The Truth About Princesses and Dukes (The Duke Hunters Club)

by Blythe, Bianca

  She shrugged and languidly sat in the chair opposite him. “Oh, I was naive then.”

  Her father’s lips twitched. “And you’ve outgrown your naïveté?”

  She firmed her expression and met his eyes. “Yes.”

  He sighed. “I don’t see what you see in him.”

  “I see a wise, kind, funny man. If you’ve heard any rumors to the contrary, they’re false. You should know the danger of gossip.”

  A sheepish smile appeared on her father’s face. No doubt he was thinking about Mama. Though Mama had passed away a few years ago, she’d often told of the frigid reaction she’d received in Sweden. Most princes didn’t marry South Asian brides.

  Her father exhaled. “And you don’t mind his obvious age and portly figure?”

  She glared and placed her hands on her waist. “Of course not. I’m shocked you would question it.”

  Her father’s cheeks rosied. “Forgive me, sweetheart.”

  “Very well,” she said, but she kept her voice stern. No one could insult darling Dudley.

  Father raked his hand through his hair. “And you truly desire to stay in England? I could arrange another marriage for you. There are any number of men in Sweden who would be honored to marry you.”

  “I’m certain,” Aria said dryly, thinking of the proposals she’d already received. “How very self-sacrificing of them.”

  “They’re not all terrible.”

  “They all see me as a princess who would elevate their status in society. And I’d rather not marry a man who prioritized that.”

  “You think Framingham doesn’t care about your position?”

  She glanced at the letters. The duke and she had discussed everything together. They’d had a meeting of the minds, a meeting of the spirits.

  She smiled. “No. He knows me. And he loves me.”

  “And you’ll stay in England?” Father’s voice trembled.

  Aria’s heart eased. She understand: he was being argumentative because he would miss her. She would miss him as well.

  She stretched out her hand and took his. “It’s a country you love, and darling Dudley is the man I love.”

  “I do love England,” her father admitted.

  She nodded. She knew that. Father had gone to school at Cambridge.

  “And I want you to be happy,” father said.

  “You married Mama for love.”

  He gave her a wry smile, and for the first time, she wondered if that was entirely the case. Perhaps Father had married Mama simply because she was a princess.

  “Yes, yes,” her father said, but it occurred to her that his statement might have been motivated by gentlemanly instinct and familial loyalty.

  Suddenly, Aria felt gloomy. She didn’t want to tell Dudley that she couldn’t marry him. She drew her arms together. “Please, Father? He’s asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted.”

  Her father frowned. “I thought it was customary for British men to ask a woman’s father first.”

  “Well.” She shifted her legs. “Perhaps he was eager.”

  “Perhaps he knew you would beg me.” He smiled. “If you want to marry him, you can.”

  Happiness flitted through her. “Thank you, Father.”

  “The wedding will have to be soon,” her father said. “I intend to be there, and my ship leaves in two weeks.”

  She pressed her letters to her chest. “I am certain he will be amenable to that idea.”

  “I suppose Demon will want to travel home to Sweden, too. We can hire you another bodyguard.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I will be living in a castle in the middle of the Staffordshire countryside.”

  “I suppose castles are rather well fortified,” Father admitted.

  “Indeed.”

  Her father shook his head. “Framingham. I never would have guessed it.”

  “I thought he was brash when I first met him,” Aria admitted. “But he was hiding a kind heart. I suspect he was simply anxious.”

  Her father smiled. “Well, he wouldn’t be the first man to be anxious around you. You’re very beautiful, my dear.” He grinned. “And rich. You could have anyone.”

  “Such matters don’t concern me.” She smiled, and joy surged through her heart. “I love him.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rupert sat across from his cousin at the fourteen-foot mahogany dining room table in Laventhorpe Castle. Even though leafs from the table could be removed, his cousin preferred the table at its most magnificent, even if its size was unnecessary and was inconducive to conversation. Candles illuminated the dark green wallpaper, and a footman in old-fashioned livery stood watching them, as if eager for a chance to refill their plates to have some movement.

