No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  Julian opened the dancing with his sister, the highest-ranking lady among all those assembled. Glenys sparkled literally and figuratively, probably happier than anybody to have the final grand entertainment of the house party started. Radnor plucked her from Julian’s side before the last strains of the music faded.

  Which was as it should be.

  “I must admit, Haverford, you have put on an impressive display.” Sherbourne sipped a glass of punch and surveyed the dancers assembling for the next set.

  “My thanks. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” Julian also hoped Sherbourne spilled punch all over his fancy gold and blue waistcoat.

  “Must you be so gracious? I’ve had my arrows literally knocked from the sky, been tittered at, stepped on, condescended to, propositioned, and lectured. Then Haldale made a clumsy attempt to cheat me at whist.”

  “Poor lad. I assume Lady Pembroke did the lecturing?” Julian did not want to know who had done the propositioning, though how ironic—Sherbourne’s list of tribulations somewhat mirrored his own.

  “Lady Pembroke exhorted me at length, abetted by the estimable Miss Charlotte.”

  Charlotte Windham was estimable. Julian was about to make that very point when Radnor and Glenys took their positions on the dance floor. Radnor was trying to manufacture a semblance of lordly dignity and failing in all particulars. No couple had ever been more obviously besotted, save for Griffin and Biddy.

  “I’ll be making an announcement at the supper break, Sherbourne.”

  “Do tell. You’re offering for the elder of the Windhams?”

  Must he sound so diffident? The introduction to the dance started, giving Julian a moment to marshal his manners. Glenys had wanted a twelve-piece orchestra, but had settled for a string quartet and pianoforte. The musicians, like the fellow who had chalked a dragon onto the ballroom floor, had demanded to be paid in advance.

  Some helpful neighbor had clearly started the rumors of insolvency already. “I cannot afford to offer for Miss Windham, and well you know it.”

  Sherbourne lifted his wine glass a few inches in Julian’s direction. “Poor lad.”

  Insolent wretch. “Lord Radnor has offered for Lady Glenys. I’ve given my approval of the match.”

  Sherbourne sipped his punch in silence, studying one dancer in particular. Charlotte Windham had stood up with Sir Nigel, who was apparently in conversation with the lady’s bosom, if his gaze was any indication.

  “You might have waited until the house party was concluded, Haverford. I was considering offering for Lady Glenys, and well you know it. Bad form, Your Grace.”

  “Lady Glenys would not have accepted your suit.” Not once Radnor had entered the lists in earnest.

  “We’ll never know what she might have done, given the settlements I had in mind.”

  The music started, the dancers moved off, and Radnor held Glenys a shade too closely—or Glenys held Radnor too closely.

  “Was my sister’s happiness to be a hostage to your vanity?” Julian inquired pleasantly. “Is that your notion of gentlemanly honor?”

  Charlotte and Sir Nigel twirled past them. The lady’s smile had taken on a lupine quality.

  “I will now demonstrate my notion of gentlemanly honor,” Sherbourne said, “and change the subject. I have at last developed an understanding of why your sort is perpetually waving their dueling pistols about.”

  That was a gentlemanly change of subject? Julian couldn’t challenge Sherbourne—the man wasn’t titled—then he realized Sherbourne was watching Sir Nigel leer at Miss Charlotte.

  “She’ll put him in his place in about eight measures, if I’m not—”

  Miss Charlotte lost her footing, such that her heel came down hard on Sir Nigel’s instep. In the process of gaining her footing, she somehow managed to lift her knee in a most unfortunate direction.

  “One cannot applaud overtly,” Julian said, “but a gracious smirk upon next encountering Sir Nigel would be permissible.”

  “Ah, gracious, just so. My thanks for your instruction, as always. Has Lady Glenys set a date for the nuptials?” Sherbourne’s tone was exquisitely bored.

  “Not that they’ve told me.”

  “And the wedding will be small, family only, no doubt.”

  “The details have yet to be decided.” Though a small wedding was all Julian could afford for his sister. Thank God for Hugh St. David’s twenty acres of oak.

