No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  “You waited for me,” Haverford said, slipping through the door. “Thank you.”

  “And you brought sustenance,” Elizabeth replied, rising and taking the tray from him. Another man—another duke—would have summoned a footman to bear the tray, thus jeopardizing the privacy of this assignation.

  This conversation, rather.

  “Our orangery was built on an ambitious scale, and we have fruit in abundance as a result.” The tray held a tea service for one, shortbread, and an orange. “A modest feast, but the scullery maid nearly had an apoplexy when I dared trespass belowstairs to request a tray.”

  Given the single teacup, not even the scullery maid would suspect the duke intended to share his tray.

  “You probably interrupted her flirtation with the boot boy.” Elizabeth set the tray on the table before the sofa and lifted the lid of the teapot. Clove and citrus wafted up. “What manner of tea is this? The scent is delightful.”

  “Glenys blends it, probably to stretch our stores of China black. Did you lay that fire?”

  Elizabeth settled on the sofa and began peeling the orange. “I did, and I lit it from the sconce in the hallway. I gather her ladyship does try to practice economies, some of the time.”

  His Grace prowled the room, tidying the desk—for which his sister might kill him—and moving the candles on the mantel so they were exactly symmetric.

  “Tell me about Griffin, Haverford.”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer cordial to tea?”

  “I’d prefer you tell me about your brother.” Elizabeth suspected His Grace had no one with whom to discuss Griffin’s situation, much less Lady Glenys’s marital aspirations, or the problems with the estate. The right duchess would halve his sorrows.…

  Elizabeth set the orange down half-peeled.

  “My mother’s labor with Griffin was difficult,” Haverford said, his back to Elizabeth. He appeared to study the landscape over the mantel, but the art was so old and so poorly preserved, that in the dim light, he was staring into shadows. “The midwife said the cord had wrapped about his neck, and unlike most children, he didn’t come squalling into the world. He had to be encouraged to draw breath, and his early days gave us all great anxiety. To this day, he can’t stand anything tight around his neck.”

  “He looks to be at least ten years your junior.”

  “Twelve, and Mama was not young when I came along. Papa was overjoyed at first, for he’d given up hoping for a spare. Then we began to notice problems. Griffin was a clumsy baby, slow to gain strength, and even after he learned to walk, he’d have awful tantrums. The nurse said he was frustrated by a lack of words, because those too were slow to come along.”

  And all of this would have been unfolding as Haverford navigated the rocky shoals of adolescence.

  “Griffin speaks well now,” Elizabeth said, “and he’s nimble as a goat.”

  “For years, he lagged behind other boys his age in terms of speech, and he’s learned to compensate for what he doesn’t grasp. Most metaphors are beyond him, though he won’t confess his confusion. He nods politely, as a gentleman should at various points in a conversation. May I sit with you?”

  Both St. David brothers were gentlemen. “Of course. Griffin has a thorough grasp of facts, though.”

  “Some facts,” Haverford said, settling in with a sigh. “Others he’s parroting from memory, oblivious to their significance. He has artistic skills in the same vein. He can copy any text in beautiful copperplate, but has little sense of its meaning. He knows the words to every hymn and has a lovely voice, while I struggle to recall more than the first verse. In many ways, Griffin is the truest gentleman I will ever meet, and yet, he’s vulnerable.”

  Elizabeth took Haverford’s hand, because she could, and because somebody should. “As a child is vulnerable?”

  “Worse. Griffin looks, recalls, and often acts like an adult, but he reasons as a child does. He raises no livestock for meat, because the notion of slaughtering a beast reduces him to weeks of despondency. They all become pets to him. That the chicken in the stew was raised in somebody’s yard and fed by somebody’s children seems to escape his notice. If he feeds that chicken himself, however, the bird will enjoy a lifetime of good care and be given a carefully chosen name.”

  “He sees the world through the eyes of a child.” A child much loved and sheltered.

  “Exactly.” Haverford stroked his fingers over Elizabeth’s knuckles, absently, as he might have petted a cat. “Griffin has befriended the occasional woman too.”