  Lately Rupert had visited his cousin every day for lunch, a fact that let his cousin expound upon his own many gifts and talents.

  “So you see, my role in fighting Bonaparte was vital.” Dudley stabbed another piece of rabbit with his fork.

  Rupert gave a polite smile. He’d heard this story before. He also knew that Dudley’s contribution to the war effort had been some conversations with some high-level officers in a London club. He suspected Dudley’s musings over the need to destroy Bonaparte had not in itself ensured Britain’s independence.

  From time to time, Rupert gazed out the picture window, surveying the idyllic view. A fountain gurgled in the center of the perfectly groomed garden, spewing water merrily. His heart warmed.

  Footsteps interrupted his musings on the past, and Barnes appeared, carrying a silver platter. A single letter with a familiar glossy red seal caused Rupert’s heart to quicken.

  Barnes set the platter on the table with a regal flourish. “A new letter from Princess Aria.”

  “Ah!” The duke rubbed his hands gleefully. “Let’s see if she accepted my proposal.”

  Rupert drew back. Normally, every letter was a joy to read, the height of his day, but now he glanced at it with trepidation.

  “After all that letter writing you did, Andrews, she better have accepted.” The duke shook his head, but he didn’t seem angry. Generally, Rupert knew when the duke was angry. It was a state everyone avoided. The duke plopped down on a seat. “I’m going to have to order new ink!”

  “And plumes,” Barnes said.

  “Indeed?” The duke’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at his butler for confirmation.

  “Indeed,” Barnes said solemnly, and the duke shook his head in evident disbelief.

  Rupert’s smile wobbled. Lately, he’d wondered just how devoted to the princess the duke actually was. Shouldn’t he be scrambling to open the princess’s letter? Shouldn’t he be speaking about something other than writing equipment supplies?

  Barnes scrutinized the envelope. “Shall I open it, Your Grace?”

  “Yes! Yes!” The duke hopped up and down.

  Rupert sighed. The duke was devoted to her. It was foolish to imagine otherwise.

  He wrapped his arms around his chest. His heart had suddenly increased its beating. It shouldn’t matter what she wrote. She’d met the duke before, and they’d evidently developed a closeness.

  “Faster, man!” the duke shouted at his butler.

  Rupert shot Barnes an apologetic look, but Barnes remained unfazed, accustomed to the duke’s erratic behavior.

  Barnes removed the seal of the letter and unfolded it. Rupert found himself leaning forward, and his heart quickened.

  My dearest Dudley,

  Barnes shot Rupert a disapproving look. “I doubt it was appropriate for you to encourage the princess to refer to the duke by his Christian name.”

  The duke frowned immediately. “No. You shouldn’t have done that. She’s a woman and a foreigner. It may be more difficult for her to understand concepts of respect.”

  “Perhaps you should continue the letter, Barnes,” Rupert said, not wishing to argue.

  Barnes gazed at the paper.

  I am happy to accept your proposal.


  Barnes glanced up, conscious of the importance of the line.

  “Yes!” The duke shouted and sprang from his seat.

  Rupert’s heart plummeted. His chest ached, as if straining to hold his heart within, and a sour taste invaded his throat.

  He knew Princess Aria was already in love with the duke. He was simply the letter writer.

  And yet...

  He swallowed hard. Now Princess Aria would come here and marry the duke. She’d be Dudley’s duchess, and Rupert would have to pretend he hadn’t written those letters, hadn’t cared for her. He would have to see her together with his cousin.

  The duke darted a glance at Rupert with the expertise of a military officer scouring his soldiers’ attire for imperfections. “You’re looking pale there. One would almost think you’re not pleased.”

  Barnes jerked his head in Rupert’s direction and lowered his thick eyebrows.

  Rupert forced himself to smile, even though the process of moving his lips upward seemed more aligned with that of moving a boulder.

