No Dukes Allowed

by Grace Burrowes

  “You are not a little girl, which fact gives me significant joy. My name is Adam, and I invite you to use it, Genie.”

  * * *

  “You look like the tomcat who got into the cream pot, Dunstable.” Jeremy, Viscount Luddington, moved the teapot to his house guest’s elbow.

  Dunstable had come to the breakfast parlor from the front door rather than down the steps. His cravat was wrinkled, and his hair was styled a la mare’s nest. One button of his falls was loose, and the chain of his watch fob had come undone from its buttonhole to flap about his waist.

  “I need coffee.” He ran a hand through his hair, creating further disorder. “You see before you a survivor of Lady Naughty’s worst excesses.”

  Luddington motioned for the footman to pour the marquess a cup of coffee. “One doesn’t romp and tell, Dunstable, particularly not with a married lady.”

  Dunstable slurped his salvation with all the delicacy of a thirsty coach horse. “If she’s romping, she’s not a lady, is she?”

  “If you’re telling, you’re not a gentleman. Would you like some eggs?”

  Another slurp. “Let’s start with toast.” Dunstable reached for the rack. “Some hair of the dog would likely serve a medicinal purpose as well.”

  Luddington passed over his flask, which held a fine Madeira. Dunstable was getting old to be sowing wild oats, particularly when he’d started on the project shortly after birth. The marquess’s hand shook slightly as he buttered his toast, and he got a spot of jam on the tablecloth.

  “When the hell is the rest of George’s set coming down from London?” he asked. “The place livens up considerably when his toadies are in town.”

  “I honestly prefer Brighton when our dear sovereign is elsewhere. I did notice that the Double Duchess is among those enjoying the seaside.”

  Her Grace ought to be a double duchess because she was as gracious as she was good-natured, but the woman had married one duke and was rumored to be the intended of another. Luddington felt sorry for her—duke number two was hardly a prize—but she gave no sign of feeling sorry for herself.

  Dunstable bit off a corner of toast. “That one. Doubly difficult. She’s due for a comeuppance, I say. Did you know she’s biding with Her Grace of Timid-dale?”

  Luddington had never learned to appreciate the harsh charms of coffee. He poured himself another cup of tea and cursed Eton for the crop of inconvenient friendships it had produced.

  “Her Grace of Tindale was kind to both of my sisters upon their come outs, and they are a provokingly shy pair of young ladies. I doubt they would have taken without the duchess’s aid. You insult her at your peril.”

  Dunstable laughed, getting toast crumbs all over his cravat. “When did you become such a bishop, Luddy? If we didn’t talk about who we’ve swived, who we’d like to swive, and who’d like to swive us, what conversation would remain?”

  A note to Mama was in order. Both of Luddington’s sisters were happily married, but Mama was quite the hostess. Her guest list needed to become shorter by one name. Luddington caught the footman’s eye, and that good fellow took up the almost empty teapot and departed on a bow.

  “Dunstable, allow me to presume on our long and amiable association. You are nearly penniless, which I gather is something of a family tradition. Not your fault, but there it is. Unless you want to be refused my hospitality effective immediately, you will cease to slander every woman who has granted you a waltz. We are no longer boys, trying to impress each other in the public school dormitories.”

  Luddington meant the rebuke kindly. There had been talk in the clubs of Dunstable playing too deeply and taking too long to make good on his vowels. His most recent mistress had left him for the company of a mere cloth merchant, and nobody had seen Dunstable’s high-perch phaeton since April.

  The marquess stirred sugar into his coffee. “No need to get up in the bows, Luddy. I’m still a bit cup-shot, not at my best.” Dunstable smiled by way of further apology, and such was his inherent charm, that Luddington felt an iota of relenting.

  “We’re none of us at our best after a night of carousing, and if you’re not inclined to sea bathing, Brighton can be a challenge.”

  Dunstable shuddered. “Sea bathing. Tried it once. My stones were the size of raisins by the time the ordeal concluded. Never again.”

