How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He didn’t seem to be slipping out for a rendezvous. A glance at the dance floor showed that Susan had been claimed by a new partner. He might be meeting someone else, of course, but Edie didn’t think it likely since he’d only taken one glass with him. This was her chance if she had the nerve to take it. It might be the only chance she had left.

  With that thought, she moved to the end of the refreshment table where he’d been standing, took up a champagne flute of her own, and after a quick glance around to be sure Lady Featherstone was nowhere in sight and no one else was watching her, she slipped outside to follow the duke. He was no longer on the terrace, but as her gaze swept over the moonlit gardens, she saw him striding away across the sweeping expanse of lawn. He seemed to be making for the tall boxwood hedges that formed a maze at the back of the grounds.

  Moving as quickly as she dared, she followed, but by the time she reached the maze, he had already slipped into its labyrinthine depths.

  She plunged in after him, but only a few minutes later, she found herself at a dead end, with Margrave nowhere in sight. She rose on her toes, elevating herself as much as she could in her flat slippers, but even as tall as she was, the hedge was too high for her to see over, and she sank back down with an exasperated sigh.

  She assumed he was headed for the center of the maze, but though she made several more attempts to follow, all of them proved useless, and she soon found herself hopelessly lost. Equally bad, she’d lost him. “Now what?” she muttered, staring into the dark green wall of yet another dead end.

  “Looking for me?” a deep, lazy voice inquired behind her.

  With a rush of relief, Edie whirled around to find her quarry less than ten feet away. But when she looked into those extraordinary gray eyes of his, her relief dissolved into something more like dread because her question to herself still remained unanswered. Now what?

  Chapter 3

  “I USUALLY DON’T care much for being followed, but in this case, I’m willing to make an exception.” Margrave smiled at her, a flash of white, even teeth in the moonlight, and it struck Edie with sudden force that she’d just done something incredibly stupid.

  Driven only by the single idea in her head, she hadn’t realized until this moment that she was putting herself in a situation where history might repeat itself. Still, it was rather late in the day to be thinking about either danger or regret. What she needed to think of was what to do next. “What makes you think I was following you?” she asked to gain time and marshal her nerve.

  “Wishful thinking?”

  “Or conceit.”

  He laughed, and as he did, Edie realized the society gossip Leonie had heard was right. The man had charm. Even she, as immune to charm as she was to good looks, could feel the potency of both in this man.

  “It could be that, I suppose,” he conceded. “I do think rather well of myself. But now that you’ve put me in my place, may I offer a word of advice? If you do ever want to follow a man in future, I suggest you make less noise while you’re about it, or he’ll notice you’re there.”

  Boldness, she decided, was her best bet at this point, and she took a step closer to him. “What makes you think I didn’t want you to notice?”

  His dark brows rose a notch. “And here I was, thinking this ball such a dull affair,” he murmured. “So you admit you were following me?”

  “Yes. I saw you, I heard a bit about you, and I decided I wanted to talk to you.”

  He began walking toward her. “Given this shameless conduct on your part, dare I hope something delightfully naughty is in the wind?”

  Edie tensed, forcing down a jolt of panic, hoping this time she wasn’t utterly wrong in her judgment of men. “I said I wanted to talk,” she reminded.

  “And that’s all? How disappointing.”

  “That depends on the conversation.”

  He chuckled. “Fair enough,” he acknowledged as he halted in front of her. “Talk it is, then, but the conversation had best be scintillating indeed, or I shall feel thoroughly let down.”

  He shifted his glass to the same hand that held the bottle of champagne, then he turned, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

  She hesitated, but a glance around reminded her that there was no escape except past him, and she doubted she could find her way out of this maze without him anyway. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. Putting her hand—­lightly—­on his arm, she allowed him to guide her out of her dead-­end corridor and down a different path.

  They took several more twists and turns before emerging at last into a clearing that appeared to be the center of the maze, where a gazebo of sorts had been erected. Roman in style, its limestone pillars were capped by a dome that glowed white in the moonlight, and steps all around the circular structure led up to a pair of curved stone benches.

  “There, now,” he said as he led her up the steps. “Here, we can converse in complete privacy. No one ever manages to find the center of this thing.”

  “You did.”

  “Earning your heartfelt admiration, I hope? But in this case, it would be undeserved. I stayed here at Hanford House many times as a boy, so I found the center of this maze long ago. Still, I am rather good at navigation, if I do say it myself.”

  “Yes, I heard about some of your exploits in Africa. ­People say you want to go back and live there.”

  “More than anything in the world.” He set down his glass and began to open the champagne. “But it may not be possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say I have responsibilities at home.”

  “You mean debts?”

  “All these questions.” The cork popped, and he let it fall from his hand. “I’m beginning to fear that’s why you followed me. Are you a journalist thinking to interview me about my exploits? Like that woman—­what was her name? Nellie Bly?”

  “I’m no journalist.”

