A Good Day to Marry a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  Over the course of the morning Daisy gave her an account of the happenings at the inn. The countess was horrified by the treachery of the Meridian elders and genuinely surprised by the duke’s valiant defense of her.

  When she revealed the duke’s proposal, Lady Evelyn almost fainted.

  “Truly? Sweet Heaven.” She blinked and fanned herself with her hands. “Tell me again—every blessed word!”

  When Daisy recounted the duke’s proposal a second time the countess sank, stunned, onto the chaise beside Daisy.

  “You’ve done it, Daisy. You’re to be the Duchess of Meridian. I had doubts at times, I confess.” Her smile grew warm and her eyes grew wet. “But you persevered and you won the day.” She seized Daisy’s hands. “I am so proud of you.”

  Red was a bit more conditional in his acceptance of the news. He rose late, having slept through the night’s dramatic events, and when he heard from Collette of Daisy’s distress, he rushed to her room, threw open the door, and hugged her within an inch of her life.

  “Good God, Daize—you about gave me a heart attack!” He released her long enough for her to take a breath. “What got into you—goin’ to some damned tavern in th’ dead of night? And what’s this about th’ old bastards findin’ you there and the duke—hell, I don’t care what his high-and-mighty-ness did, so long as it kept you from gettin’ hurt.” He pulled her against him and stroked her hair as he had when she was a little girl.

  “What he did, Uncle Red, was propose,” Daisy said, her throat tight.

  “He did?” He set her back to search her face. “Well, I’ll be jiggered. Th’ boy’s got more onions than I give ’im credit for.” He thought for a minute. “That’s what ye came for, a duke.” He scowled. “You sure this is what you want, Daize? Bug-crazy Arthur for a husband?”

  “Sure, Uncle Red.” Her smile was as weak as her will to resist fate. “I’m happy as a pig in a summer wallow.”

  Red cocked his head, studying her, and his frown gradually transformed to a wry expression. “Always was a stubborn little thing.” He straightened as if he’d decided and patted her blanket-smothered knee. “Hurry up and get better, girl—we got us some celebratin’ to do!”

  He rose and grabbed Lady Evelyn, dancing her around the room over her protests. “You did it, Evie girl. You got her a duke, after all!”

  “Oh, out with you . . . you crusty old geezer,” the countess said, dragging him to a halt and giving his shoulder a shove that could only be called playful.

  Daisy watched with surprise as Red winked at the paragon of rectitude who had disdained his every word and action for nearly two years. “Evie girl” blushed. Was it possible Lady Evelyn—

  “Now you,” the countess said, tucking the blankets securely around her, “rest and regain your strength. We have so much to discuss—so many delightful things to consider.” She paused at the door with an oddly wistful expression. “Planning a wedding for a duke. I never thought I’d have such a privilege.”

  As the door closed, Daisy groaned and dropped her head back on the pillows . . . relieved that she was finally alone and dreading the fact that her life was about to become a lot more complicated.

  How complicated, she was to learn later that evening when she rose and insisted on dressing and going out to the garden for some air. She wore a simple cotton day dress and wrapped up in a thick crocheted shawl. Her hair was down and the rising breeze teased wisps around her face. Betancourt’s garden was less than memorable, but just being out of doors lifted her spirits.

  As she walked, she made herself remember the pain of watching Ashton turn his back on her after she had practically thrown herself at his feet earlier. Turning pain to anger and anger to determination, she forced her thoughts to settle on what would be, not what might have been. Her future husband was noble and gentle and, occasionally, even courageous. Sooner or later she would be able to take him to New York and fulfill both his dream of travel and her own of gaining entrance to New York society.

  But first she had to find a way to move her stubborn passions from . . . where they currently lay . . . to her future husband. And there was no better time to begin than now. She marched back into the house to find Arthur.