  “Oh, dear.” Taken advantage of and vulnerable acquired dire significance.

  Haverford leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I had hoped that my brother would be spared a young man’s usual zeal for the ladies, but a guest who’d come to visit Lady Glenys a few years ago realized that Griffin is my heir. She seduced him, which probably took about two seconds given Griffin’s nature, and conceived a child—a daughter, as it turned out.”

  The wrong that had been done, to Griffin, to his family, and to the child was stunning, and yet, Elizabeth had heard not a hint of scandal regarding the St. Davids.

  And clearly, Haverford blamed himself for what had befallen his brother. “What did you do?”

  “I explained the situation to Griffin, who did not grasp that he’d been played for a fool until the young lady laughed at him before others. She’d found a way to marry a ducal heir, acquire a courtesy title, and escape all the strictures husbands can legally put on wives. Her plan was to live out the rest of her life fashionably estranged from her spouse, a portion of St. David wealth and consequence hers to command for her silence regarding Griffin’s limitations.”

  Uncle Percy, in all his shrewdness, assisted by Aunt Esther, with her vast stores of sense, would have been hard put to untangle such a muddle.

  “I gather Griffin is not married to this disgrace.” Though Griffin hadn’t mentioned a daughter either.

  “I put the choice to him. He could marry this woman, knowing exactly how badly he’d misjudged her and what sort of person she was. His daughter would be legitimate, the lady would become a member of the St. David family, and Griffin would have his one and only wife until the woman’s demise. In the alternative, he could remain unwed and we would raise the child as a by-blow.”

  Elizabeth took a nibble of shortbread, and held the remainder of the biscuit to Haverford’s mouth. He took a bite, and she brushed the crumbs from his cravat.

  “Which did Griffin choose?”

  “He asked me if I would promise to love the child, and be as good an uncle to her as Abner was to Biddy. I gave my word, as did Glenys as the girl’s aunt. Radnor and I are Charity’s guardians. She bides with Radnor, though the poor mite has the St. David eyebrows.”

  Elizabeth rather liked those eyebrows. “She’s assumed to be your child?”

  “I don’t care what’s assumed about her. I care that she’s loved, protected, and raised with the privileges of her station. When Glenys is married, I’ll bring Charity here, where she belongs.”

  “She doesn’t belong with her father?”

  Haverford opened his eyes and gestured for more shortbread. “I can’t ask Biddy and Abner to care for half my family, Elizabeth. We’re letting the tea get cold.”

  The teapot was swaddled in toweling, which would hold in the warmth. One-handed, Elizabeth poured out a cup and added two lumps of sugar. “Milk?”

  “Please.”

  They drank three cups of tea between them and finished the orange and half the shortbread. The modest fare was comforting, as was Haverford’s willingness to share the single cup.

  “What happened to the young lady, if one can call her a lady?” Elizabeth asked.

  “By agreement with her father, she married another man after Charity’s birth, a fellow her father could trust to overlook the entire situation. I conveyed to the groom a life estate in a sizeable farm in Gloucestershire, one I’d intended to include in Glenys’s settlements. If
I hear a whisper of a rumor regarding Charity, I will revoke the life estate. Until then, the rents go to the couple or their oldest son.”

  “Neatly done.” Charity’s mother was motivated to keep her mouth shut, and her husband and family were motivated to keep the lady away from polite society. Haverford, however, was out income and property in exchange for their silence.

  And the child.

  “This is not a cheering topic,” Haverford said, his head resting on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I apologize for burdening you with family problems, but you’ve met Griffin. If you failed to keep your appointment with him tomorrow, he’d worry for you, or worse, worry that you didn’t like him because, in his words, he isn’t smart.”

  Elizabeth slipped an arm around the duke, who fit nicely in the circle of her embrace. “I’ll keep my appointment with Griffin. He’s a pleasant change from the company at the breakfast table, excluding mine host, of course.”

  She would also put off until another time a discussion of the bills piled neatly on the desk across the room.

  Bills that Lady Glenys had doubtless forgotten to separate from her social correspondence, for Elizabeth shuddered at the amounts she’d seen. Surely her ladyship wouldn’t want anybody but family to see those figures.

