The Duke of Nothing (The 1797 Club Book 5)

by Jess Michaels

  But there was no way around it, it seemed. He had not set this ball to rolling down the hill, but he hadn’t stopped it, either. He had, in fact, added to its weight after his father’s death with his own bad decisions and equally bad impulses.

  So if he did not get the happy ending of his friends and his sister, perhaps he deserved that.

  Ewan met his eyes and tilted his head slightly. He signed something to Charlotte and then began to cross the room. “Bollocks,” Baldwin muttered, but he smiled as his brother-in-law came to his side. “Donburrow.”

  Ewan dug into his pocket and withdrew a silver notebook and short pencil. Swiftly, he wrote a few lines and handed it over. “What’s wrong?”

  Baldwin drew in a long breath. “You know, everyone keeps asking me that. Do I look so very terrible? I’m beginning to feel insulted.”

  If he had hoped Ewan would smile at his jesting, he was disappointed. Instead, Ewan wrote, “I’m your friend. Can’t you tell me?”

  Baldwin squeezed his eyes shut. How often had he wished to tell his friends about his position? Especially as the dire straights he was in became more and more clear. He knew he would find their support and sympathy if he spilled his secrets.

  But he would also find their judgment. For how could they not judge him? He’d made things worse by acting just like his father. He didn’t want them to know that while he pretended to be honorable and decent and settled that he was a wastrel.

  And beyond that, he also knew that if he whispered to Ewan the truth, Donburrow would immediately offer help—in the form of blunt. So would all of his friends. And that humiliation was perhaps worse than he could bear. To have his friends heap charity upon him, to have them talk about him behind his back in subdued, mournful tones, to owe them more than he did just for their friendship?

  No, he had some pride left.

  “It’s nothing, I assure you,” Baldwin said softly, turning his face so that Ewan wouldn’t press.

  His friend let out a sigh, but if he intended to pry further, he was cut off when Charlotte called out, “Do stop glowering in the corner, you two, and come join us.”

  Ewan gave Baldwin one last look. One that needed no written translation. A look that told Baldwin that Ewan was there for him. That he would help if it were needed.

  Baldwin clapped him on the shoulder. “I know,” he said. “Now come on. You should know better than most that my sister will not be denied.”

  Ewan’s face brightened a bit and they walked together to join the ladies for their tea. With great effort Baldwin shook off the resentments, he shook off the weight on his shoulders. The first ball of the Season was in two days. Until then, he was going to enjoy his last few hours of freedom.

  Until then, he was going to do his damnedest to forget what the future held. And what he was bound to do in order to save it for them all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Rockford Ball had been the launch of every Season for five years running. Lady Rockford took great pleasure in choosing themes and dressing her poor servants in livery to match them. This year she’d chosen a fairyland as her theme and had draped her ballroom in gauzy blues and greens. Her footmen were styled much the same, and from their frowns and blank expressions, they did not enjoy the small wings that had been affixed to their attire.

  Baldwin might have smiled at the silly display, but at present he was surrounded by friends—married friends. The Dukes of Abernathe, Crestwood, Northfield and Donburrow were all waxing poetic about wives and home lives and, in James’s case, children.

  “How is little Beatrice?” Simon, Duke of Crestwood asked. “I see you finally convinced Emma to leave her alone for a night.”

  James, Duke of Abernathe, arched a brow. “You saw Bibi yesterday. She is little changed since then. Though she’s perfect, so thank you for inquiring. And I can see Emma watching the time even from across the room, but she frets for nothing.”

  Baldwin followed James’s loving stare to find Emma standing with Charlotte, Simon’s wife Meg and Graham’s wife Adelaide. They were laughing together, fast friends. Would any woman he chose for her purse fit into their set? And if she didn’t, would he slowly be eased out of their circle?

  “What are you frowning about?” Graham, Duke of Northfield, asked as he jostled Baldwin’s shoulder gently.

  Baldwin scowled playfully. “I just don’t understand how I came to be sucked into the circle of old married dukes. I’m still free.”

  The others chuckled, but Baldwin saw Simon and James exchange a brief look. His chest tightened at the sight of it.

  “There is a rumor, you know, that you are intent on finding a match this Season,” Simon said.

  Baldwin arched a brow. “And who started this dastardly rumor?”

  The group turned toward Ewan en masse, and he shrugged and raised his hand without so much as a sheepish expression.

  Baldwin folded his arms. “Let me guess. My mother told my sister, who told you, and you told Simon, who told everyone because he has a big mouth?”

  Simon glared, and Graham laughed, “That is essentially the line of progression, yes.”

  Baldwin rolled his eyes and fought desperately not to have the truth of his situation revealed by his reaction. “Well, there is no use trying to hide it. It’s true. I do intend on finding a wife this Season. It’s time.”

  Graham pressed his lips together. “Time really has nothing to do with it. Marry when it’s right, not when it’s time.”

  Ewan nodded enthusiastically as James said, “Truly, Graham is right. Marry for love, Baldwin. You deserve all the happiness your friends have found and even more.”

  Baldwin shoved his suddenly sweaty hands behind his back and forced a smile. They meant well, after all. They didn’t know the truth.