  Servants had been hauling faded rugs, curtains, and bed drapes down the stairs all afternoon, coughing and sneezing at the dust being stirred. Unused to such vigorous work, they were now exhausted and hungry, and they grumbled that the duke didn’t have to clean the house all at once. When Daisy appeared, they nodded to her and quickly went back to work. It hadn’t taken long for word to spread that she would soon be their new duchess.

  She paused to ask where she could find the duke, and they pointed toward the rear hall.

  The sound of his voice drew her toward the study that had once been Arthur’s father’s. He was probably busy, but—she squared her shoulders and adopted a determined perkiness—she intended to pry Arthur away from whatever occupied him and see they had some time together.

  She strode into the study, still wearing her shawl, and stopped dead at the sight of them with their heads together, studying documents spread over the great desk. Ashton looked up and straightened. Arthur noticed Ashton’s distraction, looked up, and smiled.

  Damn his handsome eyes.

  “Daisy!” Arthur hurried around the desk, hands out to take hers. “Are you well enough to be up and about?” He pulled her to a chair, but she remained standing.

  “I’m of hardy stock, Your Grace. I recover quickly.”

  “What time is it?” Arthur looked around for a clock, finding none. “We haven’t missed dinner, have we?”

  “No. We have missed tea, however,” she said, acutely aware of Ashton’s gaze on her. “I think everyone forgot about it—even the cook.” She pulled her shawl tighter. “I just wanted to see what you’re up to.”

  “Ash and I are going blind from searching through this legal claptrap.” He gestured to the stacks of papers, maps, and folios that covered every horizontal surface in the room. “There’re piles and piles of it.”

  Just then Mrs. Ketchum, the housekeeper, came rushing in with her face ashen. “Your Grace—it’s Edgar. He’s sat down and can’t get up.”

  “I’ll come with you, Your Grace,” Daisy said, moving toward the door. He stepped in front of her and took her by the shoulders. She looked up, surprised. “I may be able to help.”

  “You’re barely out of sickbed, yourself,” Arthur said in paternal tones. “No, no—I’ll go. Promise you’ll sit and rest until I return.”

  He didn’t seem in a mood to take no for an answer. With genuine reluctance, she sighed and sat. Once she was settled, he hurried off with Mrs. Ketchum, leaving Daisy alone with Ashton . . . the one man in the world she couldn’t bear to be alone with. The man she owed undying gratitude for saving her more times than she cared to count. The silence grew prickly.

  “I suppose I should thank you for what you did last night.” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. “I never imagined it could be a trap.”

  “You came,” he said quietly. Her fingertips started to tingle and she squeezed them into fists. Her response betrayed both her hurt and remorse.

  “I did.”

  There were volumes to be read between his two words and hers, but neither was willing to open that painful book again. The desperate passion that sent her rushing to a country inn in the dead of night now seemed to belong to another lifetime. The decision was made. That moment was past. She had to find a way to get along without “love.” She’d done it before—survived having her heart broken. She could damned well do it again.

  “What are you doing at Betancourt?” She tried to sound casual as she eyed the door.

  “Artie asked me to stay a while to help sort out the mess the grisards left behind. Who knew he had it in him to give that lot the boot? God knows he put up with plenty over the years.” He looked around the study, seeming ill at ease. “It took them threatening you to make him come out of his shel
l.”

  “I hope to be useful in other ways, in days to come,” she said, feeling that traitorous tingle moving to her lips.

  “I’m sure you will be.” He strolled farther away, stopping near the window seat that for now was filled with ledgers and documents. “There are probably thirty years’ worth of records in this room alone.”

  “When the sorting is done and the house is back to rights, what will you do then?” Imagine the torment of having him under the same roof while she tried to fulfill her duty to give the duke an heir! She groaned silently, convicted by her thoughts. Fortunately, he wasn’t looking at her.

  “I’ll probably go to America.” He had picked up a ledger and leafed through it. “I understand the people there are quite impressed by titles.”

