by Eva Devon
George winced. “Nothing intimidates them.”
“Not even you?” Drake asked over his coffee cup.
Harley sighed. “Not even me. I swear, it is my height that makes the evenings bearable. I can pretend I don’t see any of them.”
“I’ll have to remember that if I’m ever caught at such a thing alive. I say, weren’t you hiding behind a statuary at the Bedford ball last week?”
George squared his shoulders and replied coolly, “Dukes don’t hide.”
“Of course not, old boy. Of course not. You were surveying the ground, were you not?”
“Exactly.”
“You shall marry this year then?” Drake asked idly as he whipped a newspaper up from the table covered in periodicals beside them.
“Yes.” George’s spirits fell. For a moment, he’d forgotten why he’d been so down to begin with. “I’ve waited too long.”
“You make it sound as if you’re about to lose all your teeth.”
George shrugged, damned determined to seem careless. “One must get an heir.”
“Must one?”
George resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Drake, while blithe about it, had very specific reasons for avoiding the mart, marriage, and heirs. George did not.
For him to find a bride, it wasn’t truly necessary for him to attend the vast marts, sparkling affairs of grand families launching their daughters. If he truly wished, he could send out letters to best matches and have them all come to him. He’d heard of such things, cold as it sounded.
But his sister? His sister absolutely had to attend. . . which meant so did he as her guardian. He fought a groan. Self-pity was not for him. Or so he told himself.
George sighed, thinking of how wonderful it would have been if he could have declared his engagement. If he had, he wouldn’t have to worry about being ambushed in a salon, or finagled into marriage by a shrewd, enterprising mama and daughter.
There was no point in lamenting it. The reality of it couldn’t be escaped and complaining wouldn’t help.
“I never thought it would be so difficult to get married,” George said at last.
Drake laughed. “Good God, man. I’ve never met anyone so eager to stick his neck in the noose.”
George scowled. “I’m doing my duty.”
“Duty is a cold comfort,” Drake intoned.
“It’s still a comfort.”
“Then find a wife.” Drake waved towards the street. “There are thousands who would happily say yes. Perhaps you need to just choose one.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to confess that he had but he looked away.
“My God,” Drake all but whispered. “You did.”
George sat up straighter and studied his coffee. “I beg your pardon?”
“You did offer!” Drake leaned forward, folding his paper. “Who?”
George took several swallows of coffee then waved at the pot boy as he said, “I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”
“Please,” Drake drawled. “You cannot lie to me. I am a veritable sniffer outer of liars. She turned you down? That’s why the long face?”
“My face is not long,” George hissed. “It is resigned.”
“To rejection?” Drake’s lips twitched. “What woman would dare?”
“Eglantine Trewstowe,” he ground out, wishing he’d been able to keep the whole bloody thing a secret. The last thing he really wished was for his friends to know that she had rejected him or why.
Drake blinked. “Eglantine Trewstowe? Your neighbor? That Eglantine Trewstowe?”
George glowered. “I was not aware that there was another.”
Drake began to laugh. A slow, soft sound which then turned so uproarious that half the roomed turned to look at them.
“Laugh away, why don’t you, at my misfortune.”
Drake wiped his eyes. “Why the devil would you think she’d say yes?”
George scowled, really quite annoyed by his nearest and dearest’s reaction to this debacle. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Drake’s eyes danced with amusement. “No. Do tell.”
George cleared his throat, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “Well, I’m a—”
“Duke?” Drake finished.
“Yes.”
Drake’s lips twitched again.
“Don’t start,” George warned, feeling like he was doing a good deal of defending these days.
“Look here.” Drake adjusted on the bench and pressed his forearms to the table. “I know Lady Eglantine a little and even I know that she would want nothing to do with being a duchess.”
“How could you know that?” George exclaimed with more passion than he’d intended.
Drake gave him a droll look. “Have you read her parents’ works? Did you notice that she prefers a corner and a book or a good frolic through the wood? Her ribbons never matched. Her gowns always look as if she could not care less what they were. Her mind is preoccupied by more interesting things, no doubt.”
“You make a duchess sound like a glamorous woman in silks and jewels who only goes to parties. . . and dear God.” George wiped a hand over his face. “Why did I ask?”
“Momentary madness, old boy. Momentary madness.” Drake played with his coffee cup then observed, “She’s quite beautiful.”
“She doesn’t think so,” George pointed out, not certain how he felt about the fact that he wasn’t the only one to recognize that Eglantine was a beauty. He was glad for her, but he was also experiencing a rather strange emotion to match. “She thinks she’s going to have an uninspiring Season.”
Drake shrugged. “She might. If she brings a book and sits behind a curtain. One can never tell what someone like Eglantine will do.”
“No. One can’t, can one?”
“You’re smiling,” Drake accused. “You do like her.”
“Of course I like her. We’ve been friends for ages.”
“Fine then.” Drake leaned forward and said dramatically, “Dare I say love.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We have been together all of two hours in the last year.”