  Sherbourne finished his drink and set the empty glass on the tray of a passing footman. “I won’t call in your note until after Lady Glenys is safely wed. Wouldn’t be sporting.”

  “One doesn’t discuss business at a social function, Sherbourne.”

  “Whyever not?”

  Julian was angry with Sherbourne, for his presumption, for his greed, for his insouciance regarding a matter that would have grave consequences for dozens of families.

  He was furious with his grandfather and father for not minding the family finances more responsibly. Beneath the anger, though, ran a dangerous thread of relief, to have the years of trying, struggling, and not quite failing almost over.

  “You do not bruit your business affairs about in public, lest somebody—a guest, prospective wife, or society gossip—hear you callously announce an intention to ruin a neighbor of longstanding. Bad form, Sherbourne.”

  “Not so gracious now, are we, Haverford? Bad form is getting arse over ears in debt, and being unable to pay even the interest. I commend you for trying to put right what your forefathers so cavalierly put wrong, but I’m unwilling to finance aristocratic insolvency indefinitely.”

  I am arse over escutcheon in love.…

  To Julian’s surprise, another emotion lay beneath even the relief of being ruined: determination to keep his gentlemanly honor untarnished. He could withstand the censure of his peers, the disappointment of his tenants and staff, even his family’s pity, as long as he never jeopardized Elizabeth Windham’s respect for him.

  She would expect him to go down fighting for his valley, so fight he would.

  “Call in your notes,” Julian said. “Render me unable to pay my bills in the ordinary course. Ruin the livelihoods of my staff, my tenants, and the merchants who depend on the castle’s custom and the custom of my tenants. Bring the valley to its collective knees—though you don’t need my money any more than King George needs another art collection—and I will still oppose your damned mining scheme.”

  Three yards away, Charlotte had solicitously accompanied a pale, limping Sir Nigel to a bench among the ferns.

  “You liken me to that fat, mincing dolt who presumes to the throne of Britain?”

  “Please, Sherbourne. George lumbers of late. His mincing days are behind him. You ruin me because you can, not because you must. I have never wronged you, and have shown good faith in fulfilling my obligations. You simply want that coal mine and don’t care how many people suffer as long as you get it.”

  Julian kept his voice down—graciousness was beyond him now—and half-hoped Sherbourne would stalk away in high dudgeon.

  “She said as much,” Sherbourne muttered, as Charlotte Windham hovered by Sir Nigel, patting his shoulder and generally calling attention to his indignity.

  “Argue with me all you like,” Julian said, “but I hope you didn’t disagree with Miss Charlotte.”

  “I’ve had enough of your lectures, Haverford. I’ll send you an official notice of the loan’s acceleration next week, and you’ll have another thirty days—”

  Julian held up a gloved hand. “Not here, not now. You’ve put me in a position where I have nothing left to lose, and I will knock you onto your backside if you utter one more word tonight regarding business.”

  “I might renegotiate the terms, if you asked me to.”

  Julian drew off his glove, one finger at a time. “I might have negotiated with you regarding a coal mine—a modest, safe, well-run operation, employing no small children, and paying the miners a decent wage—if you had even once a
sked me to, but you’ve been too attached to your imaginary victimhood to attempt good faith negotiations. You will excuse me. I’m promised to Miss Trelawny for the minuet.”

  Julian could have been promised to Beelzebub’s mother-in-law for all he cared, he simply needed to get away from Sherbourne, and endure the rest of the evening without resorting to violence.

  * * *

  “Well done, my dears,” Aunt Arabella said. “We’re all but through with this house party, not a whiff of scandal in the air, Lady Glenys’s engagement announced, and only the resting and packing yet to go.”

  Charlotte yawned, hand on the door latch to the sitting room she shared with Elizabeth. “I’ll be about the resting part. I vow if I have to use my knee on one more bachelor I’m entering a convent.”

  “Haldale was my cross to bear this evening,” Elizabeth said. “I think he’s marshaling his courage to make an offer for me.”

  “Poor lamb,” Charlotte said.

  “I’m not a poor lamb,” Elizabeth retorted, though she was too tired to argue.

