was.

  She needed Thomas.

  He had to go about this carefully. No obvious proposals or declarations. He didn’t want to ruin their friendship, after all, and an unwelcome proposal might do that. He’d rather live as her friend the rest of his life than lose her friendship because it had become uncomfortable between them. Hecouldn’t lose her friendship. He wouldn’t. She had been there on the worst day of his life and all the days since.

  He’d been home from school on a break. His father had called him to the carpet in his study that evening. It hadn’t been much different from the dozens of other arguments they’d had, but Thomas would never forget the words they’d exchanged that particular night.

  Thomas had grown up doing mainly the opposite of anything his father asked of him. He’d been more interested learning how to gamble in the stables with Will, riding horses too fast, and imbibing too much brandy than taking his role as a marquess very seriously. His father, who expected his only son to be perfect, had never appreciated Thomas’s fun-loving ways.

  Thomas had stood in front of his father’s desk that night, while the duke railed at him. He’d managed to crash his expensive new phaeton on the way home from school. “You’re thoughtless,” Father had thundered. “You’re reckless. You’re selfish.”

  Thomas had feigned disinterest, but each of the words had torn a hole in his heart. Standing at attention, he’d kept his jaw tightly clenched and his gaze trained on the wall behind his father’s head. “You forgot useless,” he ground out.

  That reply had made spittle fly from his father’s mouth. “You’re supposed to be a bloody duke one day, but all you care about is gaming and drinking and riding hell for leather with your friends.”

  “And?” Thomas had drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and giving his father an insolent stare.

  His father shook his head in disgust. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

  Thomas had wanted to say he was young. He wanted to say he had time. He wanted to tell his father that he’d always intended to stop gambling and drinking and riding hell for leather after he graduated university, after he grew up a little, after he enjoyed himself a bit. But Father never listened. He preferred to criticize. He’d always chose to assume the worst about his son, so Thomas had done his best to live up to his father’s low expectations. It had nearly turned into a sport for him.

  “No,” Thomas drawled. “I also wanted to say you can go straight to hell.” He’d turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  He’d gone directly to a gaming hell with some chaps from school that night. He’d been half in his cups and had won nearly five hundred pounds with his penchant for odds-making when Owen Monroe found him. Monroe’s face was pinched and pale.

  “You must come home, Thomas. Immediately.”

  The tone of Monroe’s voice had penetrated Thomas’s drunkenness. It had to be serious, but he hadn’t asked, and they’d ridden in silence the short drive from the gaming hell to Father’s town house. They’d jumped from Monroe’s coach, ran up the steps, and flown into the foyer. Soft voices sounded from the drawing room, and Thomas rushed inside.

  Al was there with red-rimmed eyes. His mother sat stoically staring into the fireplace. Lavinia wasn’t there. He later learned she had refused to come out of her bedchamber.

  But Delilah had been there. Only a girl at the time. Al had sent a note to her house and she’d come right away, while Monroe was scouring the city’s gaming hells for Thomas. Apparently, he’d gone to several before locating
him.

  “Father’s dead, Thomas,” Al had breathed. “He had an attack and … collapsed.”

  Thomas hadn’t wanted to believe it. He’d doubled over as if he’d been punched in the gut. Bracing his hands on his knees, he’d fought the urge to vomit and forced himself to suck the pain into a reservoir deep inside. His father would not want him to show emotion.

  From that moment on, he vowed to become the man his father had wanted him to be.

  Two hours later, he’d been sitting on the back stoop staring blindly at the mews. The weight of his new responsibility had just begun to settle into his sobering brain, when the door opened behind him and Delilah came out.

  Quietly, she settled on the stair beside him. She waited for several silent moments to pass before she said, “I hate wearing black.” She plucked at her dark skirts. Her own father had died only months earlier.

  “That’s because pink is your favorite color,” he’d replied absently.

  “Yes, because pink is a happy color,” she said. “Black is terribly unhappy.”

