No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  “These surrounds don’t offer any good fossils,” Hugh said. “I always bring a book, there being no library to equal yours, and after enjoying a pint or two in the village, I find a quiet place to read and nap, if you must know the truth.”

  Elizabeth had known the truth. “Partner Delphine at whist and flirt with her across the table. Steal a kiss on one of the unused stairways. Bring her a rose some night, and tell her the chimney in your room is stopped up, so you’ll need to share her bed.”

  “My chimney.…You know, Delphie said something this morning, about her room having a draft. Do you suppose she was casting a lure?”

  Bless Elizabeth Windham. “If she is, you’d best catch it. Griffin won’t marry, I’m without a duchess, and you’re a man in your prime. The weight of the succession, at present, rests on your shoulders, Hugh.”

  Hugh rose and tugged down his waistcoat. “I’ve considered reminding Delphie of that.”

  “When you do remind her, have a bouquet of roses in your hand.”

  “Roses and ferns are a lovely combination,” Hugh replied, marching for the door.

  “And Paris in autumn is beautiful.”

  “One step at a time, Haverford. One step at a time.”

  Hugh left, and Julian sent up a prayer for marital concord. For now, the weight of the succession truly did rest on Hugh’s shoulders. Delphine’s frolics might well have landed a cuckoo in the St. David nest, which was probably half of her motivation for frolicking in the first place.

  “At least that problem shows some promise of a solution.”

  Julian took his drink to his desk, and sharpened a quill pen already sporting a perfect point.

  Lady Pembroke had pronounced half of polite society in dun territory half the time. The law of the land prohibited a peer from being jailed for debt, probably because the entire aristocracy would otherwise find itself, in one generation or another, behind bars.

  Julian scrawled a few sentences and sealed and franked the missive before self-doubt stayed his hand. To act on impulse was contrary to his nature, but in this case, inaction was intolerable. He gave the letter to a footman in the corridor, along with directions to send the missive to Moreland by express.

  Despite the expense.

  After Julian had spent another hour at his desk dealing with ledgers and political epistles, the same footman brought in the afternoon post.

  “My thanks, Elfryd,” Julian said. “If you’d get word to Hayes that I’d like to see him in the estate office on the hour, I’d appreciate it.” Hayes being the butler Julian had inherited from his father.

  “Of course, sir.” Elfryd withdrew, leaving Julian with a pile of correspondence that very likely contained more bills.

  One epistle was sealed with a ducal crest. Julian started there, prepared for a harangue by letter on some parliamentary matter.

  Haverford,

  Greetings and so forth. You are privileged to include two of my beloved nieces among your guests. Allow a rake, rogue, or fortune hunter within twenty yards of either of them, and I will gut you where you stand. Elizabeth, as the eldest of four, especially must not be allowed to entertain romantic notions regarding impecunious bachelors who think to presume on her parents’ desperation.

  You are a duke with an unmarried sister, so I’m sure you’ll appreciate the utter sincerity of my sentiments.

  Best regards,

  Moreland

  PS: If Elizabeth or Charlotte should be compromised while under your roof, my duchess assures me she will ruin what’s left of you after I’ve had my turn.

  PPS: Lord Anthony is a dead shot. So am I. So are Elizabeth’s cousins. And cousins-by-marriage.

  PPPS: Forbid the ordering of any ice sculptures. They’re frightfully expensive and the damned things just melt before midnight.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Why must every house party include a visit to the village?” Charlotte grumbled.

  She walked arm in arm with Elizabeth, both of them having declined to accompany Aunt Arabella in Haverford’s enormous landau.

  “Because the local merchants need the custom,” Elizabeth replied, “and it is a truth universally acknowledged that ladies need to shop.” Besides, the guests hadn’t left Haverford Castle except to attend services, and the house party was well into its second week.

  “I hate to shop.”

  Charlotte could be that honest because she and Elizabeth were walking ahead of the general multitude. Elizabeth had chosen to lead this charge so she wouldn’t have to watch Haverford offering his arm to Miss Trelawny, or Miss Penhathaway, or Miss…

  Any of the damned misses.

