No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  “As if Bethan cares that”—Percival snapped his fingers—“for being a duchess.”

  Esther picked up the note, though she probably had it memorized. “Elizabeth would make a fine duchess, which I admit in all humility is not an easy task. One must learn to manage to a duke, and that can be a delicate undertaking. What does it mean, that Haverford’s circumstances are sorely constrained?”

  “He hasn’t a farthing to his name, though his castle is not yet mortgaged. I suspect the bankers won’t lend to him anymore, because they know the extent of his debts.”

  “I’ve seen Haverford Castle,” Esther said, taking the note over to the window. “Lovely grounds, magnificent edifice with an enormous library. His handwriting puts me in mind of yours.”

  The sunlight found fiery highlights in Her Grace’s blond hair. Percival pretended to peer over his wife’s shoulder, but mostly, he wanted to be closer to her. They were having a difference of opinion—behind a firmly closed door, of course—and he must tread carefully.

  “Magnificent edifices are expensive to maintain, Esther, as are beautiful grounds. You will notice, nobody is building castles these days, despite an abundance of fine British stone in nearly every shire.”

  “Castles are drafty.” Her Grace patted her husband’s cravat. “I say you should give Haverford a chance.”

  The duchess knew exactly when to turn up reasonable and charming, and Percival would capitulate to her wishes. For the sake of his pride—and her amusement—he’d put up a show of resistance first.

  “Do you want Gladys and Tony’s grandchildren living without comforts, madam? Without the coin to make a proper come out? Without dowries or means?”

  The duchess returned the letter to the blotter and settled on the sofa. “Percival, when I married you, you’d sold your commission, your family finances were a disgrace, the ducal heir was ailing, and your parents’ marriage was nothing short of a domestic feud.”

  Not even a polite domestic feud. Percival’s own marriage had been guided in part by a desire to avoid emulating his parents’ bad example.

  He took the place beside his wife. “I wasn’t much of a catch, was I?”

  “I was assured that marrying a duke’s son was very presuming of me, but viewed pragmatically, you were a bad risk.”

  “A lusty bad risk.” The babies had arrived one right after another, Peter’s health had deteriorated, and the old duke’s muddled finances had become a quagmire of debt and mismanagement.

  Esther linked her fingers with Percival’s. “But we contrived, Moreland. We endured, we did not give up. A few challenging years weren’t the worst that could befall our marriage.”

  Losing Victor and Bart was the worst that had befallen their marriage. Esther didn’t have to say that out loud.

  “Bethan and her duke might have hard decades, Esther, not simply hard years. Once a man has no capital to invest, his financial progress can barely plod toward better health. Haverford has a long road before him, and his politics incline liberally on too many issues for my liking. The only other characteristic the St. Davids are known for is having a blessed lot of old books.”

  “What asset could Haverford possibly have—besides honor—that Elizabeth would value more than books?”

  “A loving heart, of course.”

  Esther kissed his cheek. “And that is why I married you. For your loving heart.”

  “I know what you’re about, madam. You hope that if Elizabeth brings Haverford up to scratch, then Charlotte will capitulate to the charms of some swain or other. I think you have it backward.”

  Percival did not have a favorite niece or a favorite daughter—or maybe they were all his favorites—but he had a greater instinctive understanding of Charlotte than of her sisters.

  Charlotte was ferociously loyal, could not abide unfairness, and would sacrifice herself for her sisters without a murmur of regret.

  “Charlotte will have to marry, once Elizabeth has spoken her vows,” Esther said. “Her sisters will see to it. Megan and Anwen will matchmake more effectively than we ever could, and enlist the aid of our own offspring.”

  “Charlotte is immune to matchmaking. She’ll choose for herself or not at all.”

  Esther sat up. “Percival, was that a challenge? You claim I cannot find a suitable fellow for my own niece?”

  Nobody had found such a fellow yet, and not for want of trying. Percival kept that purely factual observation to himself.

