A Good Day to Marry a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  “You look awful,” he said, wincing and producing a handkerchief.

  “Then not half as bad as I feel,” Ashton said, gripping his ribs beneath his battered coat and then dabbing at his bleeding mouth and forehead with Arthur’s accessory. “God. That was damn near the end of me.” He looked at the motionless forms splayed nearby. “Those bastards are pros.”

  “Pros?” Arthur felt his chest with a hand and took a deep breath.

  “Professional muscle, bully-boys, thugs. They had weighted truncheons and brass knuckles. Somebody paid to set them on me.”

  “Who hates you that much?” Arthur scowled. “Besides family.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Ashton said with a chuckle that sent pain spearing through his midsection.

  “Who’s laughing?” Arthur said, remembering his irritation. “You’re a real bounder, you know that. The old trots weren’t half wrong about you.”

  “Wh-a-at?” Ashton stared at his elder brother in disbelief. “You just rescued my arse and now you’re calling me every name in the book. What’s gotten into you?” He was struck by another thought. “What the hell are you doing here in the first place?”

  “I came here to have it out with you.”

  “Over what?” Ashton turned to him in dismay. “What have I ever done to you?”

  Arthur shoved to his feet and a second later Ashton followed. He was none too steady, but he was not about to take his brother’s ire sitting down.

  “You know damned well!” Arthur snarled, and a moment later his fist landed in the middle of Ashton’s face with a crunch.

  “Aghhhh!” Ashton staggered back, stunned by the fact of the blow as much as the force behind it. “Shit, shit, shit!” He held his nose and felt blood run. His milquetoast, bug-obsessed brother had just broken his nose! He straightened—holding his damaged nose—into Arthur’s righteous glare. “What the hell was that for, you little shit?”

  “For taking my bride away from me before I ever had a chance with her,” Arthur bellowed, and swung hard at Ash again. This time, Ashton was better prepared and blocked the blow, though at some cost. His entire body was aching, throbbing, and in some places on fire. Instinct honed by years of down-and-dirty fighting made him retaliate with a counterpunch.

  “Owwwwww!” Arthur grabbed his jaw, staggered, and then wiped blood from his mouth. Looking at it, his eyes flew wide. “You hit me!”

  “You deserved it, you horse’s arse.”

  “After I just saved your bloody life? You hit me after I saved you?”

  “I’ve saved yours a hundred times, you numskull. You only survived Eton because I fought for you every damned day! I had more nosebleeds—” It registered that Arthur’s anger had to do with Daisy. He thought Ashton had—“I never did anything to Daisy or with Daisy. She was yours from the first day we met and that never changed. She was determined to marry you and she deserves to.” For a moment his physical misery gave place to the ache in his heart and a growing sense of dread.

  “Something happened.” Ashton glared back at his elder brother. “What happened? What did you do?”

  “What did I do?” Arthur stuck out his chin. “I asked her to marry me, honorably and decently. She said yes. Then I found out she’s in love with you, my own brother. You went and stole her heart before I had a chance to win it.”

  “What makes you think she’s in love with me?” Ashton felt his heart pounding harder than when he was fighting.

  “She told me so. I asked her flat out and she said she did.”

  “You asked her? What kind of damn fool move was that?”

  “I saw the way you looked at each other, the way she glowed when she talked to you, the way you softened around her. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I could see the truth when I caught you kissing her!” And he threw another punch.

  “Goddamn it, Artie, don’t make me—”

  But he did. Again and again. They traded blows that rocked their senses and sanity and finally brought them, bruised and bloodied, to their knees.

  * * *

  On the nearby roof, Seward pulled on Bertram’s arm, trying to get him to abandon the spectacle unfolding in the alley below.

  “Come on, Bertram.” His voice was constricted. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “And miss this? It’s even better than what we planned—the bastards are bashing each other senseless.” He almost giggled with pleasure.

  “But when those bruisers wake up, they’ll be mad as hell.” Seward inched back to the parapet of the Chancery’s roof for another peek.

