The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  Oliver groaned. The only thing keeping him from doing exactly that—rescuing his best friend’s pregnant bride by whisking her to the closest altar—was that he couldn’t be assured of a roof over his own head in two months’ time, much less be able to provide for a grieving widow and a newborn child. He released Miss Fairfax’s hands.

  He wasn’t like Ravenwood, who believed marriage was only for couples in love. Balderdash. Oliver had never experienced love of any sort. He well understood that life demanded one be more pragmatic than idealistic. So did Miss Fairfax, or she wouldn’t have made her jest-that-wasn’t-wholly-a-jest. She’d known Oliver her whole life. Rushing in to save her was exactly the sort of thing he was prone to do. This time, however, his hands were tied.

  Wait a minute. His foot began to bounce in excitement. Ravenwood was the answer!

  That stick-in-the-mud was flush with blunt. He probably stuffed his mattresses with pound notes. Ravenwood might not give Oliver the time of day, but he could be trusted to keep a secret. With a small loan, Miss Fairfax could take an unplanned holiday in the countryside. Sarah was too proud to accept charity, but once Ravenwood agreed to help, Oliver would do his damnedest to convince her. If she gave the baby away somewhere far in the north, London would never be the wiser.

  His blood rang with excitement. Perfect! If he could convince her to take the money—and Ravenwood to offer it—Sarah could have her old life back by this time next year. Oliver tilted his head toward her, but something stilled his tongue.

  She had stopped crying. Her eyes and cheeks were still red and every part of her body swollen, but her breaths quieted as her fingers curved over her round stomach.

  It…twitched?

  She glanced up at him with a little disbelieving laugh. “Hiccoughs, Oliver! The little scamp is bouncing about my belly with hiccoughs.”

  Oliver’s answering smile was more automatic than genuine. Once again, he was too late to save her. Miss Fairfax would never give away Edmund’s baby. She would never have her old life back.

  None of them would.

  Chapter 6

  The morning after Grace had danced with the Duke of Ravenwood and the Earl of Carlisle—whose offhand confession that he’d preferred being plain Mr. Oliver York had sounded surprisingly sincere—flowers began to fill the parlor. But the only bouquet she’d clutched to her thumping heart was also the simplest, and the only blooms to arrive without an accompanying note. She didn’t need a signature to know whom they were from.

  Jasmine. Same as her bath soap. She buried her face in the blossoms and smiled.

  Lord Carlisle was off her list of potential husbands, of course. Wrong for her at every turn. Titled. Ex-soldier. She wouldn’t be able to trick him into letting her go, nor manipulate him into thinking it was a good idea. He was too smart for that. Too strong. Too sure of himself. She smiled despite herself. He had every reason to be arrogant. He was handsome. Clever. King Triton, surrounded by a sea of guppies.

  Worse, she liked him. He looked into her eyes and saw more than she wanted him to see. She might not want to let a man like that go, and she definitely wouldn’t wish to hurt him.

  No, her plans had not changed. If anything, her resolve had doubled. She needed a malleable, forgettable, not-too-bright suitor, who wouldn’t mind waking up without his bride. From the dozens of vases peppering the parlor, she’d even managed to pluck a number of possibilities.

  The next step was seeing how quickly she could bring one of her maybes up to scratch. One week? Two?

  She hated being this desperate. If her grandparents had half a heart, they would send for their sick daughter themselves, rather than waste precious time forcing Grace to dangle from their strings. All they ever said was, if your mother wants our forgiveness, she can come beg for it herself. How? Mama was so sick she couldn’t make a pot of coffee, much less sail across the ocean! But Grace’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

  Not for the first time, she fervently wished her father were still alive. For her mother’s sake, and for her own. Grace had just started to toddle when he’d been violently stolen from them. She’d been so young that she couldn’t recall his face, his smell, his laugh. It wasn’t fair. Nothing in life was fair. All she could do was get married, get the money, and take the first boat home. Back to a place where nobody laughed at her manners or her accent. Back to her friends, her life, and her mother.

