No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  “God save us, and have mercy on your account at the tavern.” The lad fell violently in love, and tended to be constant in his attentions to the point of obsession.

  “I’m convinced this house party has put the very stars out of alignment. Clouds have gathered to the south. Do you know if Glenys has anything planned for the afternoon in case of rain? I could always lead a tour of the damned library.”

  “Glenys is ten steps ahead of you,” Radnor said. “If it rains, we’re to have an impromptu musicale. I’m to trot out my ballads, and you’re to play the guitar. Sir Nigel and the Windham sisters are on the program, and I suspect Hugh and Delphine might favor us with a duet.”

  Haverford cast a look over his shoulder in the direction of Glenys’s turret. “Perhaps I’ve underestimated my sister.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. She really does have all in hand.”

  “Do you suppose she’d send me to the pillory if I asked you for the loan of a few stable hands or chamber maids? A spare footman or three wouldn’t go amiss either.”

  “You may rely on my discretion and on my staff. Far better that they lend a hand here, than expect me to host one of these grand operas. A country house party is enough to drive even one of my singular fortitude barking mad.”

  “My mother always said you had delicate nerves.”

  Radnor was on the point of tripping his best friend when he realized that Haverford was smiling—truly, broadly smiling—and that his remark had been meant as a jest.

  While Radnor had spoken in complete earnest.

  * * *

  “Miss Windham, excuse me.”

  “Your Grace, good evening.”

  Haverford was silhouetted in the doorway of this odd, round, parlor-cum-office, looking severely handsome in his evening attire. The sconces flickered with the draft from the corridor, sending shadows across the page Elizabeth had just sanded.

  The walls of Lady Glenys’s tower chamber were not plastered smooth or covered with silk. Rough stone climbed to exposed timbers that marked this as an older part of the castle.

  “If you’d please close the door, sir, I won’t have to re-light my candles.”

  His Grace complied, and crossed the room to peer over Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Has Lady Glenys set you to copying her scavenger hunt lists?”

  Cedar blended with the scents of candles and peat as Haverford’s shadow fell over the list Elizabeth had copied: Three acorns, one rosebud, a sprig of lavender, one white feather, a four-leaf clover…

  My dignity. Since Haverford’s courtly gesture in the library—his kiss—Elizabeth had thought of little else. She would bet her personal copy of Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson that Haverford hadn’t kissed any other guests.

  “I volunteered to help,” Elizabeth said. “I got turned around seeking my apartment after lunch and came upon her ladyship hard at work here when she ought to have been napping. She promised to have a lie down if I’d make six copies of each of her lists before tomorrow.”

  Haverford settled into the rocking chair near the hearth. “You are kind, Miss Windham, but you dissemble. Here’s the truth: You plucked the lists from Lady Glenys over her protests, told her to seek her bed, and assured her you’d make the copies. Your sister is quite the markswoman.”

  He would notice that. Elizabeth had noticed that Haverford had partnered Helen Windstruther, a shy young lady rumored to have only modest settlements.

  “Charlotte was showing off, Your Grace. She has decided to torment Viscount Haldale.”

  “She missed her target, if she was aiming for his lordship.”

  In a sense, Charlotte had been aiming for Haldale, and she hadn’t missed. She had barely nocked her figurative arrow. Haldale had been dragged away by Delphine St. David, and had spent the rest of the afternoon admiring Charlotte from the vicinity of the punch bowl.

  “I was sent to this house party to find a spouse, Your Grace. Charlotte accompanied me out of loyalty, not a desire to find a husband.”

  Haverford rocked slowly, the chair creaking in counterpoint to the crackling of the fire. His legs were crossed at the knee—an informal pose—but then, the hour was late, and the day had been long. By firelight, Elizabeth could see the man he would become—features a bit craggy, visage tending to sternness. He’d age well and slowly, like his castle.

  “If your sister prefers tormenting Haldale to winning my notice, I’ll be the last to complain of her choice of pastimes. Have you selected a book from my library yet?”