  “We’ll be long gone and they’ll have no clue who we are or where to find us,” Bertram scoffed, then brightened. “Wish we could hear what they’re saying. Whoa, did you see that one?”

  * * *

  “This is one bad idea, Daize,” Red said as they exited the cab onto the pavement before the Chancery. “If he’s here, what’ll you say to ’im?”

  “It’s no good talking to her.” Reynard Boulton turned from paying the cabbie, then ushered them toward the forbidding front door. “She’s in love.”

  “I never said that,” she said, frowning at Reynard.

  “You didn’t have to,” he said dismissively, then pounded the knocker on the door. It swung open and the beefy doorman with the scarred face broke into an odd smile at the sight of him.

  “Your Lordship.” He nodded and opened wide to admit them.

  “Is she here?” he asked.

  “She’s always here,” the fellow said, snapping his fingers for a servant to take the men’s hats and walking sticks. Daisy surrendered her shawl. The doorman led them across the bustling gaming floor to the stairs at the rear.

  Daisy had never seen such a place—music fast and loud, men in evening clothes and women in scandalous gowns, crystal chandeliers glowing, champagne flowing. Gaiety was everywhere, but with an edge that took her to her limit of comfort. As they climbed the stairs she asked Reynard who “she” was and he just smiled.

  Moments later she was stunned to be introduced to a woman of middle years and prodigious bulk, with the fashion sense of a Parisian madam. Mrs. MacNeal was in the unique position of owning this establishment because of either remarkable talents or a remarkable life. Daisy had no right to judge either, so when she offered her hand and smiled, the woman seemed surprised and produced a lovely smile.

  “You’ve had business tonight,” Reynard said as they stood before the lady.

  “Two brothers,” she said, sipping from her champagne glass. “Two rough boys. And two old fellows who ate like they were starving.” She threaded her fingers together with a sly expression. “They fit into one story. And now you, Reynard, and this lady and this gentleman, who is no gentleman.” She gestured to Red, who flushed and grinned.

  “The old men,” Reynard said. “What did they look like?”

  “One with a bull neck and a belly and temper to match. The other a weasel, quick and easily frightened. I believe they’re on my roof at the moment.”

  “Could you see they come down?”

  She smiled and nodded. “For you, I can.”

  “Where are the others, Mrs. MacNeal?” Daisy ventured. “It is important we speak to them.”

  The proprietress turned to her majordomo. “Show them the rear door.”

  “As ever,” Reynard said, kissing her hand without a trace of mockery, “I am in your debt.”

  Moments later, they stood just inside the rear door, gaping at the sight of Ashton and Arthur in the alley beyond, battered and bloodied, propping each other up in order to take swings at each other.

  “Say you’re going to marry her,” Ashton snarled, giving him a shake. “She’s got her heart set on being a duchess—she’s worked for years to come this far. You’re not goin’ to let her down, you hear?”

  “You’re so keen to see her wed—marry her yourself!” Arthur snapped, locking his knees and leaning against Ashton’s shoulders.

  “You’re the
one with the damned title. You’re the one who can make her a duchess, so you’re the one who’s going to do so.”

  “S-says who?” Arthur was beginning to slur his words through bruised and swollen lips.

  “Says me,” Ashton panted, scarcely able to see for the sweat and blood running in his eyes.

  “Yeah, well, I decided I don’t want to get married.” Arthur was struggling to stay upright. “Did you know there are women everywhere? I did not know that. All kinds of women. Like those sisters of hers. Have you seen them?” He tried to whistle, but it came out as mostly air. “Pretty as pictures—no, as butterflies. There’s women all over th’ place, and I never even had one! It’s not fair that the one I get stuck with wants you.”

  “You’re not stuck with her, you jackass. You’re lucky to have ’er. She’s an angel, a marvel among women. She knows stuff you can’t imagine. I saw her pull a calf out of a cow, single-handed. She can make a horse dance in time to music, and she’s not afraid of coyotes or sidewinders or polecats—just ask Red.” He shook Arthur by the coat. “She spent two damned years tryin’ to catch a duke and you’re gonna marry her or else.”