  “Not you, him. I’m for bed.” Charlotte slipped through the door leaving Elizabeth in the corridor with Aunt Arabella.

  “Your sister has shown a sad lack of interest where the bachelors are concerned,” Aunt said. “Charlotte wasn’t quite reckless, but she’ll soon get a reputation among the gentlemen.”

  Charlotte already had a reputation for not suffering fools and a fine reputation it was. “A reputation for stepping on their feet? Perhaps that’s exactly her aim.”

  Aunt looked thoughtful. “Charlotte Windham usually gets what she aims for. Interesting. I wanted you to know, Elizabeth, Benedict Andover has asked to pay me his addresses.”

  “He’s a fine gentleman.” The next part of the platitude, I’m sure he’ll make you very happy, got unaccountably stuck in Elizabeth’s throat.

  Aunt Arabella, a happy widow rather than a merry widow, was abandoning the most independent status a British woman could attain short of the monarchy, and doing so with a glowing smile.

  “We’ll not make an announcement for some time,” Aunt said. “Probably not until the little season ends.”

  Which would allow Aunt to herd her nieces to at least six more house parties. At each one, Charlotte would become a little more acerbic, and Elizabeth a little miserable.

  “I won’t say anything to Charlotte, Aunt. You’ve made a fine choice. Julian—Haverford—speaks very highly of Mr. Andover.”

  The utter stillness of a huge edifice late at night settled around them. Aunt Arabella was getting married, and the Sir Nigels and Haldales were growing bolder, while Charlotte was courting eccentricity, and Julian owed his neighbor twenty thousand pounds.

  “Aunt, what am I to do?”

  Arabella took Elizabeth in her arms. Older women were supposed to be plump, sweet-smelling, and gentle. Arabella’s embrace was fierce and bony, and the more comforting for it.

  “When you came here, your highest ambition was to invest in lending libraries and be left in peace with your books. You needed to be shaken free of that ambition, but not at the cost of your happiness. I’m sorry, Bethan.”

  Elizabeth eased back and withdrew the handkerchief no lady attended a ball without. “Haverford owns a copy of the Magna Carta. Did you know that? The 1297 version. All these centuries, the St. Davids have safeguarded a trove of historic documents, championed the less fortunate, and ensured the valley prospered, and it all comes down to money owed for ice sculptures and doomed canals.”

  “And I heard something about coal mines,” Arabella said, patting Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Go to bed, my dear. When we’re exhausted everything looks bleak. We still have two days before we must depart.”

  “Good night, Aunt.”

  Arabella crossed the corridor to her room, leaving Elizabeth alone at the darkest hour of the night, weary in body and spirit. She considered joining Charlotte, but instead took off in the direction of the nearest hidden stairway.

  She was outside the book room moments later, and because she always had the key with her, she let herself in, expecting to find the chamber cold, dark, and deserted but for the books.

  Julian sat at the desk, apparently so lost in thought he hadn’t heard the latch turn.

  “You should be in bed,” Elizabeth said.

  He rose and turned to reveal a duke in dishabille. His cravat was undone and he’d unbuttoned his waistcoat. The firelight winked on a signet ring on his left hand, and his cuffs hung loosely.

  “I should be in bed,” he said, prowling across the room. “With you.”

  * * *

  Julian had been listing his grievances against an unjust fate—even a duke was permitted a few private moments of resentment—and at the top of the list was an un-ducally selfish regret.

  He’d never made love with Elizabeth in a bed.

  Or under the oak.

  On a blanket halfway up Tudor Hill.

  In the castle’s main library, among the books she so loved.

  But to have never made love with the lady in a proper bed? That wasn’t right.

  Elizabeth was still in her evening finery, adorned with just enough jewels to signal her status, nowhere near enough to offend good taste. Her hair was drawn back into a simple knot, save for one thick lock cascading over a pale shoulder.

  “Will you come with me?” Julian asked.

  “Of course.”

  He opened the door, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her down the corridor. A footman trimming wicks pretended not to see them. A maid carrying a vase of wilted roses bobbed a curtsy and sent a shower of red petals to the floor.