“Then why do you look so cast down?”
“The agony of defeat?” George offered. “And the fact my search continues.”
“Ah. That. Well, just be glad she said no.” Drake cocked his head to the side. “She’d hate being a duchess, I think.”
“That’s basically what my mother said.”
“I can only imagine Dowager Duchess Barbara’s musings on the subject.” Drake poured himself more coffee then offered optimistically, “Now, why don’t you let me find you a wife? I’m quite good at—”
“I’d rather drink cod liver oil.”
“My, we are touchy.”
George groaned. “Are you coming to Harriet’s come out tonight?”
Drake grimaced. “Good Lord, no. Why should I?”
“I think Rob will be there.”
“Oh.” Drake paused. “That is tempting. But no. I have a previous engagement. But if you see him, convince the bounder to a meeting at Number 79. He’s hiding something and, as good friends, it is our duty to find out.”
George nodded. He was concerned about Rob. Given how close they had all been, united in the bonds of being heirs to dukedoms, it was most strange that Rob had been so absent. No, not absent. Rob had been avoiding his friends on purpose, of that George was certain.
“I’ll find a way of getting him there,” George assured.
“Have you heard from Ardore? I’m beginning to wonder if that Scots devil died out in the wild somewhere.”
“I had a letter a month ago. I don’t think he’s eager to come back. . . not after all that business last year.”
Drake scowled. “What a disaster that was. Still, he can’t hide forever. I do hope he stops this nonsense and realizes he bloody well needs his friends.”
Knowing Ardore, it was hard to say. He was the sort of fellow who was jolly in company but there was a well of darkness in his heart
that seemed as deep as a winter loch.
Drake paused then asked, “Is Madame de Coqueville hosting a party tonight?”
“When is she not?” George returned, relieved to turn away from Ardore. There was nothing they could do for him with the fellow halfway around the world. All they could do was wait for him to come home.
“Not often,” Drake agreed with improving humor. “Well then, I’ll see you there.” Drake stood and picked up his cane, giving George a salute. “Courage, my friend. Courage. You shall overcome.”
With that, Drake wound his way out of the crowded coffee shop and stepped out into the even more crowded and cacophonous street.
George sat, staring after his friend who acted as if he had not a care in the world. George knew different. Drake was the greatest masker in the world, hiding a heart darker than most. The reasons the man avoided marriage were not the frivolous ones that most powerful young men espoused. He would, no doubt, be a bachelor for years.
Perhaps George would, too. He shuddered at the very idea. Perhaps Drake was right. Perhaps he ought to just choose a young lady tonight, one who made moon eyes at him, and whose mama raced to the front of the pitched battle of it all. Then it would all be over and he could get on with his life. He’d simply have to pray that he and his future wife could get on.
Had it come to that?
George gave his coffee an evil look.
Yes, yes it had. But he wasn’t about to let anyone know that. Especially not Lady Eglantine Trewstowe who would most certainly be there, as it was her launch on proper society this night as well.
No, he’d have to show her and the whole bloody world the duke they all knew. A man of power, strength, and, just like Drake, not a seeming care in the world.
Chapter 10
Since George had never considered that Eglantine would refuse his offer, he’d never considered the awkwardness that could arise during his sister Harriet’s first Season. Or how often he would see Eglantine. All the bloody time.
Which perhaps did, as Eglantine suggested, make him foolish.
For Harriet and Eglantine were fast friends.
So, it was because of this that he sat, booted ankle hooked over knee, sipping tea, wishing to the devil he had not stumbled upon the two discussing highwaymen and news sheets. The most alarming things had arisen in the conversation and, really, he wished he could escape. But he wasn’t about to start acting like a coward. . . and because he felt the need to make sure Eglantine wasn’t about to dive off the path into the other side of the Season.
Harriet had slipped out of the room, searching for some female necessity and he and Eglantine had been left alone. With the door open of course.
She spread butter over another muffin and studied the news sheet voraciously.
He sat sipping from the delicate cup, trying not to adore the way several tendrils had slipped from her coiffure and teased about her face.
The way she read with all her body engaged, leaning forward, head bowed, lips slightly pursed. It was damned appealing.
He had a feeling that Eglantine would be like that in everything she did. Participating to the full. No half-measures for her.
The French clock chimed upon the mantel.
She turned a page.
The silence was palpable.
Despite the strange silence that had fallen between them, he was bedeviled with unease. For Eglantine had expressed an admiration for Whig parties. He’d warned her off the lot of them. . . but given what he now knew, Eglantine would do whatever the devil she wished. Which really was one of the things he admired about her. . . except for now, he was fairly certain that despite Drake’s supposition that Eglantine wished to sit in a corner reading, leaving the affairs of the world to the world, he was half-afraid she planned to launch her herself not at the proper people of the ton but at sin given half the chance.
She was far too curious to be pacified by the ratafia swilling, Almack’s set.
If Lady Melbourne got a hold of her, she’d be on the fast road and, for one moment, he paused and wondered what that would be like. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, imagining Eglantine ruling the ton with her intellect, love of politics, and passion for theater.