  She could feel her face flushing. “You don’t have a title.”

  “However, I am entitled to be called Lord Ashton Graham. That should be enough to get me an invitation or two. After that, I’ll make a way on my own. Who knows, maybe I’ll find a—” He paused to clear his throat. “But there’s a lot to do before that. We’re not even sure the death tax from my father’s passing was fully paid.”

  She was stuck on the thought of him wooing, wedding, and bedding some bloodless New York deb. When she looked up, he was silhouetted against the golden glow of the late day sun coming through the tall window. His dark hair was flame-kissed, his skin seemed burnished, and his eyes shimmered with heat. Her breath caught.

  She stared. Suddenly hungry.

  He stared. Hungrier.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “He’ll be fine.” Arthur’s voice jarred their gazes apart as he burst into the room. “He’s just ancient and gets winded easily.” He paused beside Daisy and looked from her to Ashton in dismay. “I think we’re going to need a new butler.”

  Relieved, Daisy slipped a hand through Arthur’s arm and discreetly turned him toward the door. “Actually, Your Grace, we have a butler at our London house. Quite an efficient fellow. Keeps the staff on their toes—”

  * * *

  “You’re feeling quite well?” Arthur asked as they reached the garden and he steered her to a bench overlooking the recently ravaged duck pond.

  “I am.” As she was seated, she looked up with a smile that was so sweet he postponed the questions on the tip of his tongue to enjoy it for a moment. “I want to tell you, Arthur, I will be forever grateful to you for what you said and did that night. You defended me against your uncles—you were courageous—heroic.”

  “What I was . . . was angry,” he said, looking down at his clasped hands. “The last three weeks, I’ve learned a lot about my life and my family. I’ve learned who genuinely cares for me and who has used me for their own purposes.” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “And I realize now, there were things going on that I had no idea of.” He glanced at her. “Daisy . . . why did you go to meet Ashton at the inn?”

  “The note said—”

  “I know what it said. ‘Yours forever. In all things.’” He straightened and turned to her. “What did he mean? Why would he ask you to meet him in the dead of night?”

  “As it turns out, he didn’t,” she said, looking down.

  He swallowed hard. “Why would you go?”

  He watched her shoulders sag and a guilty blush creep into her features, and he braced. His stomach seemed to slide lower in his middle.

  “I will tell you, and I pray it won’t make you think less of me—or decide I am unworthy of your trust and affection.” She tugged her shawl tighter around her. “But if it does, then I will understand when you withdraw your offer of marriage to me. You see, I came to England seeking a husband. A noble husband with a title.

  “My family’s money is considered too new and our behavior too brash for us to be accepted socially in New York. I came to Paris to get some polish and to England to find a titled husband to help my family. I have three younger sisters whose futures depend on it.”

  “And you chose me?” He began to see things in a broader scope.

  “There were rumors in London that you—your family—were deeply in debt and needed money. It seemed that you might be perfect for me, since I had lots of money and little else. The countess arranged an introduction.”

  “I had no idea,” he said, thinking back to his London trip and the odd way his uncles steered him through it, insisting he attend events and meet people, most of whom seemed to be connected to some bank or brokerage and were keen to take his uncles aside for intense discussions.

  “But your family got wind of my interest in you and wanted to prevent a courtship. They insisted I provide proof that I had noble blood myself, before they would consider letting us see each other. I had a short while to find proof, and they sent Ashton, as a historian, to certify that my ‘proof’ was genuine. That was how I came to know him.

  “Truth be told, he wasn’t very nice at first and made it clear he thought we would be a disastrous match. But as I searched for proof of my lineage, he came to know me and slowly changed his mind. When your uncles and aunts called me before the family council, after I arrived here, he confirmed what I had found and said there was no impediment to our courtship. Your uncles were furious—they banished him from Betancourt—which is why he moved to the inn. And when I got the note, I was sure something horrible had happened. Either that, or it was a warning of some kind.”