  “I have an alternate assignment for you,” Elizabeth said, “if you’re determined to keep hold of your pin money. Please make sure Sherbourne stays away from me.”

  The road was rutted and dry. Charlotte kicked a stone out of one of the ruts, right up onto the verge.

  “You truly don’t care for Sherbourne? I like his waistcoats.”

  Perhaps Windham women had a weakness for men in colorful waistcoats. “That is the first thing you’ve liked about anybody since we arrived at this house party.”

  “He’s not afraid to go his own way. Sherbourne isn’t stupid either.”

  Elizabeth drew Charlotte off the road so the landau could clatter past. “But is he honorable? While you are hanging on his arm and admiring hair ribbons, I will be questioning the shopkeepers about their prices.” After a proper inspection of the village lending library, of course.

  “That is not fair, Bethan. If you get to meddle, I should get to meddle too.”

  “You are diverting the enemy, or at least thwarting his reconnaissance.”

  Charlotte dropped Elizabeth’s arm and resumed walking. “Sherbourne likes money. It’s all very well for the aristocracy to pretend money doesn’t exist, because they have pots of it. The rest of the world starves without money, and I don’t judge a man for being mindful of that fact.”

  Sherbourne had appointed himself Elizabeth’s partner in the card room for the past three nights. He played with a calculated skill barely hidden behind party manners. Sherbourne did not like money, he coveted it—money from the pockets of Haverford’s guests in any case.

  Elizabeth wondered if he didn’t also covet her.

  He was properly attentive, and not without humor. He was also not Haverford, and now this—Charlotte liked his waistcoats.

  This entire house party was a nightmare, but for the hours Elizabeth had stolen with Haverford in the book room.

  “Regardless of Mr. Sherbourne’s affection for coin,” Elizabeth said, “I’d rather do my shopping without his escort. Mrs. St. David would be an ideal partner for me, because she’ll know many of the local merchants.”

  “She and Mr. St. David went off looking for fossils this morning.”

  The village came into view on the far side of an arched stone bridge. Tudor façades were interspersed with stone cottages and shops along a cobbled street. Potted flowers contrasted with the granite and whitewashed architecture, creating a cheerful, tidy air.

  “Are you envious of Mr. and Mrs. St. David, Charlotte?”

  “He’s devoted to her. I hadn’t expected that.”

  “I don’t think she did either.”

  As it happened, Hugh and Delphine St. David ended up in the village tavern at noon, along with the rest of the party. Elizabeth had spent her morning on Sir Nigel Windstruther’s arm, and had had to rebuke him only once for standing too close to her.

  She took the seat next to Mrs. St. David when Windstruther and Haldale got to wagering about the number of windows in the inn.

  “Good day,” Elizabeth said, as Hugh St. David held her chair. “What a pretty village this is.”

  “Wales shows to best advantage in summer,” Hugh St. David replied. “Some of the houses go back centuries, and the ale here won’t give anybody a bad turn. May I fetch you ladies your pints?”

  “Please,” Delphine replied
. “And some bread and butter. I vow this morning’s exertions have given me an appetite.”

  Hugh positively strutted to the bar, and his wife followed his progress with an appreciative eye.

  Well. “I have a few questions for you,” Elizabeth said, “if you’ve time to indulge me.”

  “Ask,” Delphine replied. “I know more about fossils than probably anybody here save my husband, but other than that, I’m not particularly knowledgeable.”

  “Why are the shopkeepers and merchants, to a man, overcharging the castle for everything from ale to lime to carpet tacks?”

  * * *

  “Why do you hate Haverford?” Charlotte asked, for she intended to do more than simply keep an eye on Mr. Sherbourne.

  She wanted to take him apart as she’d once taken apart her papa’s watch. All those springs and screws and tiny parts were more fascinating than the clock’s face. Two hands traversed the same twelve numbers over and over, while the genius of timekeeping remained tucked out of sight.

