Only a Duke Will Do

by Sabrina Jeffries

  His face darkened. “Then let me observe yours.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Mrs. Harris’s committee will give you a better picture of our organization.”

  How lovely to outwit Simon for a change. If he meant to assess their political aims, this would thwart him. And if he was sincerely interested in her group, Mrs. Harris’s current task would give him an excellent idea of their activities.

  He was watching her suspiciously. “Exactly what does this committee do?”

  Louisa headed back to the table. “If you can spare another few minutes, Your Grace, we’ll explain.”

  “Certainly,” he said, following her.

  He held her chair out with one of his tigerish smiles and she knew exactly how a gazelle must feel to be cornered. She shook off the feeling. She wasn’t cornered. She’d found a way to keep him out of her hair for a while, hadn’t she?

  And thank heaven for that. Look at the handsome scoundrel—he already had the girls blushing and stammering as Mrs. Harris introduced them. Even Venetia turned a bit pink, and no man ever affected her.

  What was it about Simon that turned perfectly reasonable females into blithering idiots? Was it his ability to make a woman feel as if he was listening only to her, paying attention only to her?

  Or was it simply his air of command? He pulled back a chair for Mrs. Harris with a male grace that was beautiful to behold, every motion deliberate, nothing wasted. And once they were all seated and he took his own chair opposite Louisa, she couldn’t help noticing how well he controlled Raji. He tapped the table and the monkey hopped right onto that spot, clutching his toy canary to his white furry chest.

  Eliza, who’d finagled the seat beside Simon, uttered a girlish sigh. “Your monkey is just darling, Your Grace.”

  “You haven’t seen the creature lay waste to a woman’s coiffure,” Louisa quipped. “That darling draws blood if you’re not careful.”

  “Only when presented with the right temptation,” Simon said. “He thought Lady Trusbut’s peacock was a toy.”

  “Like his little carving,” Eliza said. “Where did you get it?”

  “Simon probably carved it himself,” Regina put in. “He likes to whittle.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Harris surveyed Simon with new eyes. “It’s very good.”

  “Whittling keeps my hands busy while my mind works through a problem,” he said.

  Louisa had forgotten that odd habit of his. He’d once whittled her a perfectly charming miniature lily, merely because she’d said she liked them. It was the one reminder of him that she’d kept.

  “Did you learn to whittle in India?” Eliza asked.

  “No,” Simon said with a chuckle. “My father taught me.”

  Louisa blinked. She had rarely heard him speak of his parents. She’d learned more about them from Regina than she’d ever learned from him.

  “Is it true you were the first duke to serve as Governor-General of India?” Eliza asked with stars in her eyes.

  “Miss Crenshawe, stop plaguing the duke,” Mrs. Harris broke in.

  “It’s fine.” Simon cast Eliza a kindly glance. “And no, not exactly. Wellington served long before me, though he wasn’t a duke at the time.”

  “Simon wasn’t the first of our family to go to India, either,” Regina put in. “My mother’s younger brother served there, too. Uncle Tobias was there as a lieutenant for…what was it, Simon? Two years? Before he died of malaria?”

  Simon’s expression grew shuttered. “Three years.” He sat back. “But enough talk of India—I want to know what Mrs. Harris’s committee does.”

  His strained smile gave Louisa pause. All she’d heard from Regina about their uncle was that the poor man had gone to seek his fortune, and instead had died alone. A very sad tale. Was that why it bothered Simon to think of it?

  Oh, why did she care? She forced herself to pay attention to what Mrs. Harris was saying.

  “We’re presently assessing tasks that would provide sustainable income for our convict women while teaching them usable skills,” Mrs. Harris explained. “We need one that requires little training, since we lack sufficient volunteers for that. Yet it must pay well.”

  “How well?” Simon asked.

  “Enough to support our projects—the prison school, supplemental clothing and bedding, and matrons instead of male guards.”

  “Why would you have to pay for matrons—isn’t that the prison system’s responsibility?” Simon asked as he scratched Raji’s back.

