by Erica Taylor
The sound of rambunctious laughter tore his eyes away from hers, and she released a breath she did not realize she had been holding. What he was creating in her, the way he was making her feel . . . it just would not do.
Another party guest again monopolized Andrew’s attention, and while he appeared to be interested in what the young lord before him was discussing, it was apparent Andrew was not particularly involved in the topic. The young lord glanced at her curiously as she stood by the duke’s side in the middle of the dining room. Andrew glanced her way every now and then, offering a teasing smile before politely looking back to the other guests with feigned interest. She was certain he was not actually interested in the trends of iron exports used for the two wars Britain was currently engaged in, or the proper way to rotate a crop, or how the elections of the next prime minister were going to shape the nation’s future, but he pulled off his act as a dutiful host with skillful ease. Then again, she had known him a long time ago. Maybe this was who he had become over the years. Maybe he was no longer the boy she once knew.
Andrew was bored senseless as he listened to Lord Marlow natter on and on about his ingenious crop rotation system. He did not have the heart to cut the man off and tell him his system was a waste of time. As much as he wished otherwise, he needed to be a polite and hospitable host, just as Sarah had drilled him to be for years.
“Your grace,” Lady Danbury said dipping into a curtsy.
Quickly swallowing his mouthful of food, Andrew nodded to her. Lady Danbury was a woman well past her youthful prime, but she refused to admit to that fact. He thought she must have been beautiful during her days as a debutante, but her marriage had weathered her in years, as she was surely closer in age to his aunts than his sisters.
Lady Danbury smiled, blinking her long lashes at him before turning her steely gaze onto Clara. “Lady Clara, it was such a pity we did not see your brother in attendance this evening.”
Clara swallowed the piece of carrot she had just put into her mouth and smiled sweetly at Lady Danbury.
“He was here for a few minutes,” Clara replied, and Andrew knew she was lying.
“I must have missed him,” Lady Danbury said.
“How could you know for sure you did not see Lord Morton, Lady Danbury?” Andrew inquired, turning his gaze onto the malicious countess. “Everyone was wearing a mask.”
Laughing lightly, Lady Danbury smiled an almost flirtatious smile at him. “Of course, your grace, how silly of me. But then, Lady Clara—” Lady Danbury looked back at Clara, “you remained without him here. How very . . . bold of you.”
“I am flattered you think so of me,” Clara replied smoothly, a hint of challenge in her tone. “But alas, my brother merely made sure I was properly in the care and chaperonage of my aunt before leaving. He has no fondness for masks.”
“You are here with your aunt?” Lady Danbury asked and looked around the room which was still compacted with ball guests. “How unfortunate that you were separated from her.”
“I am certain I will find her by the end of the evening,” Clara explained. “I, of course, would have come into supper with my relations, but since I danced the supper dance with his grace, he was kind enough to escort me to the dining room.”
“How generous of his grace,” Lady Danbury said, looking back at him, attempting to pin him with a sultry glance. He tried his best not to blatantly glare at the countess, no matter how rude she was. Noticing his ire, she shrank back.
“Lady Danbury,” Andrew began. “I believe I missed Lord Danbury this evening.”
Lady Danbury had the decency to blush. “I believe he is still in Devon dealing with estate business. My good friend Mr. Chauncer is fetching me a glass of champagne, and I had to practically beg him to accompany me tonight, as I would not miss your birthday celebration for anything. I wish you a very Happy Birthday, your grace!” she said, raising her empty glass to him which resulted in another chorus of five hundred or so people cheering, “Happy Birthday!” He nodded and drank from his own glass, and Lady Danbury wandered off.
Glancing down at Clara, he watched as she gazed longingly at her plate as it was removed from her fingers by circulating footmen.
“Is the supper over?” she asked, almost wistfully.
“Unfortunately, I think so,” Andrew admitted as his own plate was removed. “Would you like something more to eat?”
“Oh, no, your grace, I have had enough,” Clara replied, her smile returning. “A perfect midnight snack after a night of dancing.”
“We have Gunter’s just through here,” he said, slipping her hand back into the crook of his arm. He pointed to the doors at the side of the dining room, the same ones they had come through from the ballroom. There were doors all along the wall that opened back into the ballroom. “But we cannot go in until my sister Sarah says we are allowed.”
A dark-haired beauty with an annoyed expression on her face came through the crowd at that exact moment, and he could not help but inwardly cringe. Sarah did not look pleased with him.
“Andrew, there you are,” Sarah said, trying to stamp down her irritation with an overly affectionate tone. “Gunter is ready if you’d like to proceed.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Andrew said. She nodded to him and smiled tersely at Clara before being swallowed back into the crowd. Winking at Clara, who looked bemused by his sister, Andrew pulled her toward the ballroom doors.
“What is your favorite?” he asked, glancing down at Clara.
“Favorite what?”
“Of Gunter’s ice flavors,” he clarified.
“Oh, um . . .” Clara thought for a moment, her brows pulling together, her lips drawing to one side as she chewed her lip. “I have not been to Gunter’s in ages, but I remember enjoying the lemon. What about you, your grace?”