She’d be splendid.
But there was the darker side of that group. The gambling, hard drinking, bed chasing side.
It could be easy to be lost to it amidst all the glitter. Still, she had good sense. He’d have to trust in that.
Even so, he now had a distinct feeling that few really knew the depths of Eglantine Trewstowe or what she actually longed for in her heart of hearts.
“You don’t actually have interest in the fast set do you?” he asked suddenly, against his better judgment.
Slowly, she looked up from the page. “Who does not?”
“People with sense,” he replied, trying not to sound like a crusty, old man.
“You do not like those parties?” she asked easily. “They seem most fascinating to me.”
“I have to like those parties,” he replied truthfully. “I throw them. For goodness’ sake, I’m a sponsor of the party.”
She rolled her eyes. “There you have it. A rule for you. A rule for me. Ridiculous.”
“Reality,” he disagreed.
She studied him for a good long moment. “You seem quite obsessed with reality, George.”
“What else is there?” he asked, wishing he could bare his heart entirely to her. To explain himself. But even he could not be that real. It was too painful.
“Imagination,” she said with a good deal of enthusiasm as she placed her muffin down.
“Well, you’ve always had that. In spades, I should say.”
“So, I have,” she agreed, pleased. “You did, too, if I recollect rightly.”
He shoved his hand through his hair. “Eglantine—”
“But you are the duke now,” she intoned.
He sighed, something he had not usually been wont to do. “I simply don’t wish you to get caught up in that lot. They don’t care about who gets hurt.”
“Is that what you do?” she asked, her brows lifting in surprise. “Not care who gets hurt?”
Shifting in surprise at her pointed question, he asked, “Me?”
She nodded. “You’re a rake, are you not? Do you not care who falls beneath your ducal glory?”
“Eglantine,” he half-growled. Was he mad or were they now talking about his conquests?
She batted her lashes sweetly. “Yes?”
He laughed. “Your honesty is daunting.”
She smiled. “Would you have me lie?”
“I find this most strange,” he confessed, leaning back in his chair. “Our conversations are very frank.”
She shrugged as if she found them to be quite natural. “Are we not friends?”
He stared at her, amazed that she was speaking to him let alone saying such a thing. He had seen her as a good candidate for wife but the more he spoke to her, the more fascinated he became. She did not see the world as so many others did.
“I do not know what we are,” he replied truthfully.
“Then you haven’t forgiven me for my good sense?” she teased. “Are you still angry with me?”
He ground his teeth. “I’m still not truly certain it was good sense. But it seems you’re terribly sporting and have forgiven me for my grandness.”
“I know at heart you’re not so impossible but I never would have made you happy,” she sighed.
So people kept telling him. The protestations were so loud, he was more and more inclined to disbelieve them. “Let us leave it in the past then.”
“If you wish, I’m happy to do so.” She wiped the crumbs from her fingers and fairly bounced as she turned fully to him. “For I do hope you shall ask me to dance at my first official ball. You might be the only fellow to do so.”
He eyed her carefully. She couldn’t be serious. Did she not see what he did? And then he realized there was no artifice to her questio
n. She did not see it. She had no idea how absolutely appealing she was.
“Of course, I will dance with you,” he said softly. “If you wish it.”
“I do hope we can still be friends,” she said earnestly. “Even if you say you do not know what we are.”
Friends. The word was like a nail on steel. The damned truth was that he wanted Eglantine. She’d done something to him. She’d lit a slow flame within him and it had not ceased to burn. But there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
“As do I, actually,” he agreed.
“No waltzing,” she said abruptly, her face tensing with genuine worry. “I beg of you not to ask me when those strains begin.”
“Whyever not?” he queried, astounded by her vehemence. “It is the most fashionable dance.”
“I’m terrible at it,” she explained, looking at her lap. “Can’t get the hang of the swirling nonsense, you see.”
He considered her words, struggling to believe them. “You’re very graceful.”
“Ha!” She giggled then, her seriousness vanishing as quickly as summer rain. “You have not danced with me in years. And then we just pranced up and down the hall.”
“Show me then,” he said.
She almost paled. “Show. . . you?”
“Mmmm.” He nodded, standing. “Come on then. Let’s have a go.”
“Here?” she all but yelped.
He paused, surprised by her reticence. Eglantine was many things but reticent had not seemed to be one of them. “Whyever not?”
“Well, I. . .” She looked about then waved a hand around. “There’s no room.”
“I thought you had an imagination,” he teased.
George made quick work moving a few tables and chairs to the side of the room. He had no idea what he was doing except for the fact that no matter how appalling their last encounter, he could not escape the fact that he immediately felt as if he and Eglantine should be in continual conversation when they were together. And he would always wish to help her. Even if she had trounced upon him.
He was fairly sure he’d been deserving of it. Mostly.
Besides, he could sense her nervousness. He wished she could see she had no need of it. Not a lady like her.