  “It should be.” Anger at such injustice burned in Louisa’s chest. “Instead, guards are paid out of fees taken from the poverty-stricken prisoners. So of course they’re brutes who use their position to bully the women, subjecting them to—” She broke off, remembering the younger girls. “To…er…their advances.”

  “And Parliament does not consider it a problem,” Regina said. “Despite committee reports, they refuse to institute the proper reforms.”

  “The Home Secretary claims that we would ‘remove the dread of punishment in the criminal classes.’” Just remembering the speech made Louisa’s blood boil.

  “That certainly sounds like Sidmouth.” Simon’s voice held an edge. “He equates reform with revolution and radicals.”

  “And you don’t?” Mrs. Harris prodded.

  A veiled look crossed his face. “It depends on the reform. But I see why you want to put up a candidate. And if you’ll forgive my saying so, I could be of greater use in advising you—”

  “Oh yes,” Louisa cut in, “I’m sure your fellow statesmen have told you exactly how to advise us.”

  His gaze pierced her. “Do you suspect me of being an agent provocateur?”

  “I can’t imagine why I should.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “What could possibly be suspicious about a duke with political aspirations wanting to spend time with female reformers instead of with his chums at his club?”

  With a lazy smile, he trailed his gaze down to her mouth. “Even a duke with political aspirations can have a personal reason for wanting to advise…a friend.”

  When that set the schoolgirls to giggling, she tossed her head. “Fine. As long as you limit your advice to helping us with an income-producing task for the convict women, sir, I am happy to hear it.”

  Eliza cast him an adoring glance. “Perhaps the duke could tell us how to teach the convict women to whittle. Wouldn’t that be an income-producing task?”

  “Handing knives to prisoners is not a good idea, Eliza,” Louisa snapped, annoyed by the girl’s hero-worship.

  Simon settled back in his chair. “Whittling might not work, but your women could paint someone else’s carvings.”

  “And who will provide us with those? You?” Louisa taunted.

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Of course not. But I could supply the paint.”

  Regina clapped her hands together. “I quite forgot. One of Grandfather Monteith’s investments was a paint factory in Leeds. He left it to Simon.”

  “Every year London toymakers carve thousands of toy carts, soldiers, even Noah’s arks with animals.” Simon leaned forward, enthusiasm tinting his tanned cheeks a ruddy hue. “There’s still a few months before Christmas. If you were to partner with white-wood carvers—”

  “White-wood?” Eliza chirped.

  “Pine,” Louisa explained, surprised that Simon even knew the term.

  “You could have the ladies paint toys,” Simon went on. “And if you sell them at Christmas, you will make very good money.”

  Grudgingly, Louisa conceded that it was a good idea. She began to list strategies for carrying it out. “We’ll have to find the carvers and someone to transport the paint and train the women—”

  An object thunked on the table in front of her. Startled, she looked up to find that Raji had walked across to set his canary before her. “Sorry, Raji,” she said, “but if we take on this project, we’ll need new carvings to paint.”

  When he cocked his head as if listening to her, everyone
at the table laughed. Then he leaped into her lap.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed as he caught hold of her bodice. When she closed her arms about the dear creature, he curled up with a contented sigh. “For heaven’s sake, what’s this about?”

  “Apparently he likes you,” Simon said, his voice a low rumble. “And Raji is very particular. Ever since his previous owner died, he’s been wary of women.”

  “Isn’t that adorable?” Eliza breathed. “He thinks you’re her or something.”

  A lump filled Louisa’s throat as she stroked the monkey’s fur. “Don’t be silly. He just hopes to coax a cup of punch out of me.” But secretly she was touched. She didn’t bother to examine why too closely. Nor did she meet Simon’s gaze, afraid of what she might see there. “Now where were we?”

  “Mrs. Harris’s committee will head up a project to have the ladies paint toys.” Regina tapped a pencil on the table. “But we’ll have to take care around the children, so they don’t eat the paint.”