  “Might we focus on one spinster niece at a time, my love? Haverford implies that Elizabeth is unconcerned about his financial situation, but I’ll not have him marrying her in hopes that her settlements will ease his burdens.”

  “Why not?”

  “For his sake. A man has his pride, or he should have his pride if he’s marrying a Windham.”

  “Valid point. So what will you do?”

  What did a competent officer do when the territory was unpromising, but had to be crossed? “I’ll conduct more reconnaissance, and bring Tony into the conversation.”

  “I wrote to Gladys this morning. You can tuck a note in with my letter.”

  “Esther, please. This is a serious matter. You can tuck your letter in with my ducal missive.”

  She cuddled closer. “You’re right, of course. My mistake.”

  Ever gracious in victory, that was Her Grace, but Percival wasn’t about to turn a blind eye to Haverford’s lack of fortune. Polite society wouldn’t either, and sooner or later, Elizabeth would hear it whispered that she’d all but bought her tiara.

  Which wouldn’t do. For a Windham bride, that wouldn’t do at all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  To Julian’s delight, Elizabeth was an enthusiastic lover. She liked to try different positions, and could appreciate a slow, tender joining as well as a mad gallop to completion. She approached lovemaking without a plan or agenda, other than to be intimate and to share passion.

  Julian reveled in her spontaneity, in the trust and joy of being with her in the moment, though without fail, he withdrew rather than risk her future for the sake of pleasure.

  Elizabeth insisted on cuddling afterward, despite the awkwardness of sharing a chaise, and she didn’t begrudge a man a short nap following his exertions. Nor did she begrudge herself a respite, and for that Julian loved her. She fell asleep in his arms, warm and naked, and gave him long moments to study her and to consider their situation.

  Which was…challenging.

  “You’re awake,” Elizabeth murmured, kissing his chest. “I could sleep for a week.”

  “Did this morning’s walk to the village tire you?” He’d wanted to buy her a hair ribbon, which was ridiculous. She doubtless had all the hair ribbons she needed, and Julian’s purchase would have been observed and remarked.

  “Being agreeable tires me,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “I tell myself that every minute I spend admiring Miss Penhathaway’s sketching or Miss Trelawny’s needlepoint is another minute closer to being with you.”

  Julian had also counted the minutes until Elizabeth would leave Haverford Castle—approximately fourteen thousand. Never before had fourteen thousand seemed like a paltry number.

  Elizabeth sat up, and because she was straddling him, this put her feminine attributes on display.

  “I want to discuss something with you, Haverford.”

  “I’m all ears.” Not all ears. Not when she stretched like that.

  “The merchants and shopkeepers in the village are bilking you at every opportunity.”

  Julian cupped her breasts, which were the most perfectly formed breasts in the history of breasts. “I’m a duke. That’s what shopkeepers do with a duke.”

  “Be serious. You are paying at least twice if not three times what you’d pay in London for many goods. London is hardly a cheap market, Julian.”

  “I’m well aware of London prices.” He was more aware of the brush of Elizabeth’s sex over his cock.

&
nbsp; “I love how you touch me.” Elizabeth closed her hands around his, showing him how firmly she wanted to be caressed.

  I love you. Loved her mind, her body, her heart. “I love how you can conduct a serious conversation even when I’m worshipping your breasts.”

  “I’m angry on your behalf.” Elizabeth repositioned herself along Julian’s side, which meant wedging herself between him and the wall. “Just because you are a duke doesn’t mean you should be cheated. You own that village, and those people should take pride in your custom.”

  “A fine notion, but a minority view.” Julian did own the village, literally, and in theory he was owed rent for every dwelling, shed, and cow byre within its limits. “The overcharging started about five years ago. Soldiers who’d fought against Napoleon returned home to find there was no work, and then we had a spectacularly rotten harvest. Everybody had a bad harvest that year, and prices were understandably higher.”

  “So you carried them through and have been carrying them ever since.”