  “I don’t hate Haverford,” Sherbourne said, tipping his hat to Aunt and Mr. Andover as they ambled in the opposite direction around the green. “I hate injustice.”

  If he’d passed Charlotte a box of French chocolates, she could not have been more pleased. “So do I, but in what sense is Haverford an injustice?”

  Charlotte had envied Hugh and Delphine St. David not their relapse into marital affection, but their morning hike. The walk to the village, by contrast, had been undertaken at the pace of a drunken tortoise burdened with an uncertain sense of direction.

  “Haverford is a duke. At the risk of offending present company, a duke is a strutting, braying injustice.”

  The green was only a couple of acres of ground, just big enough to hold a village market.

  “Let’s wander along the river,” Charlotte said, “because I’m sure your views on this subject are as well developed as my distaste for purchasing hair ribbons.”

  “You don’t enjoy shopping, Miss Charlotte?”

  Charlotte steered him to the path between the livery and the apothecary. “Can’t abide it.”

  “I have never met a woman who doesn’t enjoy spending coin.”

  The path wound down to the river, the same body of water that ran through Haverford’s park, though it ran more slowly here.

  “You’ve never met a woman who didn’t profess to love shopping,” Charlotte said, “who didn’t manufacture a display of enthusiasm for it, and you took that for an honest expression of joy. You are preoccupied with coin, so any woman trying to curry your favor knows to display an affection for what coin can purchase.”

  “Miss Charlotte, you are a terror.”

  “And you are walking by a river. Patronize me at peril to your tailoring.” Sherbourne was good-sized. She might not be able to push him into the water, now that she’d given up the element of surprise. “Please explain your enmity toward dukes.”

  “Not only dukes, the whole peerage. The lot of them sit on their rosy fundaments, running the country while they do nothing to contribute to its well-being. The sovereign is a bad and very expensive joke, while the likes of Haverford can hold back progress on a whim, or pass toothless laws which they themselves then ignore.”

  The water meandered by, dark but not stagnant. A soft breeze stirred the trees along the bank, and wood warblers chirped and whistled overhead. Wales was beautiful.

  And Sherbourne was an angry man.

  Charlotte was angry too, much of the time. “Has Haverford held back your progress?”

  Sherbourne walked along, the picture of a gentleman at leisure taking the country air.

  “He refuses to allow even a single mine into the district. His father and grandfather took the same position. No mines, not when this valley can grow crops, and dot its hillsides with a lot of bawling heifers and stupid sheep. My grandfather hired a surveyor to dig some exploratory shafts and we do have ore here, Miss Charlotte. We have a wealth of ore.”

  His frustration was apparently every bit as precious to him as an inherited title would be to a ducal heir.

  “You don’t care for milk, cheese, butter, beef, mutton, lamb, or wool?”

  “You are the most contrary woman I have ever met.”

  “Thank you. Answer the question.”

  “Of course, I see the value in those goods, but compared to coal, they are barely profitable. Haverford’s beautiful vistas and plump bovines are a sentimental attachment the rest of us cannot afford. As a peer, he will never be jailed for debt, so his lack of funds is a mere inconvenience. For everybody else, our very freedom depends on having adequate coin.”

  “One cannot eat coal, Mr. Sherbourne. One cannot wear coal. As somebody who adores butter on my toast, I’m glad Haverford isn’t as greedy as some.”

  Charlotte ought not to have said that. A lady could make a point without being insulting, but really, Sherbourne hadn’t thought his position through.

  “I’m greedy for wanting to bring progress to this valley? For wanting our young men to have a choice besides tramping into London and hoping they’ll see their families again before they die of overwork and homesickness?”

  “You’re probably not greedy, but you cannot abide that Haverford, supported by all of his tenants and titled neighbors, can stop your mining scheme. You simply want to have your way in all things.”

  He stopped, both hands resting on his walking stick. “You make me sound like a spoiled duke.”

