No Dukes Allowed

by Grace Burrowes

  Diana mumbled something that Oliver couldn’t hear.

  “Your Grace.” The bookseller tossed his own greeting into the fray. “I was going to have your map delivered when it was ready.” He sounded worried. “The frame is not quite finished.”

  “Yes, yes.” The duke gave a dismissive wave. “You’ll be envious to see what I picked up for a song this morning, Graham,” he said to Oliver. “An Indian map of the future, illustrated in fine detail. Mark me, only the best will do.”

  “The future?” Oliver asked, wondering at the duke’s sudden interest in a place he had referred to as barbaric and backward only last night.

  “The world is shrinking, Mr. Graham. Beyond our borders lies a world of culture and knowledge. The future and the control of it lies there, for men with the courage to face the risks that come with such great rewards.” Riddington sniffed and turned slightly to the man behind him. “Did you get that, Mr. Rhodes?” he asked. “I wish to be quoted directly. So many of the peerage remain sheltered from the beauty to be found in such places.”

  Diana made a funny sound in her throat, and Oliver willed his face to remain impassive.

  The man seemed to sigh and pulled out his journal. From somewhere in his coat, he produced a pencil stub and dutifully jotted something down.

  “And you will be one of these men?” Oliver asked.

  The duke preened. “Of course I will.”

  The journalist finished writing and closed his book.

  “Mr. Rhodes writes for the Herald,” the duke said. “He covers all the important people and their contributions to this empire. People like me.”

  “Really?” Diana’s silky-smooth tone had a decidedly brittle edge. “Did he write about you last night?” She shot the journalist a hostile stare.

  “Ah. You saw the social pages this morning. The mention of our… affair.” The duke smirked.

  Actually, truly smirked before he rearranged his expression into what Oliver suspected was supposed to be grave concern. Oliver’s fingers curled into fists, and for the second time in as many days, he resisted his baser urges to simply knock the man’s teeth out.

  “That bit was not from the Herald. That was the Gazette,” Riddington continued with a shrug. “Though I understand it came from a credible… source.”

  “A credible source?” Diana said, her color high. “You?”

  The duke waved his hand. “You know just as well as I that these papers must pander to their audience. An audience that delights in the details of the lives of their betters.” He patted his artfully styled hair. “And my name sells papers.”

  “What they suggested was not only false, but utterly implausible.” Diana’s words were tight.

  “Implausible? You wound me, Mrs. Thompson.” Riddington put a hand to his chest, annoyance flickering over his features. “You know, perhaps it is only you who does not see how well suited we are. You are too beautiful to be wasted on anyone else.”

  Diana looked away.

  “Come now, Mrs. Thompson. Don’t be like that. It’s not my fault that every paper from London to Brighton wishes to write about me and my ambitions, personal or otherwise.” He paused, his expression becoming patronizing. “I will, of course, speak to the editor on your behalf if such idle gossip unduly distressed you.”

  “It’s too late. The damage can’t be undone.”

  “Damage?” the duke repeated archly. “I am a duke, if you’ve forgotten. Having your name linked with mine in any sort of fashion can only improve your own popularity and prestige. It is futile to resist me. I have the power to open doors for those who please me. Or close doors for those who do not. You would do well to remember that.”

  Oliver stared at Riddington, considering the damage he would do in this bookshop if he hurled the duke through the window.

  “Mr. Graham?” the journalist asked. “Oliver Graham? You aren’t, by any chance, recently returned from India yourself?”

  “Indeed, he is,” Diana replied before he could answer. “Further, Mr. Graham will be assuming a position at the East India Company’s college, teaching science and natural philosophy.”

  The journalist perked up at this. He opened his notebook again. “You don’t say? My editor would love a piece about someone with firsthand knowledge, and I would very much like to—”

  “Mr. Rhodes will be far too busy covering important matters this week to waste his time on such drivel,” Riddington interrupted. “Though, perhaps, Mr. Rhodes, if you’re looking for a deliciously scandalous tidbit that will put you and your paper ahead of the Gazette, you might want to ask Mrs. Thompson here about the Double Duchess. They are very close. Staying together here in Brighton, in fact.”