  Elizabeth had sat amid a hoard of literary treasures, contemplating Haverford’s casual kiss until Aunt had dragooned her into serving on a pall mall team.

  “Choosing a book from among thirty thousand tomes will take some consideration. While I’m delighting in your library, I suspect Charlotte might sample the charms of a discreet bachelor if the opportunity presents itself. She could view this party as her last chance for…adventure.”

  Elizabeth had no interest in adventure, though another kiss from Haverford would be lovely.

  The duke rose and began rummaging in the sideboard. “Care for a drink?”

  A lady never partook of strong spirits, save for medicinal purposes. She also did not permit herself to linger in a compromising situation with a handsome duke.

  At least, not more than twice a day. “A drink of what, Your Grace?”

  “Let’s be a bit wicked, shall we? Glenys’s medicinal stores include madeira, brandy”—he opened a plain brown bottle, sniffed, and winced—“whiskey, if I’m not mistaken. My, my, my. Glenys has latent heathen tendencies. A pear cordial, a cherry cordial—my sister is quite the connoisseur.”

  “Pear cordial sounds interesting.” As did a nightcap with the duke.

  “I’ll have a nip of the same. Radnor predicts I’ll be a raving sot by the end of this house party. He’s promised to join me in that folly, and I suspect a tendresse for Lady Glenys might explain the source of his torment.”

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said, accepting a serving of pear cordial. “To a house party happily concluded for all.”

  “A fine notion,” the duke replied, resuming his seat before the fire, a glass of amber liquid cradled in his palm. “Shall I warn Haldale off where Lady Charlotte’s concerned? On the roster of duties assigned to a conscientious host, preserving the innocence of maidens likely sits near the top.”

  He made preserving the innocence of maidens sound as if it belonged on a list between meeting with the steward and inspecting the tenant cottages.

  “Charlotte is a woman grown, sir. Who am I to meddle in her decisions?”

  “You are one of the most forthright, sensible females it has been my pleasure to know. Why hesitate to save your sister from folly?”

  Forthright and sensible. Elizabeth would rather kissable figured among His Grace’s compliments, but then, he was complimenting her with his time, his honesty, and his company late at night.

  Haverford wasn’t the first man to kiss Elizabeth, though he was the first to share a pear cordial with her, the first to offer her a book of her choosing, the first to hold her hand under a moonlit summer sky.

  The pear cordial was pleasant and surprisingly complicated. Such a drink too often became like so much jam in a glass—mostly sweet, a bit of fruit, a hint of spirits. Nothing remarkable. A touch of spice lurked in this version, an unexpected elegance.

  “I have said nothing to Charlotte thus far because I’m not sure I should,” Elizabeth replied. “She typically takes no notice of bachelors, other than to skewer their presumptions.”

  Haverford saluted with his cordial. “A fine use of the typical bachelor, and it begs the question: Is she merely amusing herself with Haldale, or setting him up to be skewered at dinner Tuesday next? I might like to see that.”

  So would I.

  His Grace was out of the chair and back at the sideboard, and this time, he produced a handkerchief, and took Lady Glenys’s collection of spirits from the cupboard bottle by bottle
.

  “What are you doing, sir?”

  “Leaving my sister a warning,” he said, dusting each bottle in turn. “Lord Haldale fancies himself a buccaneer of the bedroom, if I may speak bluntly. Miss Charlotte might appreciate a word of caution too.”

  Haldale’s rutting made him dashing, while Charlotte would be called fast if she shared two consecutive dances with the same man.

  “What is your pleasure, Miss Windham?” the duke asked, replacing the bottles in the same arrangement he’d found them in. “Shall I say something to Haldale? Perhaps have a chat with Lady Pembroke?”

  Haverford was trying to be helpful—drat him—and Elizabeth was trying to be agreeable, but pleasantries and platitudes eluded her.

  “I will speak bluntly as well,” Elizabeth replied. “If Charlotte accepts what Haldale offers, she’ll not view the whole business of marriage as some great secret worth sacrificing her entire future for. Men approach their vows without the ignorance women are supposed to guard so carefully, and as a rule, the groom is far more deliberate about the business than the bride is. This is true, even when for many husbands, the vows are a formality they have no intention of honoring.”