  Which raised a puzzle: If Dunstable wasn’t in Brighton to enjoy the sea, and the Carlton House set wasn’t present in any great numbers, what was the marquess doing here, and when would he be finished doing it?

  “I find a dip in the ocean invigorating. Have some more toast. When are you off to the family seat? The countryside is ever a pleasant respite in the summer.”

  Dunstable finished his coffee and refilled his cup. “I dare not show my face at the ancestral pile, lest visiting heiresses pop out of linen closets at me. My parents think I’m in Brighton to refurbish the sole asset deeded to me on my twenty-first birthday. That abysmal excuse for an abode is not four streets from the Pavilion, but a sorrier dwelling you never did see.”

  Only a ducal heir could complain about owning such a prestigious address. “Have you inspected the property?”

  “Had to. The solicitors would tattle otherwise. It’s an awful place, all dusty and gloomy. Not a stick of furniture, not a potted salvia to be seen. Pater says the roof leaks, the cellars let in the damp, and the parlors are drafty. Not exactly what you call a bachelor establishment for one of my station.”

  “That was his idea of a birthday gift?” No wonder Dunstable was in the doldrums.

  “For which I’m to be grateful,” he said, rising. “You defend Her Grace of Tindale as the wife of our late friend, but Luddy, I could tell you a tale in confidence that would tarnish your regard for her considerably.”

  “If you told such a tale,” Luddington said, “my regard for you would be tarnished as well. When you’ve finished breaking your fast, I suggest you have a bath and a nap. I’m off to call upon my aunt.” He patted his lips with his table napkin and rose.

  “It’s easy for you,” Dunstable said, brushing toast crumbs from his cravat onto the carpet. “Your papa doesn’t meddle. Your properties send cash flowing into your coffers. You haven’t got four sisters beggaring the family exchequer while you try to make a pittance serve as a quarterly allowance. There’s nothing I can do, Luddy. I’m not to have a profession, Papa doesn’t want me mucking about with ducal properties, I haven’t a head for academics, and yet, I’m to appear charming, well informed, and gracious at all times.”

  Was that such a burden? But then, Luddington had spent an occasional school holiday at the Seymouth family seat and did not envy Dunstable his parents. They were an arrogant, unsentimental pair who had high expectations of their son and little sympathy for his situation—or anybody else’s.

  “You bear up wonderfully under these hardships,” Luddington said, “most of the time. Have that nap, and your outlook will be brighter for it.” Luddington spoke to his four-year-old nephew in the same tone.

  “I suppose I shall, and I’m working on a means of making everything come right. I intend to have a conversation with a certain dowager duchess, and then I’ll not need to impose on your hospitality.”

  That did not bode well for the duchess. “If you need a small loan, Dunstable, you know you can count on me.”

  Dunstable waved a hand. “Small loans ceased to make a difference months ago, but thank you for the gesture. I’m for my bath and a bottle of that fine Madeira.”

  He sauntered from the room, his gait a bit unsteady, and Luddington sent up a prayer for his friend—and for any duchess upon whom that friend sought to call.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  “I am inebriated,” Adam said, turning his chaise down the Petworth drive. “Drunk on the abundance of art and craftsmanship under one roof.”

  “Petworth has an enormous roof,” Genie replied. “Would you like me to drive?”

  He surprised her by pass
ing over the reins. “A squire’s daughter is likely more proficient at the ribbons than I am.”

  The horse in the traces was an inelegant piebald cob from one of the posting inns. A few adjustments with the reins revealed a surprisingly soft mouth and clockwork gaits. A duchess would never be seen driving such a lowly beast, which was silly.

  “This is the best horse we’ve had all day,” she said. “Not much to look at, but her trot is smooth and tireless. She has excellent conformation for the job she’s doing, and that means she’ll stay sound long after the flashier animals are in the knacker’s yard.”

  “Shall I buy her for you?”

  He wasn’t joking. Adam Morecambe almost never joked, as far as Genie could tell. Never flirted either, drat the luck.