  Diana stiffened. Oliver frowned, having no idea what that meant. Who, or what, was the Double Duchess?

  Rhodes said nothing, only glanced at the duke from the corner of his eye, looking faintly annoyed.

  “Mr. Rhodes, I’m giving you an inside track,” Riddington said sharply. “I would expect you to be grateful for the advantage.”

  The journalist seemed to sigh. His pencil was still poised above the pages. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said, not sounding very enthusiastic. Or remotely grateful. “Can you get me an interview with the Double Duchess, Mrs. Thompson?”

  “No.” Beside him, Diana’s fists were clenched in her skirts, her mouth set in a hard line.

  The reporter sighed again. “Do you have a comment on your own—”

  “Mrs. Thompson has no comments,” Oliver said. “About anything.” He wasn’t familiar with all the nuances of this conversation, but he knew Diana did not deserve to be subjected to another moment of this. “I see that your driver waits outside, Mrs. Thompson. Do enjoy your evening. I will send a message to Ainsworth House regarding the matter that we spoke of?”

  Diana shot him a grateful look. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Graham. That will be suitable.” She picked up her skirts and nodded curtly. “Your Grace, gentlemen. Good day.”

  The reporter merely closed his notebook and stepped to the side as she swept past him. Oliver watched her disappear through the door before turning back to Riddington. “Petty gossip is a little beneath you, don’t you think, Your Grace? It wasn’t amusing at Oxford, and it is certainly not amusing now.”

  “Watch yourself, Graham,” the duke said.

  “Or what? You’ll spread rumors that you and I are involved in a scandalous affair?”

  “You do not want me for an enemy. You are a nobody, while I am a very powerful man.”

  “Yes, you keep saying that.”

  “It would be a shame if your appointment to the East India College were revoked,” Riddington sniffed. “A well-placed word from me could become quite troublesome for you.”

  “Is that a threat, Your Grace?” His voice was deceptively soft.

  “You’re not a foolish man, Graham.”

  “No,” Oliver agreed. “Nor am I afraid of you.” He’d faced far more intimidating men in his life than this poor excuse for a duke. Emperors. Sea captains. Chieftains. Soldiers. Faced them and learned that real power was born not from a title but from cleverness and confidence and courage.

  “Mrs. Thompson doesn’t belong to you,” Riddington spat, his face flushing a mottled red.

  Oliver smiled, a slow, pitying smile. “No, she most certainly does not.” He met the duke’s eyes without flinching. “And it would serve you well to remember that she doesn’t belong to you either.”

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  Diana didn’t get back in the carriage.

  Instead, she told the driver to wait for Oliver and struck out down the narrow street, heading for the vista of ocean that she could see spread out across the horizon in front of her. She was angry and shaking and wished with all her heart that she was one of those supremely clever, cool women who could cut a man down to size with her wit. Yet everything she wished she had said usually came to her about two hours too late.

  She despised th
e duke and all his spiteful conceit. She despised the vindictive gossip that she couldn’t get away from. And she despised that she didn’t really know what to do about any of it.

  Those thoughts dashed around in her mind until she found herself past the last shops and inns and houses, and the beach opened up before her. She turned west, her feet sinking into the rough sand as she walked blindly into the setting sun. The blue in the sky above her had yielded to amber and rose, the wispy clouds gilded with streaks of orange. The surface of the sea glittered with gold, the surf leaving a coral sheen on the sand where it crashed and receded. Here, the salty tang of the sea was rich on the breeze, the cry of seabirds the only other sound that could be heard over the waves.