  Haverford kissed Elizabeth’s cheek. “Your host is the soul of graciousness, of course. I should see you safely to your rooms.”

  Elizabeth knew the way now. Very likely, Charlotte would still be awake and full of questions.

  “Let’s bide a while here and enjoy the quiet.”

  “Can you swim?” Haverford asked.

  “Quite well, though I haven’t since girlhood.”

  “We’ll remedy that oversight.” He was soon breathing regularly, an exhausted, warm weight against Elizabeth’s side. Perhaps his explanation of Griffin’s situation had tired him, or perhaps the duke sensed that in this tower, in Elizabeth’s arms, he was free to rest from his many labors.

  The moment wasn’t lover-ly, but it was intimate. Elizabeth remained with Haverford for another quarter hour, and when the clock from the hall below struck midnight, she eased away. A shawl purloined from the back of the chair at the desk was the best she could do to keep him warm.

  She kissed his cheek, checked the corridor for stray footmen or straying debutantes, then made her way alone through the darkness to her room.

  Chapter Twelve

  “And when the fair young maid required a pair of strong arms to convey her to shore, I obliged,” Sherbourne said. “Take that dratted cap away, for God’s sake. I’m little more than thirty years old and in possession of a full head of hair.”

  “My apologies, sir.” Turnbull put the nightcap back in the chest beneath the window. “Will there be anything else?”

  “What do you hear about the Windham ladies?”

  Socializing belowstairs, swilling ale in the servants’ hall, and befriending everybody from the housekeeper to the boot boy also numbered among Turnbull’s duties.

  “The two younger Windham sisters are recently wed to a Scottish duke and his heir, respectively, and both are off to Scotland. The older sisters are highly regarded.”

  Of course a pair of ducal spinsters would be highly regarded. “I’ll take the green dressing gown,” Sherbourne said. Miss Windham had worn green today, and looked quite fetching. Miss Charlotte hadn’t cut the same elegant, relaxed dash, though her walking dress of brown and cream muslin had been pretty.

  Fashion mattered to the titled set. Sherbourne had learned that before he’d gone up to university.

  Turnbull held out the desired dressing gown, which was velvet lined with lighter green silk, and worth a year of the valet’s wages for the embroidery alone. Even a practical man was allowed the occasional touch of vanity.

  “Miss Charlotte has a tart tongue,” Turnbull went on, “but is kind to the maids. The bachelors seem to regard her with a mixture of awe and dread. Miss Elizabeth is a champion of lending libraries and literacy and is left mostly to her own devices by the aunt.”

  No news there. “The aunt being Arabella Windham, Lady Pembroke, who is probably the pattern card for Miss Charlotte in later life. As for Miss Elizabeth Windham, what sort of woman likes lending libraries? She even confessed this predilection to me. Books just sit there, collecting dust and making one feel guilty for not having read them.”

  “Sherbourne Hall has a fine library, sir,” Turnbull said, turning down the sheets.

  “I have a library full of books bought by the box from estate sales to fill the shelves, as you well know. Is there talk concerning my intended?”

  Turnbull came around the four-poster bed, a lovely old specimen that would comfortably hold six people. Sherbourne couldn’t fault Haverford’s hospitality—yet.

  “Lady Glenys is said to be bearing up well.”

  “What does that mean? She’s frolicking the entire day away with a bunch of handsome idlers.” While Sherbourne endured more tittering, fan-waving, and simpering than sanity allowed. No wonder Haverford had a reputation for lurking among his books.

  Turnbull left off fussing the bed. “Frolics, as you call them, do not happen spontaneously. Somebody must decide where to place the tent, what recipe to use for the punch, how many cakes to make, and how to get them all under the tents. Somebody must ensure the boats have a fresh coat of paint and are seaworthy. Her ladyship has managed the whole and will have far more to do than her guests.”

  This was why Sherbourne paid Turnbull exorbitant wages. The valet was more astute than a royal finishing governess, and knew when to be blunt—seldom—and when to be deferential—always.

  “Then I can ingratiate myself into her ladyship’s good books by being useful?”