  * * *

  Daisy stood, dumbfounded, watching her betrothed husband and the man she loved threaten and beat each other, each trying to convince the other to marry her. It was shocking and absurd and utterly humiliating.

  She reached for Red’s hand as he stood beside her, and when he would have charged out into the alley, she held him back, pleading for restraint with hurt-filled eyes. He put an arm around her as she listened and her heart seemed to slide to somewhere in the vicinity of her knees.

  Then it came, the final blow.

  “So, she loves you, but you don’t want to marry ’er.” Arthur seemed to be running out of steam for this head-to-head collision. He pulled out his most devastating charge: “Either you don’t love her, or you don’t want to get married. Which is it?”

  She froze, listening, blinking away the tears collecting in her eyes.

  The pause seemed to go on forever.

  Ashton dropped his arms and disengaged from Arthur.

  He stood looking down, and his shoulders rounded slightly.

  “I love her. Curse your eyes, I love her with everything in me.” He looked up with anger so old it had grown cold and grim. “Don’t you see? I have nothing to give her. Nothing. No home, no position, no income, no title. No future. And she deserves all of that and more.”

  Watching him recount his lack of worldly goods, rank and position, her heart protested that none of that mattered to her any more. A moment later, she finally understood; it still mattered a great deal to him. More, in fact, than she did. It was pride, his precious male pride, that kept him from seeing that he could have all of that and so much more . . . if he would only open his heart and let go of the past to embrace the future.

  Frustration boiled up in her, hot and potent.

  How dare they toss her back and forth like some damned cricket ball?

  She pushed away from Red and dashed through the door before Reynard could stop her. She halted a few feet from them, spread her feet, and propped her fists on her hips. If their ears hadn’t been ringing from the blows they’d taken, they probably could have heard the lightning flashing in her eyes.

  “You miserable, low-down, yellow-bellied—” She halted and turned to Arthur. “I thought we had settled the matter of our marriage. You told me it would go forward, and in good faith, I believed you. Now I hear you whining about how you’d rather enjoy the entire field before settling on just one flower. You regret not having sampled the charms of many women? What a heart-warming complaint from a man who two months ago hardly knew how to ask a lady for a dance. You say you don’t want to marry me because I love someone else? Well, I’m not sure that will be a problem for long.”

  She turned on Ashton, who stared at her as if her hair were on fire.

  “And you. You love me so dearly, you would give me everything you desire. How gallant. Did it never occur to you to give me what I want? I as much as told you that I love you, and you stood as dumb as a doorstop, refusing to say what was as plain as the nose on your face.”

  “I didn’t want to burden you. I thought it would be easier if—”

  “If you didn’t say it out loud, it would be easier on your conscience when you handed me over to somebody else?”

  “You were determined to marry a duke, to make a future for your sisters.” He looked into her eyes. “I was trying to give you what you want.”

  She narrowed her eyes and stepped closer, landing equidistant between them. “Well, how lovely. Here is what I want: a husband, a week from Saturday at the church in the village of Betany. I’ll be there in my white wedding gown with flowers and organ music and the vicar all ready to go. One of you idiots had better show up with a ring and a damn big apology.”

  She advanced on Ashton, considered his injuries up close, and grabbed his shirtfront, pulling him down so they were nose to nose.

  “Just to help you make up your mind . . .” She pulled him down further and planted a bone-melting kiss on his damaged mouth that more than made up for the pain it caused.

  She turned to Arthur, said, “I don’t believe I ever got to demonstrate the real possibilities in a wife’s affections,” and kissed him with enough heat to cauterize the splits in his swollen lip. He staggered, dazed, when she released him.

  As she headed for Red and Reynard Boulton, who stood gaping at her from the gaming house’s rear entrance, down the alley came the Chancery’s doorman and another burly employee. Before them, being shoved roughly along by grips on their collars, came Bertram and Seward, looking considerably worse than at their last encounter. “You.” She approached near enough to see their unshaved faces, rumpled clothes, and the resentment burning in their eyes.