  “Thank you, no. I’d rather buy her for myself.” Her friends would consider the purchase eccentric, despite the mare’s spanking pace in harness.

  “Tindale doesn’t manage your funds, does he?”

  “My father negotiated the settlements, and I’m well provided for. If you think the current duke would meddle with my money, you don’t know him.”

  “I don’t,” Adam said, bracing a boot on the fender. “Given the damage done to my father’s reputation, I’m not likely to. You are a very skilled driver.”

  Something Genie herself had forgotten. “Thank you. What did you like best about Petworth?”

  He was silent for a long time, while the harness jingled in rhythm with the mare’s trot. “I can’t choose a single item, but do you know the legend of the peapod where Gibbons’s work is concerned?”

  Genie had seen more fruit, flowers, fish, and game carved from wood that day than she would have seen offered fresh at most country markets, but she hadn’t noticed any peapods.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “He’d carve a closed peapod early on in a project and not carve it open until he was paid. Anybody observing the carving knew if the artist had been compensated for his labors. I like that Gibbons held his patrons accountable. I also like that so much of his work remains. I do not like that I must accord aristocratic families the compliment of having been the ones to commission and preserve it.”

  “They doubtless preserved his art because nobody else has matched it. The formal gardens of a bygone age were simple to rip out, when rebuilding them would take only time and money. Art can’t be so easily reproduced.”

  “Good architecture is art,” Adam said, sitting forward. “It takes into account everything from the local soil and flora, to drainage patterns, available materials, the owner’s aesthetics, and, of course, budget.”

  He was off, expounding on the challenges of building a gentlemen’s club in London. Done right, his current project would function as a restaurant, coffee house, subscription library, gentlemen’s lodging house, and gaming hell. The club had to be both spacious and efficient, unpretentious and elegant, dignified and distinctive.

  “You see it as chess game,” she said, when they’d traded the piebald mare for a rawboned chestnut. “Sacrifice a pair of pawns for a rook, stay out of check, while pressing ever forward.”

  The sun was low across the fields, and fatigue put a soft edge on the day. Genie spent many evenings talking among acquaintances in polite society at card parties, musicales, or balls, but she didn’t converse. Those ladies and gentlemen did not argue that if London was to progress, then decent housing had to be erected for those who had only their labor to sell. They never stopped halfway down a corridor to stare at a ceiling while rhapsodizing about Michelangelo and Brunelleschi.

  They chattered and gossiped and drove Genie nigh to bedlam.

  Adam took the reins from her in a maneuver they’d perfected over the miles. His hands around hers, left and right, then she eased her grip on the ribbons, while the horse trotted placidly along.

  “After the lunch Mrs. Bryce set for us,” he said, “I thought I’d never be hungry again, but even that feast has become but a memory. Shall we investigate your hamper?”

  The hamper was still mostly full, the Petworth housekeeper having insisted on feeding a visiting duchess and her escort. The meal had been lovely, but so too had been having an intelligent male companion with whom to share it.

  “I did promise you a picnic, didn’t I?”

  “We’re making good time. We can afford a short respite.”

  A longer respite would suit Genie. She wouldn’t mind returning home as gathering shadows afforded privacy. The chaise’s hood remained down, meaning anybody might note that she’d driven out with Mr. Morecambe.

  “Let’s make the last change,” he said, “and then find a quiet spot for a quick meal.”

  “Would you like to see the Pavilion?” Genie did not want the day to end, though it must. The next best thing would be another day with Adam. If the weather held fair, King George would likely be out and about during the day, and thus Lord Dunstable would have no reason to haunt the Pavilion.

  “Everybody wants to see the Pavilion,” Adam replied. “That’s the whole point of the place, from what I understand—to be seen, to make an impression. The roof is rumored to leak, and other rumors claim George is soon to pull down Carlton House altogether.”

  Their conversation became desultory as they traded the chestnut for Caliban at the last coaching inn. The sun was touching the horizon, and Genie was famished when Adam gestured with his chin to a grassy stream bank shaded by leafy oaks.