  “Hmm, so you say. But can I believe you?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.” She held out her glass and nodded to the bottle, feeling in desperate need of a drink. “Pour.”

  “Bossy as well as bold. What an intoxicating combination. If you are a journalist,” he added as he began filling her glass, “I must warn you that I shall expect a great deal of seductive persuasion on your part before I give away any of my scandalous secrets.”

  She didn’t tell him her means of persuasion wasn’t the sort he had in mind. “Rumor has it you are desperately in need of money,” she said instead.

  “Oh, rumor,” he countered, his voice light. “Anyone with sense knows that’s not rumor but fact. Still,” he added as he poured champagne for himself, “I never discuss crude subjects like money while drinking good champagne. It’s wrong, somehow.”

  She took a swallow from her glass. “Discussing money might be necessary.”

  “Why?” he asked casually as he set aside the bottle. “Are you proposing to become my mistress?”

  Edie’s heart gave a hard, panicked thump in her chest at the question, and she gave a nervous laugh. “More the other way around, actually.”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to bite her tongue off.

  Even a man as worldly as this one couldn’t take that sort of statement in stride. He blinked, giving her a dubious look as if fearing he might have misunderstood her meaning, and when he spoke, his voice still had a flippancy that told her he wasn’t taking what she said seriously. “My hopes are rising with every moment we spend together,” he murmured. “I’ve never been a gigolo before. What does it pay?”

  She didn’t know what a gigolo was, but she knew what he meant, and though paying him to be her lover wasn’t at all what she had in mind, she didn’t say so. “They’ve called your loans, I hear,” she said instead, refusing to be diverted from the important topic. “If you can’t raise the funds to
pay your debts, what happens to your estates?”

  “It’ll be ghastly, I expect,” he said, his voice filled with cheer, but in his dark, charming, reckless face, she could see a hint of desperation. “Everything that’s not entailed will go on the auction block. I’ve heaps of relations, and they will wail and moan when the money dries up. They’ve no way of fending for themselves, you see, and I am their sole source of income. I’m only telling you this because the . . . ahem . . . fees for my ser­vices shall be quite steep. I’m not sure you can afford me.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can afford. But—­” Edie paused, took a deep breath, and rolled the dice. “But I don’t need a lover. I need a husband.”

  “Ah.” He took a sip of champagne. “I was rather hoping for the other, for it would be quite a lark. I can’t say I find the idea of being a husband nearly as exciting.”

  “If you marry me,” she persevered, “I’ll pay all your debts.”

  He tilted his head, studying her. “You really are an extraordinary girl. Do you make a habit of proposing marriage to random strangers?”

  She flushed. “Of course not! I’ve never done this sort of thing in my life.”

  “Well, I’ve never been the recipient of such a proposal, so we’re even there. Tell me, are all Americans as straightforward about these things as you?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that I haven’t got time to pussyfoot around.”

  “Why?” His lashes lowered, and Edie’s throat went dry as he cast a long, considering glance over her body. “Are you pregnant?”

  She blushed hotly at the question, but she knew this was no time for girlish gaucheness. And given the circumstances, his question was a fair one. “No,” she answered, shoving aside her embarrassment. “I’m not pregnant.”

  “Then I can’t help but question your sanity for wanting to get married.”

  “Will you please stop making jokes?”

  “You can’t really blame me, can you? This isn’t the sort of thing a chap expects when he attends a ball. Not that I’m complaining,” he added, “for my evening has certainly become more interesting since you arrived on the scene. But it’s leaving me a bit at sixes and sevens all the same.”

  He fell silent, considering, then he said, “Assuming for the moment that you mean what you say, can you deliver the goods?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “How rich are you? Because you’d have to be enormously, obscenely rich to solve my problems, darling. Granted, you’re an American—­I can discern that by your accent. And it seems all Americans are rich nowadays, doesn’t it? I can also see that you’re wearing a smashing silk gown that probably cost more quid than I spend in a month, and you’re draped in enough jewels to sink a ship. But still, I can’t imagine even you have the blunt to pay off the debts of my reprobate ancestors, take care of my dukedom, and support me and all my endlessly sponging relations for the rest of our lives.”

  “That depends on how much money we’re talking about,” she answered, watching his face as he lifted his glass to his lips. “At the current rate of exchange, my dowry amounts to about one million pounds.”

  He choked. “Good God,” he muttered after a moment, staring at her in disbelief. “I’m not sure even the Queen has that much money.”

  “I will also receive an income of a hundred thousand pounds a year once I marry. I trust all that’s enough to solve your family’s financial difficulties?”

  “Rather.” He laughed a little, clearly confounded. “But my dear girl, you’re mad. You must be to propose such a thing to a complete stranger. Marriage is a permanent thing—­until death do us part, you know. If you had regrets later—­”

  “I won’t have regrets.” She could hear the hard resolve in her own voice. “As long as you mean what you say, and you really do go to Africa.”