  “Congratulations,” Rupert said finally.

  “Indeed,” Barnes turned to the duke. “Congratulations, Your Grace.”

  “I should be in London now,” the duke said. “I should be celebrating.”

  “Shall I pour the champagne, Your Grace?” Barnes asked.

  “Yes, yes,” the duke said irritably. “Though the good thing about celebrating in London is the abundance of people willing to pay.”

  Barnes gave a pained smile and exited the room, presumably to seek out a worthy drink to imbibe.

  “I’m very happy for you,” Rupert said stiffly.

  “Well, yes. You should be. It’s quite an accomplishment.” The duke shot a disgruntled look at Rupert. “One that you could never achieve.”

  “I played a role,” Rupert said.

  The duke gave an exasperated shrug. “Yes, yes. But I met her first. She fell in love with me.”

  “That she did,” Rupert agreed, but his heart twisted in that strange manner again.

  It didn’t matter. He shouldn’t be acting morose and disgruntled at his cousin’s engagement. The princess would hardly have considered him a viable suitor, even if she had met him, rather than Dudley, at a ball in Bath. Rupert was impoverished gentry, and she was royalty. Besides, Rupert had never been a source of fascination for women. Though there had been one woman, she’d decided to marry someone else. Rupert favored reading books, not striking up conversations with debutantes and belles of the ball.

  And certainly, the princess was the belle of any ball.

  Her uncle was the King of Sweden. Her family had money. The papers had written about her and her father’s arrival in England with open excitement. No one, even in his village, notified the press when he arrived in Staffordshire.

  He’d long ago known he’d never be Dudley. It was foolish now to be anything else but happy for his cousin.

  Certainly, the princess’s love for Dudley was obvious.

  The princess had remarked upon the duke’s distinguished gray hair and worldly air. Though she’d confessed she couldn’t remember his eye color, she was enthused about them once Rupert had written that “his” eyes were hazel, immediately declaring hazel the most complex and outstanding eye color in the world.

  That was the action of a woman in love.

  Rupert sighed. “Perhaps you want to read the rest of the letter, Your Grace?”

  The duke frowned, and his thick eyebrows pushed together, like heavy doors being closed. “Barnes already told me the good bit.”

  Rupert blinked. He enjoyed rereading the princess’s letters. They were so charming. So vivacious. When he’d quoted a poet, she’d taken the time to handwrite her favorite poems. She delighted in the natural world. She never spoke ill of anyone, and her letters emanated kindness.

  “Then again, I probably should read it.” The duke reached for the letter. “There might be some logistical details.”

  My heart is full. Father has given us permission to wed. The sunlight is imbued with more strength, the birds chirp with more joy, and even the flowers’ scent has increased in gloriousness.

  The duke raised his eyebrows. “She’s mad.”

  Rupert wrinkled his brow. The duke had never seemed particularly prone to sentimentalism, but the utter lack of it now surprised him. “She has strong feelings for you.”

  I love you, my darling duke. I love you. I love you. I love you.

  The duke smiled. “Well, I suppose you gave a good assessment. One of the few things you’ve ever done well.”

  Rupert blinked. Even though he’d long ago resigned himself to the fact that Dudley did not give compliments, Rupert was still often surprised by his cousin’s continued ability to easily bestow insults.

  The duke was living a magnificent life, with the most enchanting woman clearly besotted with him. Yet, Dudley seemed indifferent.

  Perhaps Rupert should have refused to write the letters at all. Perhaps he should have laughed in the duke’s face.

  Now he regretted that he had not. He’d been too sympathetic to his cousin’s pain, conscious of the arthritis that had plagued his parents before their deaths, making them gaze warily at every object they were expected to hold, calculating the resulting pain.

  The duke tossed a page to the floor. “More talk about flowers and sunlight.” He scanned the next page, then also tossed it to the floor. The paper floated onto the ground, even though it should be pressed against the duke’s chest or hauled straight to the framer so it could be permanently displayed. “And she writes so much about her heart. One would think she needs to see a doctor given the amount of surging and swelling and dancing it is doing.”