  “I’m the primary reason they don’t have mines to work, Elizabeth, and most of them believe even a single productive mine would solve all their problems.”

  “Don’t they have cousins and brothers who’ve seen what mining does to a farming region?”

  Julian stroked Elizabeth’s hair and battled resentment. This topic should not be allowed to contaminate their sanctuary, and they deserved, at least once, to make love in a damned bed.

  Though Elizabeth had made the book room cozy. A different carpet covered the floor, a green and white pattern of fleur-de-lis intertwined with strawberry leaves and strawberries. A vase of fresh roses sat on the windowsill, and sheaves of lavender hung from the highest shelves and perfumed the air.

  Given enough time, Elizabeth would have the entire castle put to rights, and she wouldn’t spend a fortune doing it.

  “Our mines would be different,” Julian said. “Sherbourne has assured anybody who will listen that our mines would be different. Our waterways would remain clean, our skies would never see the blight caused by an ironworks, our families would never subsist in filthy hovels, and our children would never die of avoidable lung ailments when they ought to be learning their first Latin conjugation. I don’t want to talk about this. Not here. Not now.”

  Not ever, but somebody had to speak the truth, and eventually—certainly not in Julian’s lifetime—change would come.

  “Without coal, we’d freeze,” Elizabeth said.

  Julian got off the chaise, which was hardly an ideal bed for two, much less for two intent on an argument.

  “Do we need coal so badly we’ll send five-year-olds to dig it for us? Make them work in the dark for sixteen hours at a time? Give them only a Sabbath to recover from their labors, pay them a pittance, ruin the land for farming so the mines become the only option?”

  He pulled his shirt over his head, then stepped into his breeches. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather fought against the mines, not because coal is evil in itself, but because modern mining is as much a problem as a solution.”

  He took the chair behind the desk, his mood very much gone to hell. “Wages are inadequate,” he went on, “while the owners and foremen get rich. The men in the ironworks go blind after a few years, because they can’t tell if the ore is ready unless they look right into the blazing heart of the furnace. The owners don’t care, the foremen don’t care, because ten men are waiting for the next job at the works.”

  Elizabeth crossed the room, not a stitch on her, and climbed into his lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought this up when we’ve better ways to spend our time.”

  The weight and warmth of her in Julian’s arms were comforting, but again, why were they cuddling in a creaky old chair instead of Julian’s enormous bed?

  “There is no good time to bring up the subject of mining with me. As much as I worry for my family’s finances, I also worry for Britain. The common man deserves a dignified wage for his labor, and decent housing for his family.”

  “You mentioned that Griffin came to harm in an abandoned mineshaft,” Elizabeth said.

  “An exploratory shaft sunk by the Sherbournes near our property line.” Though what had that to do with anything? “You’ll take a chill sporting about in the altogether, madam.”

  “You’ll keep me warm.”

  For the next fourteen-thousand-odd minutes, Julian would try to keep Elizabeth happy. He rose with her in his arms, and sat on the chaise, his back propped against the wall.

  “You’re worried,” Elizabeth said, tugging the blanket up around his shoulders.

  “I’m a duke. Worry comes with the job. Sleep now.”

  “What do you suppose Sherbourne worries about?” Elizabeth murmured. “Surely he must worry about something, or he’d not invite himself to house parties, or bother to turn an entire village against you.”

  More than a village. Half the merchants in Swansea, and a few of Julian’s peers in the Lords, though Sherbourne was not solely responsible for that.

  Julian’s watch lay on the desk across the room, and the dratted thing always lost time when it lay flat.

  Maybe that was a good thing, when only fourteen thousand minutes remained before Elizabeth would leave. Julian kissed the top of her head, her question refusing to remain rhetorical. What did Sherbourne worry about?

  The answer floated by just out of reach as sleep claimed Julian’s awareness. Regardless of what bothered Sherbourne, the presuming varlet had the coin to resolve his annoyances, while Julian had virtually no coin at all.

