How to Marry a Duke Without Really Trying

by Eva Devon

  Chapter 20

  George stood alone in the garden. The world spun around him. What the devil had just happened? Had he just completely shoved Eglantine away?

  Yes. He had.

  He’d lost her. Damnation. He’d never had her.

  Didn’t she understand he clung to control? To maintaining himself and his emotions. He could not lose sight of his goals. If he indulged himself he might fail to do as he promised his father. He might become distracted from the tasks necessary. His father had been able to love and be a great duke, but George knew he was nowhere near as capable. He needed all his resources to do what he did now. He had to choose practically. He’d seen too many men felled by passion.

  If he slipped and fell in love, losing himself in the sea of it. . .

  He shook his head. He’d done the right thing. He’d stayed true. He hadn’t ruined Eglantine, no matter how much he’d longed to feel her body against his. To feel their union.

  No. This was for the best. He needed a duchess who was not so passionate, so vivid, so completely alive.

  He winced.

  Besides, Eglantine didn’t wish to be a duchess. She’d made it clear that his sense of duty did not appeal to her. And what else was a duchess’ priority but duty?

  Swallowing back the shocking pain that washed over him, he turned and strode out of the small grove of trees, determined to not let anyone know what had just transpired.

  Harriet leapt out and said quite cheerfully, “Why hello, Brother.”

  He jumped and jerked towards her. “Harry,” he yelped.

  “Yes, it is I.” She folded her hands behind her back and asked playfully, “Whatever were you doing just now?”

  “I?” He coughed and looked around desperately. He couldn’t tell her. There was no way he could confess that he wished to bed her friend and had only managed to just stop himself. . . and that he’d ended their friendship. Or whatever it was that was between them.

  He looked about, wildly, searching for any excuse.

  “I was examining the bushes,” he blurted. “I do think there is a rather unfortunate infestation of beetles in the dogwood trees.”

  “At my wedding breakfast?” she asked, batting her lashes.

  He forced a smile. “Now is always the best time, is it not?”

  “And did Eglantine agree with you?” she asked, a knowing look brightening her eyes.

  He froze. How could she have surmised anything? Surely, it wasn’t possible. “Eglantine?”

  “Mmm. Wasn’t she in the shrubbery with you?” She peered around his shoulder then glanced back towards the tents. “I saw her head off towards the house.”

  “Oh. Oh! Yes.” He coughed then pulled at his starched cravat which suddenly felt particularly tight. “She did say she knew something about trees and the symptoms of one that was infected. . .”

  “With beetles?” she put in helpfully, clearly brimming with laughter.

  “Yes,” he confirmed dumbly. “Exactly.”

  “I say, you aren’t in love with Eglantine are you?” she asked abruptly.

  “Eglantine?” he echoed before squaring his shoulders. “I’m not in love with anyone. It would take far too much time. The very idea. . .”

  “Yes?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “It was nothing,” he assured. “She merely wished my advice, given my superior years and experience.”

  “I see.” She peered at him as if she could discover his secrets. “But mind you keep it that way and no more shrubberies. One forced marriage is enough for this family. Don’t you agree?”

  He made no reply but gave a quick nod.

  There would be no forced marriage to Eglantine. There would be no marriage at all and, once again, he felt his heart sink. For this time, there would be no second chance. No going back. Once again, he had played his hand badly. And once again, there was no one to blame but himself. But. . . in the end, perhaps, it was for the best. Because he and Eglantine did not understand each other. They probably never would.

  Chapter 21

  Pretending that everything was perfectly fine was the hardest thing Eglantine had done in her entire life. She smiled, she danced, she conversed. And every night she came home, her feet aching from the dancing she had done. She spilled her heart out onto the pages of her. . . novel.

  It seemed remarkable to think she was actually doing it. But the act of writing words down upon the parchment, her quill skimming over the rough page, was cathartic. She wrote of meeting a great duke, of her love for him, how she wished it could grow into a grand passion. She had taken to writing at all hours. Even now, in her finery, ready for the coach to arrive to take them to another ball.

  If she did not write, her feelings would rage inside her.

  The story unfolded in parallel to her own dreadful Season. No one would have known her heart was breaking. Only her novel. Somehow, she managed to describe the strong, proud, beautiful duke who kept his heart from giving in, too consumed with his title.

  And as she wrote it, she found more and more she understood George’s reasoning. The things that drove him were not small. The weight of the nation was on his shoulders, the hopes of his father. She still was glad that she had not relented and married him for convenience.

  Even if she felt terribly, terribly lonely.

  She supposed she could have taken the chance he would grow to love her. He clearly liked and desired her. But what would happen if he did not? Would they both grow disillusioned and discontented. Would she become like the powerful society ladies she heard whispered about who took lovers as easily as one took their tea? Having secret babies in far off counties or even the foreign shores of Italy?

  It was a life that she could not contemplate for herself, so she wrote about it instead. The young girl who was the heroine of her novel made the dreaded decision of choosing a duke rather than love and her descent into decadence and ultimately tragedy riddled the pages.