  “There are children in Newgate?” A frown marred Simon’s fine high brow.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Mrs. Harris said, her expression grim. “The policy is to imprison the youngest with their mothers. Newgate alone contains two hundred eighty seven women and one hundred thirteen children under six, locked up with murderers and highwaymen.”

  Louisa well remembered her outrage when she’d first seen the pitifully underfed, naked urchins, forced to witness their mothers selling themselves to gain food and clothes for their poor mites.

  Thank heaven the Association and the London Ladies had improved matters. But not enough; not yet. She cradled Raji closer. “They even deliver babies in there. Can you imagine? With only one doctor, we have to fight to keep the women from dying of childbed fever or pouring out their life’s blood—”

  “Louisa, dear, you’ve made your point,” Mrs. Harris broke in, with a glance ’round at her pupils.

  They stared at Louisa wide-eyed, clearly never having thought about the perils of childbirth. Simon was watching her, too, a silent question in his eyes. And the last person to whom she wanted to reveal her darkest fear was him.

  “That’s why we must have the funds,” she said quickly. “If not for the women, then for our children.” A smile touched her lips. “They deserve toys, too.” She glanced at Mrs. Harris. “Make sure you include that in the project.”

  “I hate to interrupt, Miss North, but you and I must still visit the Trusbuts.” Simon glanced at his watch. “And it’s already three-thirty.”

  Mrs. Harris made a shooing gesture at Louisa. “Go, go. Lady Trusbut is too important to ignore. We can discuss the candidates further on Tuesday.”

  Simon had already risen to round the table. “What’s happening Tuesday?”

  Louisa rose, too. “That’s when we—” She halted as a devious idea struck her. “That’s when you really ought to come observe us. And if you want to help, you can bring your coach and any other equipage you can spare.”

  “Now, Louisa,” Regina warned, “I doubt that my brother would want—”

  “He said he wished to observe, didn’t he? And how better to observe than from his own carriage? Besides, we could use the extra rigs.”

  “We certainly could,” Mrs. Harris said with mischief in her voice.

  “For what?” Simon looked decidedly wary.

  Louisa smiled. “Time to leave, don’t you think? Although the Trusbut manor isn’t far, the hour is getting late. If we’re to return before dark—”

  “Fine.” Simon scooped up Raji’s toy canary from where it lay on the table. “But I expect you to explain on the way why you want my carriages.”

  He gestured to the door and she hurried out, her smile broadening with every step. If this didn’t discourage him from whatever sly scheme he was engaged in with them, nothing would.

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Cousin,

  Foxmoor’s love of dancing must have improved, for he’s shamelessly pursuing Louisa. He even agreed to help the London Ladies, which worries me. Because if ever a man could spell danger for our political aims, it is the duke.

  Your concerned friend,

  Charlotte

  Simon seethed as he and Raji waited for Louisa outside Mrs. Harris’s office. The damned chit had refused to see him all week, only to trick him into agreeing to observe the wrong committee once he’d finally cornered her.

  She thought to make him relinquish his pursuit, did she? Very well, he would let her have her head, but only for a while. Because to deal with her political dabbling, he must know how far it went, which meant getting close to her. Besides, courting a woman was damned hard when the woman made herself inaccessible.

  At least he had her for this jaunt, and for Tuesday’s, as well. He frowned. No doubt she had invented some new test with this business of needing his carriages.

  “Ready?” she asked as she emerged from Mrs. Harris’s office, wearing a peculiar sealskin hat and a snug little white spencer.

  He sucked in a breath. How did the bloody female manage to look so enticing in such prim attire? During his time in India, he’d seen a hundred devadasis in alluring saris, yet none of them had looked as enchanting as Louisa in a buttoned-up spencer. None of them had made his blood run hot with wondering about the silky female curves beneath the satin—

  “Simon?” she asked, her cheeks pinkening fetchingly beneath his lustful gaze.