  Thomas groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I must begin to wear black now.”

  She pressed her small hand to his shoulder. “You must begin to do many things now. No doubt they will seem overwhelming at first, but I have every faith you’ll do them splendidly.”

  Thomas nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Every day will be less awful,” she continued.

  “I … won’t be going back to school.” He’d already thought about it. Already decided. “Everyone will be counting on me now. Mother, Al, Lavinia.”

  Delilah leaned over and kissed his cheek, the sweet, soft press of her lips a cool balm to his soul. “I can think of no better person to count on.”

  * * *

  Delilah had never known how much her simple words had meant to him that night. She believed in him. She always had. And because she believed in him, he’d had the confidence to believe in himself. He’d changed that night. Forever. He’d stopped drinking. Years passed before he’d been able to enjoy the odd mug of ale from time to time again. He’d stopped gambling altogether. He’d stopped being reckless when he rode, and he hadn’t returned to school. He’d stayed in London and set about learning every detail of the estate, the lands, and the duties of becoming the Duke of Huntley.

  With his father’s solicitor’s help, he’d become an expert with a single-minded determinedness no one had ever seen from him. Instead of using his proclivity for calculating odds to determine his chances at the gaming tables, he’d set about using them to improve the estate. Nine years later, the estate had never been so profitable. He used his skill at gaming, the numbers flying through his head and landing in all the right places, to improve the books for the estate.

  And all the while, his friend Delilah had been at his side, quietly encouraging him and lending a friendly ear whenever he needed to talk. She made him laugh. She made him happy. And somewhere along the way, after she’d grown into a lovely young woman and made her debut, he realized that he was madly in love with her.

  Delilah was special. Thomas had known it from the moment he’d met her. He had waited in the shadows all these years, knowing eventually she would have to take a husband and he would make his move. Only he didn’t want to frighten her away. This was it, however. It was time. He would have to slowly convince her to see him in another light, while discouraging her courtship with Branville.

  First thing was first. He was going to the Penningtons’ ball tonight. To watch Delilah attempt to matchmake herself with the blasted Duke of Branville.

  The first quality on Delilah’s list was eligible. By God, Thomas was going to have to prove himself a catch. It was certain to be excruciating.

  He retied the cravat for the fourth time with slightly trembling fingers.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lucy was Delilah’s escort to the Penningtons’ ball. The arrangement was nothing new. Delilah’s mother had long ago allowed Lucy to take over as her daughter’s chaperone. It served two purposes. It made Lady Vanessa less frustrated with her daughter’s shortcomings, and it left the woman to her own amusements.

  Delilah was only too happy with the arrangement as well. It allowed her to practice her matchmaking skills, and now it would allow her to attempt to secure an offer from Branville without having to worry about her mother’s watchful eye.

  Tonight, she wore a bright pink gown with a matching pink bow around the waist and one in her hair, with matching pink slippers and diamond ear bobs that her mother had reluctantly allowed her to borrow. Mother had told her many times that pink was not a good color for her complexion, but Delilah couldn’t help but choose it when fabrics were displayed at the dressmaker’s, despite her mother’s condemning head shakes. The color had cheered Delilah since she was a small girl.

  Lucy wore a gorgeous emerald gown, and her dark hair was piled atop her head. Her discerning eyes flitted around the ballroom, taking in everything. She snapped open her fan and spoke from behind it. “I have it on the best authority that Branville will be here tonight.”

  “Perfect,” Delilah replied, trying and failing to use her fan to the same effect. She’d never quite mastered the art of proper fan use. “Will Lady Emmaline be here as well?”

  “That is an excellent question,” Lucy replied, her fan still fluttering in front of her lips. “And, of course, the first rule of matchmaking is to never underestimate your opponent. Lady Emmaline is quite set on catching Branville, so we must assume she will be here. I’d expect nothing less from a truly worthy adversary.” Her eyes gleamed.