  At the next soirée, Grace spent the first half hour conspicuously sipping a glass of punch in strategic locations throughout the gathering, giving her targets plenty of opportunity to solicit a spot on her dance card. Not that she planned to do much dancing. She didn’t have time to fritter away on actual fun.

  There was no way to know which suitor was the most viable without conversing with each of them. She intended to spend each set taking turns about the frigid garden until she froze solid.

  Taking strolls about the ballroom would be warmer, but much less private. Chaperonage was fine—welcome, actually—but she didn’t need the gossips overhearing her nosy questions about the state of each gentleman’s pocketbook, or how quickly they could envision themselves at the altar, or if the wife could be presumed to give him the freedom of his own pursuits thereafter.

  After an hour and a half of wracking shivers and chattering teeth, Grace could no longer feel her toes. Or her fingers. Or her nose. She was forced to spend the fourth set indoors. It was a country-dance, which would waste an interview opportunity but at least let her stamp a bit of sensation back into her frozen feet. She rubbed her arms and took her place next to Mr. Isaac Downing, who she hoped might become a suitor.

  Another wallflower, a bluestocking named Jane Downing, had invited Grace to tea the day before. Upon hearing they would both be attending the same soirée, Miss Downing’s elder brother had politely asked if she might save him a dance. This was Grace’s chance to see if his interest was more than merely polite, without probing so hard that she alienated her sole potential friend in the entire country.

  Due to the interchanging nature of the swirling pairs upon the dance floor, she would only be able to speak to him in hasty snatches before the steps required him to briefly partner the female of the pair opposite them, as she would be partnered by the male.

  Which was distracting enough without the corresponding man being the Earl of Carlisle.

  He forbore the pleasantries. “Dance card full, I see.”

  “So it is.” She kept her practiced smile in place despite the thumping of her heart. If he smelled the scent of her jasmine soap upon her skin, would he know she had thought of nothing but him during her bath?

  His eyes darkened as he scowled at the list of signatures dangling from her wrist. “My name isn’t on your card.”

  “Very astute.” Her breath quickened as his hand tightened around her waist. He couldn’t possibly be jealous. If he had any idea how much she wished his name were the only one on her dance card…

  “Tell me, Miss Halton. Have you seen Ravenwood?”

  “What?” Grace’s feet stumbled in her confusion. She’d thought Lord Carlisle consumed with envy, when who he’d truly wished to see was the Duke of Ravenwood?

  Lord Carlisle lifted her wrist for a better view of her dance card. “Is the rotter on your list or not?”

  “No, I…” She meant to pull her wrist away, truly she did. But the heat in Lord Carlisle’s eyes when he learned she would not be in Lord Ravenwood’s arms held her captive. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “If he crosses your path, tell him I’m looking for him.”

  “Why do—”

  But the pairs were already switching in time with the music, and now she was back to her original partner. Mr. Downing had seemed handsome enough when they’d first crossed paths, but dancing with him after having been in Lord Carlisle’s arms was like comparing a vivid oil painting to an insipid watercolor.

  Not that it mattered. Grace was hunting marriage, not passion. And so far, this was her best lead.

 
Mr. Downing’s gaze met hers only briefly. “Lovely weather, wouldn’t you say?”

  The unblinking heat in Lord Carlisle’s eyes had made Grace forget the rest of the world altogether, but now that she was free of those strong arms, the chill of January once again sank into her bones. “I find it cold, actually. Aren’t my fingers icy?”

  “Cold, but not drizzly,” Mr. Downing continued after a brief pause. His forehead had lined disapprovingly at the mention of her fingers, but quickly smoothed back into proper blandness. “The sun is always a blessing.”

  “There is no sun,” Grace couldn’t stop herself from pointing out. “It’s after midnight.”

  “The moon and stars are also blessings, although nighttime can carry a chill.” His voice turned contemplative. “I never go anywhere without a thick scarf.”