  A hint of surprise showed in his face, surprise that told her he wasn’t accustomed to a woman’s disinterest. But it was gone almost at once, and he grinned at her. “By God, you don’t spare a man’s feelings, do you? What about my estates?”

  “I’ll manage them for you.”

  Thankfully, he didn’t spout any horrid masculine doubts about a woman’s ability to do so. “Why on earth would you want to take on such a thankless job? And make such a foolish investment? There’s no money in land nowadays. You’d be sinking your entire fortune and future into what I assure you is a bottomless pit. You’re willing to do that?”

  Willing? She’d crawl to the devil and offer up her soul for it if it meant she didn’t have to go back to New York. As long as the devil in question was willing to make the deal on her terms. She lifted her glass, and, over the rim, she met his incredulous gaze with a resolute one of her own. “I would, yes.”

  “Why?”

  She sipped her champagne. “That is none of your business. I’m offering you an enormous amount of money. Be content with that.”

  “Money’s all very well, but . . .” He paused, and she tensed as he looked her over. It was a thorough, thoughtful assessment, and she was afraid he was about to press further into her motives, but his next question belied that fear. “Have you got brains?” he asked. “Could you run things here in an efficient manner? I have five country estates to maintain, as well as a hunting lodge in Scotland and a house in London, and all of them need endless repairs and maintenance. Can you work with stewards and land agents? Can you order workmen about and supervise servants and see to the farms? Can you take charge and manage everything in my stead as well as I would do it myself?”

  “Absolutely.” She said it with complete assurance, which was such a crock, for she’d never been in charge of anything in her entire life. But she wanted to be. She wanted it so much, just thinking about it made her feel dizzy. Being a duchess meant a certain degree of freedom. It meant security. If the duke was absent, it could even mean paradise. “I can do anything that needs doing.”

  “You know,” he murmured, still studying her, “I do believe you can.”

  “If you marry me, I will use my dowry to pay off your debts and those of your family. With whatever remains, along with my annual income, I will repair and maintain your estates and take care of your sponging relatives, as you call them. I will also provide you with a generous income. You can go off to Africa with no worries and a clear conscience and live the life you truly want to live. I have only one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you never, ever come back.”

  The fierceness of her voice caused him to raise an eyebrow. “Never is a long time.”

  “I don’t want a husband in any sense but the legal one.”

  “Well, if I’m to be your husband in the legal sense, the marriage ought to be consummated. I presume you know what that means?”

  She knew. Edie opened her mouth to reply, but even as she tried to speak, her throat closed up, and she couldn’t form the words to answer him. Damn, this was no time for her nerves to go to pieces. She took a gulp of champagne, and the bubbles in the wine seemed to burn the back of her throat as she swallowed.

  “I know what it means,” she said at last, forcing the words out, her voice like the rasp of a saw in the quiet hush of evening. “But I don’t see why it’s necessary.”

  He studied her face in the moonlight for a moment without speaking. “If bedding me is as repugnant a notion to you as your countenance would suggest,” he said at last, “I shall bow out now, for though I don’t mind being a faithful husband, I’ve no desire to be a celibate one. Good evening.”

  He started past her to return to the ball, and Edie turned, clutching at his sleeve. “No, wait.”

  Margrave paused, and Edie forced herself to relax her grip. “It’s not repugnance,” she said, letting her hand fall. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s just . . .” She stared into his face, helpless to expl
ain. He had a countenance that would make any girl’s heart race—­any girl, that is, who wasn’t broken inside.

  Pain pinched her chest, and for one fleeting moment, she wondered what her world might be like now if it had been this man she’d met in that abandoned summerhouse at Saratoga, instead of Frederick Van Hausen.

  And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  Edie shoved aside pointless speculations of what might have been. “This is a business deal,” she told him. “I don’t want you getting any romantic notions about it or about me.”

  He seemed amused. “The conceit of the girl! What if our night together is so transcendent that you fall madly in love with me? What then?”

  “Sorry to prick your vanity, but that won’t happen. Look,” she went on before he could answer, “I’m offering you everything you want from life. Don’t allow your masculine pride to stand in your way. If consummating the marriage is truly necessary, I’ll . . . I’ll do it.”

  “You needn’t act as if it’s equivalent to torture, my dear. Most ­people consider lovemaking to be quite delightful.”­

  “I don’t expect torture. Nor delight. I don’t . . .” She paused, battling back the fear that clogged her throat and twisted her stomach into knots. “I don’t expect anything.”

  “I see. I’m a means to an end for you, and nothing more.”

  It sounded so terribly cold, put like that, and yet, she was cold. The desires that other women felt had been killed in her a year ago. “If we marry, I will . . .” She paused for another swallow of nerve-­bolstering champagne. “I will sleep with you once to make it legal, but never again after that. Once we have satisfied the legal definition of matrimony, you are free to bed anyone else you wish. I shan’t mind.”