  She was silent for a moment, then looked up at him with eyes so blue and so deep that he caught his breath. She was telling the truth.

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he said, taking her hand and feeling the faint tremble in it.

  “And admit to you that I was husband hunting?” She looked down. “That I had set my cap for you?”

  “Everyone else seemed to know. Why not me?” He didn’t mean it as a joke, but it did pull a small smile from her. Why was he always the last to be told things? His face heated. Because he was so blinkered and self-absorbed that he likely wouldn’t have understood what it all meant, anyway.

  “I wanted to know that if you married me, it was because you wanted me and not just my money. Just as you would want to know that I want you and not just your title.”

  “And do you?” he asked, searching her face as it came up. “Want me and not just my title?”

  She straightened, looking distressed.

  “You are the sweetest, kindest, most considerate man I know. You’ve shown courage and strength—how could I not want you?”

  That was all he needed to hear. He put his arms around her and pulled her against him, holding her, feeling an odd warm spot in his chest.

  “Thank you, my Daisy. For telling me. For liking me. For marrying me.”

  She looked up. “You mean, you still want to marry me?”

  “Of course I do. You’ve opened the world to me . . . made me realize who I am . . . given me that courage to stand up for you and for myself.” He lifted her chin to give her a sweet kiss. “You know, until I met you, I never even imagined kissing someone. I hope you’ll let me know if I’m not doing it right.” He watched her reaction, wondering if he’d been too frank.

  “You’re doing fine, Arthur.” She laughed and put a hand to his cheek. “You’re doing just fine.”

  That afternoon, Arthur penned an announcement for the Times, then rode into the village to meet with the vicar and arrange to publish the banns for the next three weeks. After that, they would be wed in the little church that had seen the vows of five previous dukes and numerous other Meridians.

  * * *

  Dinner was late that evening, accompanied by numerous apologies. The food was simple and needed more seasoning, and the head footman—Young Norton, a fellow approaching fifty—directed table service for the first time, generating more occasions for apology.

  During dinner the countess and Red sparred amicably, Daisy and Arthur chatted quietly, and Ashton—annoyed by Reynard’s presence and double-edged wit—drank most of his dinner.
He excused himself as soon as possible and headed for the stable and a ride to the Iron Penny. Reynard chuckled at Ashton’s display of temper and insisted on giving Red a trouncing over billiards after dinner.

  It was a pattern that was to be repeated over the next week. During the days, Daisy and the countess hired some younger servants, visited the church where Daisy and Arthur would be married, and took stock of the house.

  In the old duchess’s quarters, they confronted the damage done by Sylvia’s furious departure. They stared in dismay at the faded wallpaper, discolored floors where rugs had been removed, and missing furnishings and window drapes. The bones of a great tester bed remained, but had been stripped of hangings.

  Something had to be done.

  The countess sent for her lap desk to begin a shopping list for things the new duchess must have when she returned to Betancourt: a proper vanity, decent mirrors, a pair of matching wardrobes, a substantial mattress, a stylish and comfortable chaise, a writing table and another cedar-lined chest or two for storage in the massive closet.

  Daisy didn’t know whether to feel excited at the prospect of remaking quarters to suit her or to be overwhelmed at the work that lay ahead. That was before they entered the old duke’s quarters—until recently the habitat of Uncle Bertram—and found it reeked of cigar smoke and a musty “old-man” smell that fouled every fabric and bit of stuffing. Furnishings were missing there, too, evidenced by pale outlines on the wooden floors.

  An architect was needed, the countess declared, throwing up her hands. The whole place needed a fierce cleaning, fresh paint, and proper textiles and bathing rooms, not to mention a dozen more water closets.

  Red rode out with Banks each day, inspecting the livestock—what there was of it. At dinner each night, he reported on his findings and quizzed Arthur about the history of the tenants and the estate’s production.