  Rupert drew his eyebrows together. “She’s only saying it because she loves you. I’m certain she said it in a very nice way. The princess is an excellent writer.”

  The duke looked at him askance. “As if that matters when what the person is saying is inane.”

  Rupert frowned. The duke shouldn’t demean the princess. “I hope you truly do love her.”

  For a moment, the room was silent, and Rupert was conscious of the ticking of the clock.

  The duke blinked, then averted his gaze. “Of course I do.”

  “And you’ll treat her well,” Rupert said.

  “She’ll be a duchess. She’ll be mistress of Laventhorpe Castle. It’s not horrible.”

  “No,” Rupert admitted, but something in his stomach didn’t feel right. It seemed to be in the process of colliding with his chest.

  The duke narrowed the distance between them and frowned. “Good God, you look pale.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Footsteps sounded.

  “Ah, Barnes,” the duke said. “Good man. Better pour my cousin a drink.”

  Soon a flute was pressed against Rupert’s mouth. The bubbles prickled his nose, and when he sipped the champagne, the bubbles felt hard and grainy as they bounced against his throat.

  He abhorred champagne.

  “You’ve always been a weakling,” the duke said. “I told your mother, after you were born, not to expect you to live long. If there’s one thing you were, it was a frail child. Still can’t believe you got through the first month.”

  Rupert firmed his jaw. “You told her that? After she’d just birthed me?”

  “You needn’t be upset.” The duke shrugged. “You’re fine now. Mostly.” The duke squared his shoulders. “Perhaps I saved you and made her be more cautious with you.”

  Rupert gave the duke a stern glance. “You think she might have been less cautious otherwise?”

  “Thicker scarves. Whatever it is mothers do.” The duke’s nostrils flared, as if he were confronted with a distasteful scent and not the contemplation of motherhood.

  An unpleasant sensation filled Rupert. He shouldn’t have been persuaded to write on the duke’s behalf. He’d enjoyed the task more than he’d thought possible. He’d enjoyed corresponding with the princess. He’d enjoyed i
t more than anything else.

  If only the cottage were not so heavily mortgaged. If only he wasn’t already so much in the duke’s debt. The duke was his only family.

  He should have made his letters cold and perfunctory. He hadn’t thought that he was persuading the princess to marry Dudley.

  Rupert stared at the letters on the floor, containing the princess’s exquisite penmanship with its enchanting flourishes.

  “Oh, heavens.” The duke gave an exasperated sigh. “We’re giving you champagne. You’re not supposed to look glum. She was never going to marry you.”

  Rupert grasped onto the duke’s hand, ignoring its unctuous feel. “Promise you’ll take care of her. Promise her you’ll make her happy.”

  The duke wrinkled his nose, removed Rupert’s hands as if it had been a stray bug that had fallen on him, and sneered. “I don’t make promises to you.”

  Rupert bit his lip. He would write the princess immediately. If there was a chance the letters had swayed her to accept an engagement to the duke...

  Rupert had consulted the duke at every letter. He’d told her stories about the duke, not about himself. When she’d written in marvel at some of the duke’s actions, it had been the duke’s actions she’d admired—not Rupert’s own.

  And women did like the duke, despite his brazenness, obsession with sport, and propensity to party. Still, an unsettling feeling continued to move through him.

  Rupert intended to write the princess immediately. She needed to learn his reservations, even if she informed the duke, and even if he was met with the duke’s fury.

  Barnes picked up the fallen letter from the wooden floor. “She asks for you to handle the wedding arrangements. She will arrive on Thursday with her father and entourage for the wedding. Her father’s schedule demands they arrive soon, before his required departure from England.”

  “She’s already left?” Rupert asked hoarsely.

  No letter would reach her now.

  The duke grinned, and there was something oddly ugly about the manner in which his thick lips pushed upward. “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER FOUR