  The story. . . which had begun hopeful, had turned into a tragedy for them all.

  How she wished the ending could have been different. But it had all but written itself over the last weeks.

  She leaned back in her hard backed chair and placed her quill down on her writing desk.

  Seeing George had been pure torture over the last weeks. At least she no longer needed to visit his London house. Harriet had transferred to her husband’s home. And that marriage. . . which had not been for love, seemed to be slipping away, just like the characters in Eglantine’s novel.

  She glanced to her tea and took a long sip. She wished it was claret.

  Perhaps, she would not marry at all. Because though she hated to admit it, every time she saw George, her heart leapt.

  Somehow over the last weeks, her admiration and desire had become more. It had been made evident to her by his absence from her life.

  Perhaps, she would eschew normal society and take up with artists. She could publish her book. She could find happiness alone, could she not?

  And she’d read about George’s marriage to some beautiful heiress in the papers who would be his perfect duchess. And her heart would die just a little as it wished that it had been her, after all.

  But such things were idle dreams.

  The end of her novel was not a happy one.

  She prayed, though, that she and George could find happiness, even if it was not together.

  She pressed a hand to her face, trying to will the pain of it away. It would pass, this heartache. She had to believe it would. One couldn’t go back. She could not say yes to him now. And she was glad she could not, for if asked again, she did not think she could resist the temptation, love or no love. For her whole being ached for George’s presence. He no longer even greeted her at parties.

  It was what she had said they should do. But the reality of it—

  A soft knock on her door resounded through her room. “It is time, my dear,” her mother called.

  Sighing, she straig
htened the pages of her novel. It was time to let go of what could not be. There was only the future now and, that, she would make for herself.

  Chapter 22

  Harriet.

  George tore into Number 79. Wild with fear, he stormed through the hall and spotted Yvette.

  “Where are they?” he demanded.

  “They are upstairs, cherie,” she replied, eyes wide.

  Yvette knew terror. She’d seen people taken by the Assembly and killed. And immediately, she sensed that something was desperately wrong.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  He shook his head wildly. “My sister has been taken.”

  “Taken? Mon Dieu. “Lady Harriet was just here.”

  George stopped. “She came here.”

  “Oui.” Yvette nodded. “Seeking Rob.”

  “Damnation.” Harriet had always been a curious sort. He prayed now that curiosity was not her death sentence.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and George spotted Drake.

  “Harley, we could hear you from above,” Drake boomed. “What’s happened?”

  George stood shaking. “Harriet has been kidnapped and Rob has gone to the East End to find her.”

  “Without us?” Drake demanded. “That fool. Does he not know he has friends?”

  “I think he’s frantic,” George bit out. “As am I.”

  Royland and Raventon stormed down behind Drake.

  “They’ve gone to Heath’s then,” Raventon said immediately.

  George didn’t question the enigmatic duke. If Raventon somehow knew where Rob would likely go, then he was almost certainly right.

  “Then we need to go. Now,” George growled. “I can’t just let her—”

  “We’re with you, Harley,” Raventon cut in, assuring him.

  George nodded. And as he and his friends headed out of Number 79 into the dark night to find his sister, George’s mind rioted with fear.

  All this time, he’d been so certain that his life was on the right path. That nothing could drive him from it or shake him.

  Now? Now, it seemed as if everything he’d always been certain was true had rattled apart. No one was safe in this life. Nothing was certain.

  And in this moment, he was certain that he was about to lose everything.

  “We’ll get her back,” Royland said, his voice low and firm.

  George locked gazes with Royland, barely daring to believe. But if it was possible, they’d do it together. As they had always done.

  So, they made breakneck speed to the dark mass of the East End where so many died in back alleys and were never seen again.

  That wouldn’t happen to Harriet. It couldn’t.

  One thing was for certain, when they got her back, he was never going to take anything for granted. Not ever again.

  The crowded ballroom was one great mass of revelry as lords and ladies traipsed about, showing off their jewels and rich clothes to each other. A bunch of peacocks, the lot of them. But Eglantine took note, for she planned to write about every single one of them.

  She’d skewer them with her pen if she could not do so in reality.

  For with her heart the way it was now, she could not admire these people who chose artifice over substance. Station over love.

  Eglantine would never be poor. It was not something she’d ever had to consider. It was the one thing which she could understand someone sacrificing love for marriage. For poverty was a cruel thing.

  But most of the lords and ladies in this room did not know what poverty was, and they never would. No, they chose loveless marriages to increase their wealth and power.

  Eglantine forced a smile to her face but found she felt rather tired. She turned to her mother. “I will be back in a moment, Mama. I must visit the cloak room.”

  Her mother, who had been in conversation with Lady Danby about the importance of midwives in the East End, smiled and nodded at her before launching back into her ardent argument.