  “Well, I’ll certainly take your advice into consideration,” he said. “You know everyone is in town at present. Well, everyone but Lucas. We should get together if you can separate yourselves from your wives.”

  The men exchange a look and then James nodded. “Capital idea. I’ll make the arrangements and send an invitation when we have the particulars managed.”

  Baldwin exhaled in relief, for his suggestion had taken some of the focus off his very foggy future. “And now I’m going to take some air before I throw myself into this endeavor. Good evening. I’m sure I’ll speak to you all later in the night.”

  They said their goodbyes and Baldwin left then, feeling four sets of concerned eyes on him with every step he took away from them. He exited as swiftly as he could, heading out onto the terrace where a cool late spring breeze hit him in the face and cooled his now-heated cheeks.

  Lord and Lady Rockford were possessed of a large veranda, one that stretched the length of their massive home. There were couples and small groups scattered just outside the ballroom, enjoying the air. Baldwin flinched. The last thing he wanted in this moment was to get caught up in meaningless conversation. There would be plenty of that in the weeks to come.

  He smiled at those around him and moved away, down the veranda, past the doors to other parlors and into a slightly dimmer corner. He was about to settle in to a perfectly dark and cozy brood when a young lady stepped out of the shadows and placed herself at the wall with her back to him.

  She was slender, with a mob of auburn hair piled high on her head in a mock-Grecian style. Tendrils curled from the mass, making little trails across her shoulders that disappeared from view when she adjusted her shawl a bit higher.

  She had not noticed him as of yet, it seemed, for her attention was lifted. She was raptly focused on the sky above, and he followed her gaze and caught his breath. There was no moon and the sky was lit up with stars. He took a silent step closer and thought he heard her whispering beneath her breath, though he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  He wrinkled his brow. He had no idea what this young lady was doing, but it was evident she did not wish to be interrupted. He was about to turn and step away from her when sh
e stopped murmuring, stiffened and then pivoted to face him.

  His heart stopped beating. She was…stunning. It was the only way to describe her. With fine, delicate features and pale green eyes the color of spring leaves. Her red hair framed porcelain skin, disrupted only by a fetching blush that now colored the apples of her cheeks.

  “Hello,” she said.

  His eyes widened further at her accent. American. This was the American.

  “H-hello,” he repeated, taking a step toward her. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  She smiled, and her pretty face transformed into something exquisitely beautiful. It was a rather crooked smile, with something wicked to it. She looked like she liked to laugh, and it made him want to do the same.

  “You didn’t,” she reassured him. “I just felt silly being caught at…well, being caught.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Yes, you were looking at the stars. But I thought I heard you talking.”

  The blush on those cheeks darkened a shade, and she darted her gaze away as she worried her hands against the stone veranda wall. “Oh, gracious, I must seem like such a ninny to you.”

  He tilted his head. “Far from it. But I am curious. Were you casting a spell or wishing on a star?”

  She laughed and the sound echoed in the air like music. He found himself smiling immediately, and it wasn’t one of the forced or pretended smiles that he’d been displaying as of late. It was a simple reaction to her complicated lightness. Like she was a beacon in his darkness that he could follow.

  He blinked. Was he waxing poetic? In his head? About a stranger? An American stranger, at that. The world was truly coming to an end.

  “Neither of those things,” she said. “I was counting the stars.”

  He blinked and slowly looked up at the thousands of blinking lights above, then back to her face. “Counting the stars?”

  She nodded, as if this were a normal thing to do. All the rage, even. “I was.”

  “That sounds like an endless endeavor,” he said.

  She shrugged one slender shoulder and her wrap dipped a bit, revealing a bit of flesh exposed by her pretty gown. He caught his breath at the sight. That sweet spot between her neck and shoulder looked utterly…kissable.

  “Endless does not equate purposeless or pointless,” she said, dragging him away from his inappropriate thoughts. “After all, how often are you forced to do something you do not like over and over? When I count stars, it is always a joy. It reminds me there are many things bigger than myself or my silly problems.”

  He pondered those words. “You are correct, of course. Much of our lives is spent in repetitive nonsense. Counting stars is as good a hobby as endless stitching, I suppose. Or playing or walking round and round in circles in a parlor.”

  She smiled again. “Well, I happen to like all those silly things, as well.”

  “An accomplished lady is never silly,” he said.

  “What about an accomplished gentleman?” she retorted.

  “I know hardly any of those,” he said, and found himself laughing when she began to do the same. His laughter felt rusty, ill-used lately except when it was pretended.

  “I doubt that,” she said. “You look like a young man who knows a thing or two. But may I ask why you are skulking about on a veranda while there is a party going on inside?”

  “Was I skulking?” he asked.

  She shrugged again. “A little.”

  He sighed and turned his attention back to the brighter part of the terrace and the ballroom that lit it. “Perhaps I skulked a little. It was too hot inside and too…immediate.”

  He drew back at the words that came from his own lips. He had not meant to say them. Hell, he had hardly ever allowed himself to think them.

  “Too immediate,” she repeated softly, and the smile faded from her lips. “I think I understand what you mean. Expectation hangs in the air.”