  “I agree. I don’t want my win to be too easy,” Delilah said with as much confidence as she could muster, but inside her belly felt sick. It was simple to matchmake other people. It was fun, a lark. Doing it for herself was something else entirely. She wasn’t convinced the Duke of Branville would want her or would even look twice at her. But she felt it necessary to at least feign confidence in front of Lucy. Her friend was her champion, after all. She didn’t want Lucy to believe she was wasting her time.

  Thomas came strolling up to them through the throngs of partygoers with his particular, easy stride. “Win at what?”

  Delilah frowned at him. How had he managed to decipher their conversation from so far a distance?

  Lucy eyed him up and down. “Don’t you look handsome this evening.”

  Delilah glanced at Thomas. He was always well put together: tall, broad-shouldered, bright blue eyes, black hair, a perfect nose, high cheekbones, and a smile always resting on his lips. He was the precise image of a Society bachelor. Always talking, smiling, and laughing, with a drink in his hand—a drink he rarely finished—but never allowing any one lady to get too close. He would take the coat from his back to give to someone in need, whether pauper or prince. He was a good man, her friend. Quite a good one, indeed.

  She waved the fan across her inexplicably warm cheeks. She’d been thinking of him more of late. Ever since Lucy had announced her intention to distract Lady Emmaline by offering Thomas as an alternative, Delilah couldn’t seem to stop thinking of him. It was quite distracting, actually. He’s a rich, handsome duke too, Lucy had said. Somehow in that moment, Delilah had realized that Lucy was right. Thomas, for all that he was her closest friend, was also a grown man—and a handsome, successful, rich one at that.

  She’d tried to push away the thought. She’d tried to unthink it, but that had proved impossible. The most unsettling part, however, was the realization that the idea of Thomas with Lady Emmaline made Delilah … oh, she wasn’t entirely certain exactly what it made her, but whatever the feeling was, she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  She averted her gaze from his appraisal and fanned herself even more vigorously. She ought to be happy about Lucy’s plan. She should be nothing but encouraging of the match. It stood to help her win Branville, after all. Instead, she’d been uncomfortable all week, and whenever she thought about Emmaline Rochester, the petty
notion to … perhaps … trip her the next time she saw her, flashed through her mind. She’d finally decided she didn’t want Thomas to distract Lady Emmaline. But how could she explain such ridiculousness to Lucy?

  “You do look handsome, Thomas,” she heard herself say, but was quickly forced to hide behind her fan as a wave of heat suffused her face anew. Mon Dieu. Was she actually blushing because she’d called Thomas handsome? She’d spoken the compliment to him a hundred times before. Why was tonight any different? She shook her head. This would not do. She needed to get control of herself. Immediately.

  “I try.” Thomas grinned from ear to ear as he smoothed his shirtfront with one hand.

  “You tied your cravat yourself again, didn’t you?” Delilah asked, shaking her head.

  He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  Delilah bit back a smile. “Please allow me to have Cousin Rafe’s valet come teach Will a few things. You’ll both be better off.”

  Thomas frowned. “Will’s fine just as he is.”

  Delilah shook her head again. That was something she’d always admired in Thomas. The man was exceptionally loyal. And thoughtful. He’d given his good friend Will the position as valet and didn’t give a whit if his own appearance suffered as a result. “Very well, but don’t cry to me when he picks the wrong coat for your appearance at court.”

  Thomas’s brows shot up. “When am I making an appearance at court?”

  “When you choose a wife, of course.” Delilah turned to Lucy. “Lucy, didn’t I tell you? Thomas has declared interest in finding a bride … finally.”

  “I did no such thing,” Thomas stated baldly. “I merely admitted that I would need to find a bride eventually.”

  “That is excellent news,” Lucy replied, “because we need you to distract Lady Emmaline. And speaking of Lady Emmaline, there she is.” Lucy surreptitiously pointed her fan toward the entrance where Lady Emmaline and her mother had appeared.