  “Yes. Ready. Right.” Deuce take his vivid imagination. Pray God she stopped resisting him soon, or she would reduce him to begging.

  They headed out to his waiting phaeton. Since he preferred to drive and Raji enjoyed riding on the perch, he handed his pet off to his tiger. Moments later, he had his matched bays comfortably trotting along the road back to London.

  Glancing over, he noticed that Louisa sat prim and erect, the very picture of his sister at her loftiest. Except that the smile playing about Louisa’s pretty mouth was too mischievous for Regina. And too damned tempting by far.

  He jerked his attention back to the road before he indulged his urge to ravage that sumptuous mouth out here in plain view of the world. “Why do you want carriages Tuesday?” he snapped, to take his mind off her lips.

  “We need to transport some convict women a short distance, that’s all.”

  Then why was she smiling so smugly? “Isn’t transportation the prison’s responsibility?”

  “Yes, but they usually put them in open carts, and we don’t want that because—” Her smile vanished. “Well, it’s just not wise.”

  “Let me guess—shackled prisoners in open carts invite public attention. Which means the women are subjected to taunts and insults.”

  “And mauled by unfeeling men.” Her voice grew impassioned. “And pelted by rotten tomatoes and eggs and—” She stopped short as she realized how much she’d revealed. “Anyway, we figured private carriages would be better than carts.”

  “I’m sure you did,” he said irritably. “Especially my private carriages. Why subject your own carriages to the whims of a rowdy mob when it would be more entertaining to subject mine?”

  “We’re not asking you to do anything we’re not doing ourselves.” She flashed him a challenging glare. “You did say you wanted to observe.”

  “Yes, I did.” And the minx had leapt at the chance to torment him for it. “But much as I enjoy the occasional run through rotten vegetables, I would rather provide coaches more suitable to your purposes.”

  She sniffed. “If you’re suggesting hackneys, we tried that. They won’t rent to us at any price. Not for this.”

  Yet the troublemaking wench was eager to have him expose his own costly rigs to abuse. “Hackney owners will take a risk if given the proper incentive. Like assurances from a duke that their losses will be covered.”

  Good thing he had a fortune to spare. Otherwise, convincing his skeptical future wife to trust him would eventually drive him into penury.

  When she said nothing, he added, “Will th
at do the trick? Or are you determined to see my carriages ravaged by the mob?”

  “This isn’t a joke,” she said. “Our group is serious about gaining humane treatment for these women.”

  “Not serious enough.” He still chafed at how she’d manipulated him earlier. “Otherwise you would not refuse to make use of my considerable talents where it would do you the most good.”

  “Stop trying to provoke me into involving you in our political affairs.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I know that observing us isn’t really your aim.”

  “It is certainly not my only aim,” he muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  He hesitated, but it was best to be honest where he could. Honesty had always carried him further with her than deception.

  This entire courtship is a deception, his grandfather’s voice sneered. And you call me a hypocrite?

  Simon gritted his teeth. It was not a deception—he fully intended to marry her. He was simply hiding his reasons for it because it was the only way to gain what was best for everyone—her included. “Surely what I want is obvious. I want to be with you, Louisa.”

  She eyed him askance. “Why? Did the king say something to you? He keeps going on and on about my activities—”

  “It has nothing to do with the king,” he snapped, then regretted the blatant falsehood. But Christ, she drove him to it sometimes. “You are the most suspicious female I have ever met. God forbid a man should try to court you—”

  “Court me!” Her musical laughter grated on him. “Court me? Fancy that.”

  “Not the most flattering response,” he grumbled.

  “No, no, forgive me, I’m flattered, indeed I am.” Her shoulders shook with laughter, and she clasped her gloved hands together tightly.

  “I can tell how flattered you are. You’re practically swooning.”

  She shot him a mischievous glance. “Would you like to see me swoon?”

  “I would like to see you take me seriously. Because this time I have every intention of winning you.”

  Her eyes darkened. “You really mean it, don’t you?”