  Charlotte knelt to look for a stone—smooth, round, not too big. “You think Haverford’s title is why he can thwart your coal mine, but his title has little to do with it. He owns thousands of acres. You could own thousands of acres if you pleased to. His family goes back centuries in this shire. Someday, your family might too if it doesn’t already. He’s respected and trusted, however, and that, very likely, is why he can keep the mines out of the valley.”

  She skipped the rock, making four bounces before it hit the opposite bank.

  “He’s respected and trusted because he’s a duke.”

  “He’s respected because he is a gentleman in every sense of the word. You are almost as stubborn as my uncle Percival on the subject of the Irish question. He claims it will split the government before we just damned deal with it.”

  “Please do not use foul language, Miss Charlotte.”

  She picked up another rock. “I’m merely quoting my uncle.” She took better aim, so the trajectory would fall more nearly up the middle of the river, and got five bounces this time.

  “I’ve always wished I knew how to do that.”

  “Five male cousins,” Charlotte said. “I watched them and watched them—spied on them endlessly—then practiced in private. It’s not difficult. Shall I show you how?”

  He studied the spot where her rock had dropped below the surface. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “You’ll think about what I said? About Haverford’s title not being the issue?”

  Sherbourne removed his gloves and set aside his walking stick. “I will, if you’ll give some thought to the notion that progress ought to benefit more than the titled few. I’ll also ponder at some length how you look whipping that rock exactly where you want it to go.”

  Charlotte peeled off her gloves and stuffed them in a pocket. “Was that a compliment?”

  “More of a complaint.”

  She thought about that reply as she explained the qualities of a good skipping rock. Sherbourne’s first three attempts merely splashed into the river, but by the fourth try, he got a couple of bounces.

  By the time Mr. Sherbourne had achieved four bounces, Charlotte had concluded that for her to haunt his thoughts was acceptable. He needed something to dwell on besides the perceived injustice of being a wealthy, handsome, shrewd commoner who lived next door to a principled nobleman.

  “One more,” he said, tossing a small rock between his hands. “Then I must return you to the company of my betters.”

  He focused on the river,
much as Charlotte focused when she nocked an arrow. Everything—breathing, gaze, thoughts—came together in support of a single objective. He let the stone go with a hard flick of his wrist, and it bounced six times before striking an exposed rock many yards upstream.

  “That was excellent,” Charlotte said. “Very well done, Mr. Sherbourne. You are educable after all.”

  His blue eyes filled with consternation, and Charlotte feared she’d insulted him again. That would not do. She leaned close and bussed his cheek.

  “I’m proud of you, sir, and you’ve spared me a morning of tedium at the mercer’s and the baker’s.”

  His smile was unexpectedly bashful. “I’m in your debt as well, Miss Charlotte. For the lively conversation and the instruction.”

  He tugged his gloves on, offered his arm, and with every appearance of gentlemanly consideration, escorted her back to the green.

  * * *

  “Moreland, you can’t call a man out for asking to court our niece.”

  Percival regarded his duchess, whose tones in the past ten minutes had progressed from amused, to patiently firm, to mule-stubborn.

  “The damned man doesn’t even bother with diplomacy, Esther. He intimates that he’d give a lot of dusty books for the privilege of asking for Elizabeth’s hand, then bluntly informs me he has no coin.”

  Percival tossed Haverford’s message—it didn’t qualify as a letter—onto the blotter.

  The duchess stalked across the private ducal sitting room, and after more than three decades of marriage, Percival could read her mood in the very swish of her skirts.

  “Tony and Gladys are desperate to see Bethan married,” Esther said. “Tony himself suggested Charlotte and Elizabeth attend this house party, and need I remind you, sir, that Bethan would be Haverford’s duchess.”

  Esther had doubtless spotted a mention of Haverford’s gathering in some tattler, and had passed along the information to Gladys. Tony had probably been consulted as a courtesy, nothing more. Tony, alas, was off with Gladys in Brighton while his daughters hunted bachelors in Wales.