  Perhaps pear cordial made one loquacious—or pugnacious—for Elizabeth hadn’t expressed that thinking even to her sisters.

  Haverford tucked his handkerchief away, folding it to hide streaks of dust. “Miss Windham, the subject of why a person marries, or does not marry, particularly in the case of a man who regards himself as the sole support of his family, is a more nuanced undertaking than you might grasp at first glance.”

  Elizabeth knew that patient tone, that measured cadence. His Grace was warming up for a diatribe on a topic about which Elizabeth had been lectured past endurance. Though why were they discussing Charlotte, marriage, and perishing randy bachelors at all when they might have been discussing poetry or great literature?

  Or kisses?

  “Please do not explain marriage to me, Your Grace. I am blessed with two sisters and eight cousins who delight in regaling me with the joys of the wedded state. You have no comparable source of perspective.”

  And those joys were beyond Elizabeth’s reach. Her sisters and cousins were radiant with marital glee, while Elizabeth had searched in vain for a bachelor who inspired even a small glow of contentment.

  Nor, apparently, would she find such a man at Haverford Castle. She rose and passed the duke her unfinished drink.

  “I ask you to excuse my impertinence, Your Grace. I am tired, and out of sorts. I will copy the rest of her ladyship’s lists in the morning.”

  The duke stood between Elizabeth and the door, which would not serve when tears were so inconveniently threatening.

  “You are angry with me, Miss Windham.”

  Elizabeth was merely disappointed in Haverford. She was furious with a society that preferred a woman marry—marry anybody, no matter how brutish or self-absorbed—rather than live out her life in contented solitude. She was enraged with men who were willing to tolerate her literary interests because she was a means of establishing a connection with a ducal family.

  She was angry with—and hurt by—that same family because they saw her only as a spinster-in-waiting.

  And she was angry with herself, for being so easily intrigued with a simple kiss and the loan of a few books.

  Elizabeth offered the duke a shallow curtsy. “I apologize for expressing myself so strongly, Your Grace. I know my views of marriage are unconventional. I’ll bid you good night, if you’d stand aside.”

  “That, I cannot do.”

  Chapter Seven

  Elizabeth Windham was a quiet presence at any meal, a polite conversationalist while waiting to take her turn with a bow and arrow, a dutiful companion to her aunt—and she was a walking, talking, smiling liar.

  Were all women this good at dissembling? For the gracious, unassuming Miss Windham hid volumes worth of indignation and passion beneath her quiet exterior. If Julian were a betting man, he’d put money on lending libraries appearing in every village in the realm within ten years.

  She had intrigued him with her demure composure, while this hidden ferocity fascinated him.

  Miss Windham occupied the center of the room, dignity and ire crackling about her. Julian had offended a lady, and that was not an acceptable way to end his day—or hers.

  “Madam, you place before me an impossibility. How can I have a pleasant evening, when I have so clearly upset you? At least finish your cordial.”

  She likely wanted to dash her drink in Julian’s face, but faultless manners were part of her duplicity.

  Miss Windham retrieved her glass from him and tossed back the contents in one gulp, then began coughing. Julian dared not laugh, but he did presume to lead her to the rocking chair.

  “That was foolishness,” he said. “That was rank, reckless foolishness and a waste of Lady Glenys’s favorite recipe. If you wish to become inebriated, then you keep a patent remedy in good supply, and when nobody is about, tipple to your—”

  “Haverford, cease instructing me, or I will strike a blow where you will never forget it.”

  She apparently referred—in deadly earnest and at close quarters—to his tallywags, or possibly to his pride.

  Julian took a step back. “I apologize.” A safe place to start, though inadequate. “Whatever fellow or fellows led you to have such a dim view of marriage, or its intimate joys, or of life in general, did you a disservice.”

  He passed her his handkerchief and realized too late it was less than pristine.