  Eglantine smiled wistfully to herself. Somehow, this summer, she had changed. Every day she had grown to admire her mother more and more. Her mama had chosen a strange path. She had been lucky and married an earl for love. But she had not succumbed to the silliness of many women’s lives. She barely knew what lace was in fashion let alone the most recent edicts on decorum. Her station as a countess and her will made her acceptable to most of society, even if some, as Eglantine had only recently learned, refer to her as that damned woman.

  Eglantine was beginning to believe she might never marry now. Regardless, she certainly hoped she could inherit her mother’s title as one who did not succumb to the largely accepted sentiments of the ton.

  She slipped into the shadowy hall. Given the heat of the evening, those that were not dancing were drinking punch on the balcony which led down to the garden.

  The scent of roses wafted in through the open windows.

  George wasn’t here.

  She scowled. Why the devil had she had to think of him?

  When would he decrease from her considerations? She hoped soon.

  A yelp slipped from her throat as a hand reached out and took hers.

  Before she could even see who it was, she was being drawn into a small sitting room.

  She blinked. For only moonlight lit the room, bathing the chaise lounge and delicate chairs in silvery blue light.

  But as she focused on the man, she winced. “Lord Haven?”

  She had been avoiding him more and more of late. And he had begun to pursue her in a way that had given her a strange feeling. Oh, nothing too frightening. But he’d begun to give her a strained smile, becoming more insistent that she pay him attention. His initial self-confidence and ease had vanished almost altogether, replaced by a determination to seek her out at every given moment.

  “We cannot be here alone together,” she hissed.

  “What care you for the proprieties of society?” he asked, his voice low as he started to pull her into the room.

  “Please let go,” she said calmly.

  He shook his head, his teeth flashing, his dark hair wild about his face which did not appear handsome now. “I have paid court to you and you received my attention most eagerly.”

  “I enjoyed your company,” she agreed. “But I do not enjoy this.”

  “You cannot think I visited you for no reason,” he bit out.

  She pulled back. “I cannot imagine what you—”

  “Can’t you?” he all but growled, tightening his grip.

  “I—I—” She licked her lips, fear suddenly snaking through her. What had happened to him? Had he always been hiding this darkness in him? “I think I must return to my mother, Lord Haven.”

  He shook his head. “You’re going to marry me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she gasped, astonished at the declaration.

  “I have courted you, quoted ridiculous drivel, indulged your every interest.”

  She tried to draw back again, alarmed by his sudden turn. She glanced back to the door, wishing she could bolt, but his hold made it impossible.

  “I think you are unwell,” she stated firmly.

  “I am and you are the cure.” With that, he grabbed her and pulled her forward.

  “Cease!” she demanded, barely able to understand what was happening. The room blurred, time slowed, and her throat closed in panic.

  She cried out as his hands slid into her hair, gripping her head.

  She slammed her foot down atop his, her heel making solid contact with his boot.

  He winced but did not let go his hold.

  He slammed his mouth down atop hers. Hot, hard, and unrelenting, he kissed her.

  Pushing back at him, she tried to wrench away, but he would not let go.

  Her mind blanked with terror, shock, and rage.

  And in her shock, he whipped her around and pushed her down onto the chaise lounge.

  She laid there for a moment, astonished, unable to fathom it. But then she understood. This wa
s his proposal of marriage. A proposal which she could not refuse and her entire body screamed with fear and horror.

  Just as he pressed his body over hers and she bucked against him, a voice cried from the door, “Shocking!”

  Lord Haven whipped around, the terrifying anger on his face abruptly disappearing as quickly as it had come. He straightened his clothing.

  Eglantine shoved herself up from where she’d been thrown and took in the state of her disheveled gown, and knew her hair to be wild. Her mouth would undoubtedly be red from the force of his kiss.

  “Lady Barrow!” Eglantine cried as her fate crashed down upon her. “You do not understand.”

  The older woman looked down her thin nose and sneered, “I understand perfectly well. You are a disgrace to your father, but given your mother’s scandalous opinions, I am not surprised.”

  And with that, Lady Barrow pivoted and all but stormed down the hall.

  Eglantine sat, panic and dread dancing within her. Her life was about to be ruined. Completely ruined. Lady Barrow would not keep a secret like this. She would spread it like wildfire.

  Within minutes the entire ball would know of this.

  Her mother.

  And by morning, George.

  She’d never wanted such a scandal. She had not courted it. No matter what Haven tried to make her believe. The only kiss she’d ever wanted was George’s.

  She snapped her gaze to Haven and demanded, “What have you done?”

  He shrugged, smoothing his cravat. “I did what I must.”

  She gaped at him.

  “Don’t worry, Eglantine,” he said coldly. “We’re going to be married. In a matter of days, I expect. After all, they’ll all be waiting for you to show signs of our affair given your behavior.”

  Show? The word hung over her then fell like a blade. My God, was that what people would think? She thought of the cruel minds of the people in the ballroom. Yes, they’d easily think it.

  “Do you hate me?” she hissed.