“I enjoy the strawberry,” he replied. “Or sometimes the peach.”
“I would have thought you an enthusiast of the vanilla,” she replied.
He laughed. “I am fond of vanilla,” he replied, ignoring the heads that turned again in their direction. “But not in an ice. Something about it as ice cream just isn’t quite right on my palate.”
“I agree,” Clara said. They paused along the wall of doors and accepted a glass of champagne from the footmen. One footman offered Andrew a small fork which he tapped along the side of his glass, the tinkling sound halting all other sounds in the room. All eyes were on him.
“I would like to extend a very gracious thank you on behalf of my siblings and myself. We are all thankful to have such wonderful family and friends to celebrate our birthdays each year. The masked ball was a particular treat, and I would especially like to thank my sister, Lady Radcliff, for her ingenious idea.” A round of applause rippled through the crowd with a loud cheer from Luke before everyone looked back at Andrew. “My mother started the tradition of this birthday ball over twenty years ago to celebrate all of her May-born babes, and we continue in her honor each year. Please join me in a toast wishing us all a very happy birthday, and may we see you all again in another year.”
Another loud chorus of “Happy Birthday!” and Clara smiled at his nice sentiment before taking a sip of the delicious champagne.
“Let us return to the ballroom where Mr. Gunter has graciously provided a special treat in honor of the occasion,” Andrew concluded, and the doors behind them opened into the ballroom.
With Clara on his arm, they led the promenade of guests back into the ballroom. He knew he was making a spectacle of himself, and of Clara by extension. His attention to her would not go unnoticed. But he was amazed to realize that he did not care. He liked having her beside him.
“I thank you, your grace, for a wonderful evening,” Clara began, glancing up at him through her long lashes. “But I think I must take my leave. I am sure my aunt and uncle are ready to retire for the evening. Late nights are
not typical for them.”
“You are welcome to stay without their chaperonage,” Andrew offered. “I am certain my sister would be willing to act as your interim chaperone until you are ready to leave.” He could see the deliberation going through her mind, and she pulled her lip to the side and chewed the inside of her cheek. It was most endearing, and he was certain she was unaware she was doing it.
With a sigh and a shake of her head it seemed she had made up her mind. “It is a most generous offer, your grace, but I really must be leaving. I will have the wrath of my brother to answer to in the morning, I am sure, and he is easier dealt with on a decent night’s sleep.”
“You must have an ice first,” Andrew insisted, steering her toward the side tables where Gunter and his associates had set up serving stations.
“I really should—” Clara began, but he cut her off.
“I insist, Lady Clara,” he said before smiling at her. “It is my birthday after all.”
“Is today your actual birthday, or has everyone just forgotten that the purpose of this ball is to celebrate all of the Macalister birthdays and not yours alone?” she inquired.
He smiled more brightly at her. “Today is my actual birthday,” he replied. “Or rather, yesterday was, since it is well past midnight. But I proclaim that my birthday will spill over into the next day or until one goes to bed.” Gunter dug a square-shaped metal spoon into the ice cream and deposited the dessert into a small porcelain dish. “It is my birthday wish that you enjoy your favorite flavor of ice cream before vanishing out the door.”
“It is hard to refuse the birthday wish of a duke,” Clara said accepting the dessert from the confectioner. Andrew accepted his own pale pink ice cream and nodded his thanks to Gunter. They stepped away from the serving table as guests swarmed in to receive their own treats.
As Clara had a few small bites of her dessert, Andrew could see the delight the taste brought her. Her eye lids fell slightly as each dollop of frozen cream hit her tongue. She savored each bite, allowing it to melt on her tongue before swallowing it down.
“Lady Clara—” Andrew began, but the arrival of Clara’s aunt cut him off.
“Lady Clara, we really must be going,” Clara’s aunt said.
“Yes, Aunt Lucinda,” Clara responded. “Your grace, may I introduce my aunt, Lady Lucinda Yarrow?”
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure,” Andrew replied, bowing to the woman who bore more resemblance to Clara’s brother than she did Clara.
“Aunt Lucinda, this is our host, his grace the Duke of Bradstone,” Clara introduced.
“Your grace,” Lady Lucinda said politely as she dipped into a curtsy. “We have enjoyed a splendid evening, but it is time for us to take our leave. And as Lady Clara is under our chaperonage, she really must accompany us.” Lady Lucinda threw Clara a hard look making it clear she was not pleased with this association or responsibility.
Nodding to her aunt, Clara murmured a soft, “Of course, Aunt,” before handing her barely-eaten ice cream to a passing footman. Smiling at Andrew, she thanked him for the dance and for escorting her into supper.
“My offer still stands, Lady Clara,” Andrew said, attempting once more to keep her with him. Lady Lucinda looked slightly taken aback, no doubt assuming the worst of his comment, which indicated she did not think very highly of her niece.
Glancing nervously at her aunt, Clara replied, “Thank you, your grace, but it is not necessary. You have been too generous already.”
Clara did not want to leave; Andrew could see the hesitation in her eyes. Reluctantly she took a step away from him, her eyes not dropping from his gaze. Lady Lucinda’s eyes narrowed. Clearing her throat, she took Clara by the arm and tugged her towards the doors.