  “I’ve considered that,” Miss Windham said, finding a clean corner and dabbing at her eyes. “I’ve considered that I chose poorly when deciding to cross the bounds of strict propriety—though how is a woman to develop a sense for such matters? All men adopt fine manners, charm, and good humor when they’re in the ballroom. That apparently means nothing in the bedroom.”

  Welsh curses came to mind in quantity.

  “Maybe I chose poorly,” she went on more softly, “both times.”

  Julian drew up the hassock and planted himself upon it, lest her revelations lay him out on the carpet. “You should not be telling me these things, but I beg you, if you have a scintilla of mercy in your soul, do not mention names.”

  “Why not? Surely you don’t care if some baron—”

  He put two fingers to her lips, and glowered as old Offa must have glowered at the barbarians to the east of his dyke, then he withdrew his hand before the texture of her mouth became too intriguing.

  “—you cannot care who among your peers is a bad kisser,” Miss Windham said, “or doesn’t bother with kissing at all.”

  St. David, pray for me. “If I know their names, I’d have to call them out. Two duels would be hard to keep quiet. Allermain might get word I’ve neglected him, and three duels is the outside of too much.”

  “Allermain will spend at least the next year in Paris. Why would you call out men who’d merely accommodated my wishes?”

  The hour was late, Julian was tired, and his mind refused to sort through the demands of honor when Miss Windham’s hurt feelings obscured all logic from his view. No plan he might have concocted, no list or ledger, would have prepared him to have the conversation he was having with her now.

  “Those men disappointed you. I’d call them out for disappointing you. Let’s leave it at that. A gentleman might dally discreetly, as might a lady under very limited circumstances, but even a dalliance should be undertaken with a certain respect for one’s lover.”

  “I suspected I’d chosen a pair of rotters. What foul luck. Might I have a bit more cordial?”

  Julian poured her a generous portion and resumed his place on the hassock. “Did either of these varlets offer marriage?” And had they broken her heart or merely disappointed her?

  “I had an understanding with Theodore, but then his mother’s god-daughter turned up in immediate need of a husband. She was pretty, four years younger than I, and her se
ttlements included a lovely estate in Hampshire. He was very sorry, but duty compelled him to aid a damsel in distress.”

  He was sorry, all right. Snippets of gossip connected in Haverford’s head. Teddy Morningside was the younger son of an earl, a bad card player, and a good dancer. He’d dropped out of the social scene about five years ago, though he was rumored to be filling his nursery in Hampshire.

  “You’re better off without a man whose honor is so easily obliterated by coin.”

  “I am, and he couldn’t kiss worth a bent farthing.”

  “Always a consideration.”

  Miss Windham took another sip of her cordial. “With the baron, I yielded to impulse. He said he had as well, but he’d neglected to tell me of a fiancée kicking her heels in County Mayo. He didn’t kiss at all.”

  “Irish barons are always a risky bet. You can’t let those two encounters color your whole perception of the male gender, or of marriage.”

  “They were experienced men, Your Grace. I chose them knowing they’d bring at least that asset to the proceedings.”

  Her logic was faultless, and her lips had been very soft against Julian’s fingertips.

  “I have years of experience being a duke. That doesn’t mean I have any talent for it. I wish you the joy of your lending library scheme, and I’m sure you’ll benefit many a village with it. On behalf of my gender, however, I’d like to offer one gesture by way of apology, or perhaps as a counterexample to your theories regarding marital pleasures.”

  Julian took her drink from her hand and ignored the voice in his head that sounded like Radnor delivering a lecture.

  “A counterexample sounds promising, Your Grace.”

  “Julian. If we’re to be sharing counterexamples, you must call me Julian.”

  He cradled Miss Windham’s jaw against his palm, lest she mistake his intent. When he was confident that he had her consent, and her attention, he kissed her.

  * * *

  I’ve left my common sense back in England.

  Elizabeth hadn’t meant to rant at Haverford much less confide in him, hadn’t meant to disclose her past, or even discuss Charlotte’s inchoate schemes with him. The dratted man listened, though, most of the time. He was a duke, and yet he was also like no kind of aristocrat Elizabeth had met—or kissed—before.