  She stared at Mr. Downing in disbelief. Conversations about the weather were as dull as she’d imagined, and Mr. Downing even duller than she’d feared. Well, it didn’t signify. All she needed to know was if Mr. Downing might join her at the altar.

  “Have you—”

  But she was already spinning back to Lord Carlisle.

  “Your fingers are still cold,” he said without preamble. “I don’t like it.”

  Her throat made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “I suppose you would know how to warm them?”

  His smile was slow and sinful, and his gaze never left hers. “I am a man of many talents.”

  The wicked promise in his eyes sent a flutter of heat straight to her belly. She should not encourage him. A flirtation could lead nowhere. Worse, any hint of scandal could ruin any hope of finding a malleable husband. “The weather—”

  “—is boring. Did you like my flowers?”

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “To be expected.”

  She dipped her head, then forced herself to look up at him. “I loved them.”

  This time she had the pleasure of leaving him the one without a reply as the country-dance spun her back to Mr. Downing. It took her a moment to recall her list of questions to mind. She reaffixed her placid smile.

  “Do you come from a large family, Mr. Downing?”

  “No. It’s just Jane and me.”

  Excellent. A dearth of relatives would help to keep his expenses low, and a sister meant he did not lack for companionship. “You both enjoy the Season?”

  “Jane and I are not enthusiasts of drink or dance, but we try to leave our libraries now and again.”

  Not being one for drink put Mr. Downing head and shoulders above the others. Grace had hated alcohol ever since her father’s death, but the ton’s blood seemed to run on port and brandy. Had she any plans to stay beyond the wedding, not dancing with her husband would’ve been a disappointment. As it stood, Mr. Downing was a wonderful candidate.

  But the music returned her to Lord Carlisle. He pinned her with his gaze.

  “Your smiles don’t reach your eyes tonight. Is something amiss?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Besides my lack of social graces?”

  She frowned up at him. He should not be able to read her this well. She could scarcely admit her intention to marry and flee home, so she gave him part of the truth. “I’ll be going back to America before too long. I was just thinking about the voyage home. Three weeks in a tiny shared cabin on a passenger ship.”

  He pulled a face. “I don’t mind cramped spaces, but sailing to and from the Continent very nearly killed me. I’ll never again cross so much as a river in anything less than a sturdy carriage on a nice solid bridge.”

  “Seasickness?” she asked with sympathy.

  His shudder did not appear feigned. “There’s seasickness, and there’s seasickness. If I were Catholic, they would have administered the last rites. I was less afraid of enemy fire than of undertaking the return trip to England.” His eyes were warm but serious. He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You made it here. You can make it home.”

  Grace thought back to those long weeks at sea. Her shoulders relaxed. He was right. She had been ill, but not deathly so. Once she had her dowry money in hand, she would have no problem getting back to her mother. Things were going to work out.

  “Thank you.” She smiled up at him. “Talking to you has made me feel much better.”

  He affected a haughty accent. “A gentleman cannot accept thanks for simply being a gentleman.”

  “You?” she teased. “A gentleman?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “I certainly do not have to be. If the lady prefers, I will happily accept gratitude in the form of kissing me senseless.”

  She would’ve kicked him senseless if they weren’t in the middle of the dance floor. Or perhaps kissed him. If he kept inciting her to violent passions, she could not be held accountable for her reactions. Especially when he always seemed to know just what to say. Her eyes focused on his mouth. He was a gentleman. If their situations had been different, she would have liked very much to have those sensual lips press against hers…

  Then Mr. Downing reached for her and Lord Carlisle was gone.

  Mr. Downing’s eyes gazed somewhere over her shoulder. “The cucumber cakes were lovely tonight, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She shuddered. Cucumber and cake didn’t belong in the same sentence. “I’m afraid I didn’t have opportunity to try them.”

  “The ham was quite gorgeous, as well. Very thinly sliced. Almost transparent.”