  Julian didn’t care. Within the week, he’d be writing glowing characters for them all, sending his staff away with as much severance and goodwill as he could scrape together.

  For the next hour, he belonged exclusively to Elizabeth.

  He took her straight past his sitting room, directly to his bedchamber. The fire was lit, the covers turned back, and a pot of tea sat swaddled in a towel on his desk, as if this night were no different from any other.

  “I’ll need help with my dress,” Elizabeth said.

  “Of course.” Julian settled her on the vanity stool. “All evening, I was happy to converse with my guests and neighbors, dance with the wallflowers, and flirt with the dowagers. I’m a duke, and those courtesies are still mine to share. I don’t want to be the duke now, Elizabeth. I want to be solely and completely your lover.”

  She turned her face against his middle. “Yes. Solely and completely.”

  They’d become nearly domestic with each other in their tower room. Julian had undone her hooks and stays a dozen times, Elizabeth had retied his cravat and secured it with a perfectly centered pin just as often.

  Now, Julian had no patience, because their store of moments was almost gone. He undid her hooks and loosened her stays, then stepped back, lest he tear her clothing.

  “I leave the rest to you,” he said, taking the warm water from the hearth and pouring some into the wash basin behind the screen. “Take your time.”

  Elizabeth rose, her dress slipping from her shoulders. “Please get out of those clothes, Haverford, and do not take your time.”

  Spoken like a duchess. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stepped out of her dress, handed it to him, and swanned off to the dressing screen.

  By the time she emerged in Julian’s favorite dressing gown, he wore only a pair of silk trousers. Her hair hung in a single tidy braid, while Julian’s thoughts ran riot.

  “The sheets have been warmed,” he managed. “May I pour you a cup of tea?”

  “You may join me in the bed, assuming you can find me.”

  So much for cosseting. His bed was enormous, larger than some families’ parlors. “I’ll find you. Depend upon it.”

  He washed what needed washing, used the tooth powder, blew out candles, banked the fire, and all the while, Elizabeth watched him.

  “Haverford, sunrise
will begin in approximately one hour. Must I abduct you into this bed?”

  “I’m savoring the anticipation.”

  “What’s wrong, Julian? Radnor and Glenys will be very happy together, and all parties seemed to wish them well.”

  He settled at Elizabeth’s side on the bed. She’d taken off his dressing gown and sat among the pillows with the sheets tucked under her arms.

  “Sherbourne is finished toying with me. When I told him Glenys and Radnor had become engaged, he informed me he’d collect on the notes owed him. I’ll get a proper legal notice next week, and the public notices will follow after Glenys and Radnor speak their vows.”

  “Sherbourne told you this at your own ball?”

  Elizabeth’s indignation was balm to Julian’s pride. “I have the sense he’s been waiting for me to fire Glenys off, if not in his direction, then to some appropriate party. With the lady of the house no longer an issue, Sherbourne can ruin me with a clear conscience.”

  Elizabeth brushed Julian’s hair back. “He has a very odd conscience, if he thinks Lady Glenys will not mourn your ruin merely because she dwells five miles away.”

  “Mourn she might, but she’ll not suffer directly. Sherbourne hasn’t made up his mind whether to impersonate a gentleman or a rogue, though I believe the real man dwells somewhere in between.”

  “Charlotte said something similar. Come here, Julian.”

  Elizabeth drew him down, and got him situated beneath the covers, his head on her shoulder. In their tower room, the chaise had been an awkward bed, and rather than risk tumbling Elizabeth onto the floor, Julian had taken the outside position.

  The bed allowed him to truly relax with his lover, to sprawl physically and emotionally. Worries tried to intrude: He must explain the impending reversal of fortunes to Griffin, probably twelve times in twelve different ways. He must start writing the character references for a large staff, though perhaps Glenys could aid him as far as the maids and laundresses were concerned. He must resign from his committees in the Lords and from his clubs.

  Being honorably ruined involved work. Julian could deal with all of that later, for now he would make love to his Elizabeth, probably for the last time.