  * * *

  “They’re gone,” Benedict Andover said, peering over the railing of the library balcony. “Young people and their foolishness.”

  “Their stamina, you mean,” Arabella replied. “We were young once too, Benny.” And they weren’t that old now.

  “We weren’t as foolish as Haldale and that Trelawny girl. Her mother ought to know better.”

  “Her mother’s trying to fire her off before the expense of another season, and Haldale must marry somebody. Shall I read to you some more?”

  Andover took the seat beside Arabella on a comfortably worn sofa. He’d shown her this refuge on the second day of the house party. The sheer number of books in the room was so impressive, that other details—like a cozy reading balcony, or two-hundred-year-old family Bible—went unnoticed.

  “I love how you make a story come to life,” he said. “You have thespian talent.”

  “Every parent learns to read a good yarn, or they should. What am I to do about my nieces, Benny? Charlotte has ignored the overtures of half the young men on the premises, and Elizabeth has attached the affections of the only unsuitable duke in the realm.”

  Andover patted her hand. “When a duke is young, handsome, in possession of a castle, and managing one of the finest private libraries ever assembled, he can’t be unsuitable.”

  Oh, yes he could. “Is the collection fine, Benny, or simply enormous? Any ambitious commoner can buy books by the cartload for the sake of appearances.”

  “This collection…” Andover stood and went to the railing, a captain admiring the view from his quarterdeck. “The late duke was a genius at acquisition. Julian’s father heard about all the best sales and got the best bargains—I was endlessly jealous and lived for the days when I could outbid him at the auctions. He knew exactly which volumes would appreciate in value, though he’d never part with a book once he’d acquired it. He claimed the library was his legacy to future dukes.”

  The library was also a deuced lot of dusting for overworked footmen. “So the books are valuable?” Why hadn’t Haverford mentioned that?

  Andover turned, back to the railing. But for the thinning of his hair, his looks hadn’t changed much over the years, and he made a fine, distinguished picture amid the library’s vast treasures.

  “The books are valuable, Bella, and they’re not. In the entire realm, perhaps a half-dozen people are qualifie
d to evaluate this collection. They could put any price they pleased on the books—Haverford has rare antiquities by the hundreds—but then, where does one find buyers? The bibliophile is usually an impecunious beast, frittering away his coin tome by tome.”

  While the late duke had hoarded his treasures. “Does Haverford know what this library is worth?” He’d spoken as if he hadn’t a feather to fly with, the daft boy.

  “Likely not, and it doesn’t really matter. If Julian so much as hinted that he wanted an appraisal, the gossip would start. I’m sure his solicitors have warned him sternly not to open that Pandora’s box. If Haverford attempted to liquidate the library, the dukedom would be bankrupted by unkind speculation before the creditors even arrived on his doorstep.”

  “And they would take the books?”

  “Probably loot the castle like a horde of rioting pirates. Haverford might be able to sell off a portion of his library discreetly, if he’d allow me to alert a few wealthy buyers. I suspect he knows that.”

  Arabella suspected he did not. “Have a word with him, Benny. Offer to dispose of the more valuable titles that can’t be traced directly to this collection. See what he says.”

  Andover returned to the sofa, sitting right at Arabella’s side. “He’ll offer me a choice of pistols or swords, my dear. The boy is frightfully proud, and I’m a guest under his roof. I can’t very well intimate he’s in need of coin, can I?”

  “You men and your delicate sensibilities. Tell me about the brother.” Lord Griffin was a problem, a vulnerability. Ducal families could not afford—literally—too many vulnerabilities.

  “A fine lad, if you ask me. Not in the common way, but good-hearted and hard-working. I’ve known him since he was in dresses, and we have an appointment to go fishing tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to join us?”

  Arabella’s first impulse was to reply with a scoff and a sniffy, “I’m too old to go mucking about after trout.” But for the past two weeks, her joints had ached less, she’d laughed more, and she’d had somebody with whom to reminisce and socialize.