  “How about over there? Caliban can have a drink, and if we spread the blanket on the far side of the oaks, we’ll have privacy.”

  Genie saw to the hamper while Adam released the check rein and tethered the horse. She chose a spot along the stream out of sight of the road and spread two blankets over a bed of soft clover. The water babbled quietly, an evening zephyr carried the scent of scythed fields, and Caliban added to the bucolic peace by steadily munching the grass.

  Why can’t life be like this? Why couldn’t life be peaceful and pretty, calm and relaxed? Why did life have to be stealing pleasures like a truant schoolgirl, hoping Dunstable or some other gossip wasn’t watching?

  “What has put the sadness in your eyes?” Adam asked, standing before her.

  He did this—noticed what was around him. Observed and remembered. “I’ve been going about this duchessing business all wrong.”

  “You are my favorite duchess. How could you be doing anything wrong?”

  “I’m not in a cottage in Derbyshire, watching the lambs frolic while the sun sets. As a girl, that’s how I saw my dotage, and it was a happy picture.”

  He took her hand to assist her to the blankets, then came down beside her. “Sounds lonely.”

  The notion that even he saw Genie as already in her dotage provoked her nearly to tears.

  “That cottage in Derbyshire is not as lonely as being a duchess. The first year of my marriage, I was so homesick, I wrote to a different brother each day of the week, then started the rotation all over again the next week.”

  “Did they write back?”

  “They’re brothers. Of course not.”

  Adam put an arm around Genie’s waist, she let her head rest on his shoulder, and some of the sadness slid away.

  While the determination to change, to take charge of her life remained.

  * * *

  All day, for every moment of this damned, wonderful, unexpected, unforgettable, grueling day, Adam had been torn between the marvels of a spectacular country house and the marvels of his companion. The Duchess of Tindale was so quiet about her accomplishments, they almost eluded his notice.

  She knew her art, knew how to drive a fractious coaching hack so the horse was happy to do her job. She knew how to eat a sandwich without getting a single crumb anywhere, and she knew how to keep silent while Adam was moved beyond words by the woodcarving of a man long dead.

  Genie didn’t mock his passion for architecture, didn’t grow bored when he waxed effusive about capitals and astragals, finials and stringcourses.

&n
bsp; She also touched him. Casually wound her hand around his elbow, patted his arm, stroked his lapel as if to smooth a wrinkle. Her caresses soothed a restlessness Adam had long been ignoring, and they enflamed a desire as surprising as it was inconvenient.

  She was a duchess. He could never move in her circles. His Grace of Seymouth had made that plain. Adam had approached the duke about unpaid bills at the time of Papa’s death and had been escorted from the ducal town house under permanent threat of unending litigation.

  “I don’t want to climb back into that chaise.” Genie put the cork in the bottle of lemonade and set it back in the hamper.

  “Because the bench isn’t sufficiently padded?”

  “Because this has been a lovely day, Adam Morecambe, in lovely company. I don’t want this outing to end.” She leaned over on all fours and kissed him, and the moment became gilded with possibilities.

  Rather than sit back on her haunches, she stayed where she was, her palm cradling Adam’s cheek.

  An invitation? She probably thought herself very bold. Adam thought her overture wonderfully understated. He kissed her back, smoothed her hair from her brow, and then she was on him, pushing him to the blanket, turning a polite kiss into a plundering of his mouth and wits.

  “Your Grace, you needn’t—”

  She got him by the hair. “No more your-gracing.”

  “Genie, we have—”

  He’d meant to say, We have time to discuss this, but the rest of his thought flew from his head as Genie loomed over him.

  “I am inebriated too, Adam Morecambe. Drunk with the pleasure of a simple day spent in company I chose for myself. Do you know how long it’s been since I was permitted to drive my own gig?”

  Rather than let him answer, she kissed him again: Too long. It has been much, much too long.

  She broke off the kiss and remained crouched over him. “Do you know how long it has been since I was permitted—permitted!—to climb in and out of a carriage without some man handling me as if I were a doddering granny?”