  He nodded. “It does.”

  They stood silently for a beat, she staring up at him, he unable to take his eyes from her. It was strange, because the silence felt both charged with heat but somehow comfortable, as if she expected no empty chatter.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it of the odd thoughts. “Well, er, that very expectation dictates that I return to the ball. And that will leave you to return to your counting, though I must imagine you’ve lost your place thanks to me.”

  She laughed again, music in the wind and pointed upward. “Not at all. I left off right there.”

  He chuckled. “Very good. Perhaps I will see you inside then.”

  She nodded. “Good evening.”

  He inclined his head and slowly turned to make his way back to the terrace doors that led into the ballroom. It was only as he reached them that he realized he had never gotten the young woman’s name. Not that it really mattered. He knew who she was.

  And after talking to her, suddenly the future felt a little less awful.

  Helena Monroe watched as the gentleman entered the ballroom and shut the door behind him. It was only when he had left the terrace that she rediscovered the ability to draw a full breath. She spun back toward the veranda wall, gripping it tightly as she thought of the intruder.

  By God, but he was well favored. He was the kind of man whose age was hard to determine, thanks to the seriousness with which he held himself, but she doubted he was above thirty years. He had thick brown hair, the kind a woman wanted to run her fingers through, and soulful, almost sorrowful brown eyes. When she had first looked at him, he had been very somber, but the moment she coaxed a laugh from him, he had changed.

  She had been in England for several weeks and had the opportunity to meet a handful of men. None had been at all interesting to her. Not that it mattered, of course, but still. When a man swept in like the one on the terrace had and took one’s breath away…

  Well, that was a momentous occasion. She found herself wondering who he was. She supposed she could find out easily enough if she asked after—

  She lifted her hands to her mouth. She had never asked his name or given him her own. “He must think you an idiot,” she said as she shook her head and looked down over the garden. “And you probably talked too much.”

  “As you are wont to do, Helena!”

  She flinched at the sharp tone of her uncle’s voice behind her. She turned toward him, putting as good a face on as she could muster when he was standing there, arms folded, glaring at her. It seemed the only expression he could manage lately.

  “Hello, Uncle Peter,” she said softly. “I was just getting some air.”

  He snorted out a nasty sound and arched a brow. “Well, you’ve had enough air. Go inside. You are here for your cousin, not to indulge yourself in your own foolishness. A lady’s companion must stay with her charge.”

  Helena dipped her head. It was very difficult for her not to retort in the face of such sullen cruelty, but she knew what would happen if she did. Since she had been conscripted into the duty of companion to her cousin Charity, she had felt the back of her uncle’s hand more than once.

  So she swallowed back her saucy retort and nodded. “Of course, Uncle. I shall go back in at once.”

  He pointed toward the ballroom doors, as if she would not be able to find them on her own, and waited as she marched her way back to them. Back to the room that was too hot and too loud. Back to the cousin who treated her like a servant. Back to reality that she had escaped for just a moment with a sky full of stars and a handsome man who caught her counting them.

  Baldwin stood on the edge of the dancefloor, watching sets of friends and acquaintances spin by in each other’s arms. Coming here, he had been expecting to be rubbed the wrong way by such things, but now…

  Well, now he had far more pleasant things on his mind than the discomfort caused by the sight of true love. His thoughts kept returning to the auburn-haired beauty on the terrace and the brief connection he’d felt to her.

  He was so lost in those thoughts that he
did not notice his mother’s approach until the duchess touched his arm. “Mama,” he said with a nod. “I did not see you.”

  “No.” She smiled. “You seemed leagues away. Are you having a very terrible time?”

  He squeezed her hand at the concern in her voice. Whether she pushed him or not, he knew she wanted what was best for him, as much as for the title. If he found love with someone who could also raise their fortunes, she would be over the moon. Which was why he smiled when he said, “You know, I met your American.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Did you?”

  “I liked her,” he admitted with an arch of his brow.

  His mother’s face lit up briefly before a shadow of doubt crossed it. “I am…I am happy to hear it.”

  “Then why do you look confused?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Well, I only wonder how you managed to meet her.”

  He blinked at the unexpected question. “How? What do you mean how? How does anyone meet at these crushes? I went out on the terrace to get some air and bumped into her there. We were not formally introduced, but she was…charming.”

  He had expected his mother’s expression to brighten further, but she remained puzzled. “That isn’t possible, dear.”

  “I assure you, it is,” he said, and felt the beginnings of irritation. Why in the world did she continue to insist that what he said was not true?

  “But Miss Shephard has been dancing for the last thirty minutes, Baldwin,” she said, inclining her head toward the dancefloor. “Since before you exited for the terrace.”

  He followed her gaze to find a blonde woman bobbing around the dancefloor. She was in what looked to be a very expensive gown that matched her blue eyes exactly and was talking—by the looks of it, rather loudly—with her partner.

  Baldwin wrinkled his brow. “Who?” he asked.

  His mother motioned her head more forcefully. “The one in blue, Baldwin. That is Charity Shephard. Her father is Peter Shephard. She is the American heiress.”