  The fashionable set, out taking the air, had long ago left the shore, as had the seamen and fishermen, and Diana had the wide expanse nearly to herself. She walked until the buildings fell away and the beach narrowed to be hemmed in by the sea to her left and rolling, grassy dunes to her right. She changed direction, climbing up into the dunes, and lowered herself to the ground among the lengthening shadows. The sand was still warm from the day, and Diana lay back, closed her eyes, and let the cooling air wash over her. Perhaps she would stay here forever, she thought. Here, gossip couldn’t touch her. Here, she didn’t have to pretend to be a good person who wasn’t horribly jealous that the man she loved belonged to another.

  She opened her eyes and stared up at the sky, the orange hues starting to surrender to the pale wash of twilight. With enough food and water, she could happily spend her days in this wild isolation—

  The sound of feminine laughter nearby startled her. Not as isolated as she’d thought, Diana realized, pushing herself to her elbows. Just off to her right, slightly below where she was, a couple had emerged, the man’s arm around the woman’s shoulders. He spun her around, the woman’s cloak swirling around her yellow skirts, caught her face in his hands, and kissed her deeply. Diana could feel herself blushing. They wouldn’t be able to see her where she lay, and she felt like a voyeur. Perhaps she should slip away. Or make herself known. Or—

  She froze. The last rays of the setting sun touched the woman’s hair, setting the red tresses on fire. The woman pulled away slightly, her hands slipping around her lover, her face buried in the crook of his neck. The blond man had his back to Diana, and she couldn’t hear what he said, but the woman nodded and lifted her head. With infinite care, she touched his face, and he caught her hand, holding it against his heart.

  And then he let it go and disappeared back up into the dunes, leaving Hannah Burton gazing wistfully after him. After a moment, she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head and picked up her skirts before she too vanished into the dunes, taking a different direction.

  Diana stared sightlessly at the spot from which Hannah had departed, unable to move. She dragged in a breath, trying to sort out the tumult of emotions crashing through her. After a few minutes, her mind started working again, and she wondered how she could have missed it. How, given everything that had happened in the last days, had it taken her this long to see it? See that Hannah was in love.

  And not with Oliver.

  She got to her feet, feeling strangely numb, not bothering to brush at the sand and bits of dried vegetation that clung to her skirts. She made her way to the very edge of the surf, the water nearly touching her feet.

  It’s complicated, Hannah had said, and Diana should have guessed what complicated meant. In fairness, she hadn’t seen Hannah in the months leading up to their time in Brighton, and the distance her friend had put between them now made sense. It also explained Hannah’s decision to come here with her aunt instead of traveling to Bath with her family. And her reluctance to face Oliver. It explained everything.

  And yet, in the end, it changed nothing. The engagement between Hannah Burton and Oliver Graham still existed. Oliver had too much honor to ever break such a contract. And if Hannah hadn’t already done so, or wasn’t going to do so—

  “Who is the Double Duchess?”

  Diana nearly jumped out of her skin. She put a hand on her chest, as if that would slow the pounding of her heart and turned.

  Oliver stood before her, the last vestiges of light making the paleness of his shirt unnaturally bright in contrast to the shadows.

  “Who is the Double Duchess?” he asked again. “And why are you a leading wager in the betting books in every gentlemen’s club in London?”

  “Did you follow me?” she demanded. Of course he had followed her, but she was stalling, unsure how she felt about that. She didn’t yet have her thoughts in order. She didn’t have answers to anything in order.

  “Yes, I followed you,” Oliver replied unapologetically. “The driver said you walked down to the beach. I was worried about you. I’m still worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. If you had concerns about tomorrow, you could have left a message at Ainsworth House, like you said.” Her heart was still racing out of control beneath her palm.

  “I’m tired of writing letters to you. Especially when I can see you whenever I want.”

  Diana glanced down the empty beach beyond him and moved away, following the edge of the surf. She was afraid that if she continued to stand in the twilight, next to this man, she might do something stupid. Something more foolish than she already had.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Dee. Please.”