  “Positively ghostly,” she murmured.

  “The punch was a bit warm for my taste, however.” His lips pursed. “Though I suppose it always is.”

  Fascinating as this line of talk was, Grace needed to steer them back to the primary interview. At this point, she’d take the first viable suitor she could get. She leaned closer to Mr. Downing. “Do you think your life would be greatly changed if you were to marry?”

  He looked surprised. “Change how? I wouldn’t marry a woman who sought to disrupt my solitude or my schedule.”

  Grace nodded once, more because she found his answer satisfactory than because she agreed with him. But before she could ask another probing question, he twirled her back into Lord Carlisle’s arms.

  “I’m not supposed to be in your arms,” she hissed up at him. “This is a country-dance, not a waltz.”

  He drew her closer. “And yet I notice you do not pull away.”

  “Humph.” He had her there. “Why are you looking for Ravenwood?”

  “Why have you spent the evening in the company of so many imbeciles? Every time I turn around, it’s a prance in the garden here, a country-dance there.”

  “I’m trying to determine if they are imbeciles.” She raised her chin. Yet something made her want to confide in him. “If you must know, I’m screening potential suitors.”

  “Oh? You didn’t invite me to the garden. Or give me a chance to ask you to dance.” The ferocity of his scowl melted her knees.

  “You’ve made it clear you’re not looking to wed.” She arched her brows. “Besides, I already know we won’t suit. Do you disagree?”

  He held her gaze.

  She held her breath.

  And then Mr. Downing swung her back to his side.

  “It certainly feels like January,” he said, his voice as placid as his expression. “Are you looking forward to the Season?”

  ’Twas the first personal question he’d asked her. Perhaps that was why she answered so honestly. “No.”

  He tilted his head. “I never do, either. I promise, I have tried.”

  She bit her lower lip. Might he also be sizing her up as a potential wife? “What other hobbies do you enjoy?”

  “Reading, mostly. I don’t garden because plants make me sneeze.” He frowned. “Are you a lover of flowers, Miss Halton?”

  He was sizing her up as a future Mrs. Downing!

  “No,” she lied quickly. “Books are far more favorable. They don’t…wilt.”

  Mr. Downing beamed at her happily. “What authors are you currently reading?”r />
  Her eyes widened, but the music saved her from having to invent names. In the space of a heartbeat, her hand was back in Lord Carlisle’s.

  “Yes,” he said abruptly.

  She stared at him. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I disagree with your assessment.” By the set of his jaw, he was displeased he’d even mentioned it. But now that he had, he wouldn’t back down. “We would obviously suit.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Yes! No. That is—

  “But I can’t marry you.” He glanced away, and put a more respectable distance between them. “I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t marry you either,” she said much too loudly. Informing herself as much as him. His rejection stung. Who cared what his reasons were? She had reasons of her own. There was nothing to feel disappointed about. No reason at all for the empty feeling in her stomach or the urge to burrow back into his arms.

  His next words were so soft she almost missed them.

  “But I would’ve enjoyed it.”

  He flung her back to Mr. Downing before she could do something foolish like shred her entire dance card in order to spend the rest of the evening with Lord Carlisle. January or not, she had no doubt he would ensure every part of her body stayed warm as they strolled the garden. More importantly, he seemed to connect with her on a level far deeper than the physical. He cared.

  The country set ended without giving her another opportunity to return to Lord Carlisle’s arms. She might have rushed to his side, had Mr. Downing not saved her from herself. Ever proper, he did not abandon her until Mr. Leviston, the next suitor on her card, came to take her arm.

  As they headed out to the garden, Grace meant to run through every question on her potential suitor list—truly, she did—but found herself asking about the Earl of Carlisle instead.

  Mr. Leviston’s brow creased. “Carlisle? Stay away from that one. He needs more blunt than an empire of textile factories could provide. Hear he’s on the lookout for an heiress.”

  Lord Carlisle had lied to her? She hugged herself. “How do you know?”