“Goodbye, your grace,” Clara said softly before the crowded ballroom swallowed her whole, and she was out of his sight again. Her goodbye sounded as if she thought it was their final one. Andrew shook his head. He would make certain that it was not.
Chapter Three
The late morning sunlight spread into the deep depths of Andrew’s study, reflecting off the well-polished mahogany desk and directly into his ducal eye. He held a stack of papers before him effectively blocking the light from hitting his face, though that was all the papers were good for. His morning had come much too quickly, and he wished he could have had the same lie in the morning after the birthday ball that his younger sisters took advantage of. But, unfortunately, he had work to do.
“Might I ask what has come over you?”
Andrew flicked the papers down and regarded his elder sister Sarah.
“Regarding?” he asked evasively.
“Andrew, you know exactly what I am referring to,” Sarah replied, her hands planted on her hips in a perfect imitation of their mother. Or perhaps not an imitation but more of a mannerism she had adopted as the eldest female of ten children.
“You could be referring to any number of things, Sarah. You will need to be more specific if you want a more specific answer.”
Sarah huffed at him, and he grinned, his smile hidden behind the papers. No matter how old he would get—duke or not—he would always enjoy goading his sister.
“For Heaven’s sake, Andrew,” she sighed, exasperated. She practically stomped over to the window and pulled the curtains shut, then turned and regarded him again. “Put down the parchments. I am referring to Lady Clara.”
“What about her?” he asked, regretfully setting the papers aside.
“I could not help but notice that you were unusually attentive to Lady Clara yesterday evening. Did you forget that you were in a very crowded ballroom? You danced with her. You never dance.”
“I dance,” he replied with some heat.
“You never dance with someone who isn’t your sister,” Sarah amended. “And Lady Clara made you smile.”
Andrew could not hide the small smile that crept to his lips. “Yes, I daresay she did.”
“Well?” Sarah asked. “What does that mean exactly?”
“Exactly?” he asked. “It means . . .” Andrew sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “It means . . . I don’t know what it means.”
“She made you smile.”
“Am I supposed to propose marriage to the first girl to make me smile?”
“You must know what the ton is saying,” Sarah replied, and he spied a set of newspapers sticking out of the pockets of her dark grey skirts. The morning gossip sheets.
Andrew clenched his jaw. He could predict exactly what the ton was saying without needing to read the gossips rags.
“Andrew, you must have some sort of explanation for your behavior.”
“I am not required to explain my actions to you or anyone,” he snapped at her. “Now leave me be.”
Sarah’s brow rose, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “No need to be so defensive, Andrew. I am only looking out for your well-being.”
“Last I checked, I was the duke,” he replied. “And although you often act the part, you, dearest sister, are not my duchess. I do not require you to look after me.”
“You must be quite smitten with the lady for you to be this up in arms up about it,” Sarah declared, her eyes narrowing. It was always that way with Sarah. Perhaps it was because they were so close in age. Perhaps it was because together they had assumed the roles of duke and duchess, father and mother to their younger brothers and sisters. Somehow, Sarah always knew him better than he knew himself. “And if you do not require my assistance, then find a wife and have her take up the duties. I can assure you it will be difficult to procure my aid in the future if the gratitude I receive is your foul mood.” She quit the room, slamming the study door on her way out.
Damn the meddling females in this family.
Andrew ran his hand through his hair causing it to stick up on end for a moment before falling
back into place.
He should not have taken his frustrations out on his sister and knew he should apologize. It was not Sarah he was irritated with but himself. His thoughts were a mess. Lady Clara had him in knots all evening and well into the morning.
He did value Sarah’s help with the things that would normally fall to his duchess. She was a marchioness, though a widowed one, and hosting came naturally to her. Sarah was only one year older than him. She had been his companion growing up, his partner in crime.
There were ten Macalister siblings in all. Samuel, the heir, had been strong and responsible. He was everything a duke should have been and everything Andrew had not been at seventeen. Sarah came four years after Sam, and each year after, another Macalister was born. Andrew had been the first of the spares with Bennett and Luke following. Susanna came five years after Luke, then twins Norah and Nick, then Charlie followed two years later. Last was Mara, the very baby of the Macalister clan, arriving four years after Charlie.
Andrew stared absently at his empty study, his thoughts of Sam taking him back to the day he learned of the accident, the day he had been forced to grow up. He had been at Eton.
An argument with a friend had resulted in a brawl outside their dormitory, only to be broken up by their prefect, who had been sent by the headmaster to fetch Andrew.
Worried he was expelled from school for the brawl, Andrew had followed the prefect out of the building, across the lawns, and into an administration building where the headmaster’s office was located.
Sitting down in a dark green leather chair, the same chair he had so frequently occupied during his years at Eton, Andrew could not help but wonder what this was all about.
“Am I in trouble, sir?” Andrew hesitantly asked the headmaster. “If this is about the fight, I swear—”
“No, no, you are not in trouble,” Headmaster Quick said, his voice sounding weak with age.