  The woman you’re supposed to marry is in love with another man. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. That was something that needed to come from Hannah. Not her. That was something that was between the two of them.

  And I’m in love with you. She couldn’t bring herself to say that either, and she cursed herself for the coward she was.

  “Belinda Collins, Duchess of Winchester, pursued by the Duke of Pomperly now that she’s a widow,” Diana replied instead, because bringing up Belinda made her incensed and indignant on her behalf all at once. Which were better things to feel on a deserted beach than reckless and overwhelmed. “Labeled in every damn gossip sheet in London as the Double Duchess. She thought she might escape the scandalmongers here in Brighton.” She continued down the beach.

  Oliver fell in beside her. “But she hasn’t.”

  “No.”

  “And neither have you. Tell me about the wagers.”

  Diana flinched. “How do you know about them?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not.”

  He was walking close enough to touch her. Close enough that if she chose, she could slip her hand in his. She curled her fingers around her skirts.

  “I’ve been a widow for eight years,” she said. “Too long, according to popular opinion, to be without a new husband. Or, at the very least, a lover.”

  Beside her, Oliver was silent.

  “When Laurence died, his estate went to a cousin, but he left me more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime. There has been no shortage of men who believe that they are best suited to control it. Who tell me that I am helpless on my own without a man to guide me.”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Oliver growled. “And you are far from helpless.”

  “I know that. But in their eyes, I am but a prize to be won. By marriage or other means.” Anger simmered. And she embraced it because it was safe and real. “The fact that I have refused them all has generated the expected speculation and rumor. The idea that I simply want to be left alone is insupportable.”

  “Dee—”

  “Did you know that the victor of the wager at Boodle’s and White’s is only required to bed me, not marry me? And that he is entitled to twenty-five percent of the purse if he can prove he did so?”

  From somewhere beyond the dunes, an owl hooted, its call eerie.

  “I’m sorry,” Oliver said.

  “For what?”

  “For… everything.” He sounded unhappy.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Would you ever,” Oliver as
ked, his voice rough, “get married again?”

  Diana was silent, her eyes on the horizon, where the last vestiges of twilight were finally and inevitably succumbing to darkness.

  “Yes,” she finally whispered. “But only to a man I am in love with.” That was the truth. A horrible, unavoidable truth.

  That man was walking next to her. Close enough to touch. Hers to want but not hers to have. While the woman to whom he supposedly belonged was somewhere else in these dunes. Avoiding Oliver so that she might be with her own love. Because she didn’t want him.

  This entire situation was unfair. And absurd. And it sent a furious frustration punching through her.

  “Were you in love with Laurence when you married him?” Oliver asked.

  Diana stopped and whirled. “What difference does that make?”

  Oliver took a step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Are you in love with the woman you’re going to marry?” It was harsh.

  He gazed at her, his features hidden by shadow, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “No. I’m not.”

  Her anger and frustration suddenly drained, leaving her hollow and wobbly.

  “Perhaps I could come to love her,” he said, and his words were bleak. “With enough time, perhaps—”

  “All the time in the world cannot make you fall in love with someone when your heart already belongs to another,” Diana said. “No matter how much you wish it otherwise.” She couldn’t bring herself to be gracious anymore. Her heart was aching, and a gaping, empty hole was opening up within her. “I can’t be with another man who I don’t love. I just can’t.”

  “Dee.” Oliver stepped toward her.

  Diana shook her head, afraid that if she looked at him, she would burst into tears. And tears fixed nothing. So she stared up at the rising moon in the darkening sky instead.

  She felt his warmth before she realized that his fingers were on her cheek and that, despite her best intentions, a tear had escaped. Oliver brushed the drop of moisture away, but then his hand slipped down to cup her cheek, and God help her, she couldn’t step away. Her eyes closed, and she pressed the side of her face into his palm, allowing the heat of his skin to seep into hers against the cool air of the night.