  “A gentleman never ignores a lady in need, sir.”

  “Is there a lady whom Haverford finds difficult to ignore?” The Trelawny creature, perhaps. Haverford had got a good soaking pushing her boat to shore, then inquired after her well-being solicitously at supper. He’d taken off his boots before wading into the lake, though, suggesting—delightful thought—even the cost of a pair of new boots would pain him.

  Miss Trelawny was exactly the sort of featherbrain His Grace ought to marry. She’d make him miserable, but bring him closer to solvency. To trade personal happiness for financial health was the best bargain Haverford would make with life and better than he deserved.

  “His Grace is cordial to all of his guests, sir.”

  All save Sherbourne. “Off to bed with you, Turnbull. There’s more to be learned tomorrow, I’m sure. Keep a lookout for how I might be of service to her ladyship or to the Windhams. Miss Elizabeth is not hard on the eye, for all she’s getting long in the tooth.”

  “Of course, sir. Good night, sir.”

  Perhaps Haverford fancied one of the Windhams. Miss Charlotte’s vinegar would suit his dour nature, and Miss Elizabeth would get on well with Lady Glenys.

  Regardless, Haverford could have neither of the Windhams. Sherbourne would see to that. When His Grace married, he’d be in such financial difficulties, he’d be grateful to wed an American banker’s lisping, giggling daughter.

  * * *

  “Chocolate.” The word was distinguishable amid other mumblings coming from Lady Glenys’s bed. Radnor made out “toast,” “damn,” and “mustn’t tell Haverford.”

  Radnor’s beloved talked in her sleep. Did anybody else know that about her?

  He lifted the covers and joined her in the bed. “Glennie?”

  “Please not yet.”

  “We must talk.”

  She flopped onto her side, giving him her back. “Go away.”

  Then she sat up straight. “What in the illuminated holy scriptures are you doing in my bed, Radnor?” Her hair was a thick dark braid going frazzled near the end. She whipped it over her shoulder, lashing Radnor’s cheek.

  “You’re awake.”

  “I’m not awake. I’m having a nightmare if you’re paying a call at this hour, especially if you
somehow got turned around and intended to end up in somebody else’s bed.”

  The pillow had creased her cheek, and her nightgown had pink rosebuds embroidered on the décolletage. Radnor hoarded those details and folded his hands beneath his head lest he touch her.

  “I’m in the right bed, at the only hour when we’re likely to have privacy. I love you.”

  She drew the covers up under her arms. “You’ve been drinking.”

  Not the most encouraging response. “I haven’t had a drop since dinner, and may I compliment you on the merlot.”

  “That wine was from your cellar, and you need to get out of my bed.”

  Radnor needed to kiss her. He didn’t dare touch her. “I love you, I have for years, and I’m determined to court you.”

  She ceased fussing with the covers. “That’s very sweet of you, also insulting. I can inspire somebody to offer for me without you pretending an interest, Radnor.”

  “We’re in bed. The least you can do is call me Cedric.” He caught her braid and tugged her down, so she rested against his side.

  “You bathed,” she said, sniffing his shoulder. “You don’t smell of those awful cigars. I need to find another location for the evening card parties, or the library will stink for the next twenty years.”

  God rot all card parties and all ducal libraries. “Glenys, I want to marry you.”

  Her sigh fanned across his chest. “No, you don’t. You’re being noble, or gallant, or a good friend—I know not what. You have to marry somebody, I want to marry somebody, and you perceive what I should have known all along: Haverford can assemble as many titled bachelors as England has pubs, and none of them will offer for me. I’m not…I’m not attractive in the way women attract eligible men.”

  Radnor laced his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “I agree. You are entirely lacking in silliness, vanity, stratagems, flirtation, chatter, and jealousies.”

  “I am not winsome,” Glenys said, gravely, as if this mattered.

  “I’ll be winsome enough for the pair of us,” Radnor replied. “You worry over both of your brothers, which few would have sense enough to do, though Haverford and Griffin are equally worth worrying over. You never complain, you manage this household with too little help, you are kind and sensible, and you will never expect me to be something I’m not.”