  “You’ll never be a duchess,” Bertram snapped. “Even Arthur—that worthless, ungrateful dolt—knows better than to mingle his noble blood with the likes of yours.”

  Ashton moved like quicksilver and landed a fist hard on the wretch’s jaw, sending him reeling. If it hadn’t been for the doorman’s grip on his collar and coat, he’d have sprawled in the filthy alley. He turned to Seward, who put up his hands, pleading to be spared.

  “We didn’t mean to. We thought . . . you needed . . . a-a—”

  “A few broken ribs?” Ashton gave him a tap on the jaw, after all.

  Daisy, head held high, blew through the knot of people in the doorway, and Uncle Red and Reynard Boulton—both torn between watching what would happen next and following her—exchanged looks and then headed after her. As one of the Chancery servants hailed them a cab, she recovered enough to spear Reynard with a dangerous look.

  “I’d better not hear a word about this—now or ever. Because if I do, and I’m not married nine days from now, I just might decide to marry you.”

  Reynard blinked, looking truly unsettled by that threat.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  * * *

  In the alley, Bertram and Seward were dropped between their hirelings and sat mutely trying to recover. The doorman looked around and gave Ashton an approving nod. “Anything else you need, milord?”

  “A constable or two,” Ashton said, trying not to grin and make his lip bleed further. “Or four.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Minutes after he ducked inside, they heard constables’ whistles in the nearby street.

  The hired thugs were roused and taken into custody along with Bertram and Seward. “They’re good friends,” Ashton put in. “If I were you, I’d be sure to put them in a cell together.”

  Wicked delight bloomed in the head constable’s face.

  “A fine idea, guv.”

  “What?” Bertram froze as he was being hauled to the Black Maria. “You can’t do this. I demand a separate cell. I am the Baron Beesock—”

  “Never heard of ye.”

  “I’ll have your job for—”

  Ashton threw an ar
m around Arthur’s shoulders and turned him toward the still open door of the Chancery.

  “If she ever kisses you like that again,” he said a bit too calmly, “you’re a dead man.”

  Arthur laughed, despite how much it hurt.

  They were met by the doorman with a tray containing two substantial glasses of liquor. “Mrs. MacNeal thought you might need this. But she asks that you take it where you are.” His grin was wry and a bit chilling. “Wouldn’t want to scare the customers.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “It’s a good day to marry a duke,” the countess said as she threw back the drapes in Daisy’s room and let in the newly risen sun. Fresh, cool air wafted in, and she breathed deeply. “It’s finally here—the day you’ve been hoping for, planning for, and waiting for.”

  Daisy groaned silently. The desire to curl up and pull the covers over her head was overwhelming, but not to be. Her mother sailed in without knocking, carrying a tray of coffee, scones, and fruit.

  “Morning, Your Grace-to-be,” she declared cheerily, placing the tray on the table. “What a good day to marry a duke!” With that, she ripped the covers back and rocked Daisy with insistent prodding. “Up, daughter-of-mine. You’ve a lot to do and we have to be at the church at half past ten.”

  Daisy closed her eyes and groaned aloud.

  “No, no.” The countess saw her retreating into a stubborn mood and joined Elizabeth by the bed, where they exchanged worried glances. “We can’t have His Grace waiting at the altar, now can we?”

  The door that her mother had left open was seen as an invitation to one and all. Daisy’s sisters came barreling in, talking excitedly, squealing with awe and delight at the white satin gown hanging from the wardrobe, and climbing onto the bed with her. Her mother’s prodding was gentle by comparison to their shaking and pulling and teasing.

  She finally sat up and glared at them all.

  “Coffee. I need some coffee.”

  “What you need is a husband,” Elizabeth declared, pouring her a cup and carrying it to the bed, where Daisy was now upright against the pillows. “And in a few hours, you’ll have one. You’ll be a wife and a duchess.”