No Dukes Need Apply (The Impossible Balfours Book 4)

by Gemma Blackwood

  The Balfours had an easy, familial warmth about them which Malcolm was observing the way a naturalist might observe a new species discovered in the heart of the jungle. The young duke, that stern new addition to the House of Lords, was a different creature entirely amidst the comforts of his own home. He had shed the cocoon of his dour exterior and emerged, not quite a butterfly, but a warm and genial man. His duchess was far from the silly social climber Malcolm had assumed her to be. By the way she gazed at Loxwell, it seemed the rumours were true. Theirs was a love match.

  What a very peculiar idea, that a duke with all the pressure the title implied might marry for love.

  Malcolm was seated between the duchess and Lady Ursula, which was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because he had expected that Selina would harangue him about the Twynham election until he was quite put off his food, and a curse because – for some unfathomable reason – he was disappointed to find that she could not.

  Though he was soon to discover that Lady Ursula was not about to let him escape the subject of politics entirely.

  “I must tell you, dear boy, that I do not approve of your Sir Roderick the least bit.” Having caught his attention with this pronouncement, she immediately turned from him to catch the butler’s attention, the wine in her glass at a dangerously low ebb.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” said Malcolm. He felt, rather than saw, Selina’s eyes on him from lower down the table. He was forced to imagine the mischievous smile on her lips. He knew that if he turned to see it, he would laugh. “May I ask how he has offended?”

  “You may!” Ursula pounded her refilled glass onto the table, the red wine nearly spilling over the edge. “My niece has told me the way he spoke to her in Twynham last week. Upon my life, I have never heard such impudence!” A wicked glimmer lit her eyes. “Only let the man spout such nonsense in my presence, and I shall show him that nobody is ever too old to be spanked!”

  The Duke of Loxwell choked on his mouthful. As he coughed, Malcolm stole a glance at Selina. She was fastidiously dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Malcolm suspected it was to hide her delight.

  “Really, Auntie,” she said.

  “No, no.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair, watching Loxwell turn purple with a great deal of enjoyment. “Roddy has been properly chastised, I assure you. If he ever speaks of Lady Selina in that unpleasant way again, I shall deliver the – ah – spanking myself.”

  “Selina tells us you took in a wounded dog after Anthea’s card party,” said Isobel, changing the subject in response to a look of desperation from her brother. “I think it was very kind of you.”

  Malcolm couldn’t resist. “My word. You all make it sound as though Lady Selina talks of nothing but me.”

  That earned him a glare that would have set a lesser man aflame. He took a sip of wine. “The dog is much improved. He’ll never make much of a coach dog again, but I have discovered that he possesses an innate talent for idleness.”

  “That is good news,” said the duchess, with a smile. “Anthea was very distressed to hear an animal had been hurt outside her house.”

  “I am surprised you did not bring little Percival with you to aid in your defence of Sir Roderick,” said Selina. “He certainly made the best impression of the three of you on the people of Twynham.”

  “He barks with great eloquence, it is true,” Malcolm admitted. “But his table manners leave something to be desired.”

  “I wonder which is better,” Selina mused aloud. “To speak eloquently, yet lack manners, or to have impeccable deportment and no conversation?”

  “Of which sin am I guilty, my lady?”

  “Don’t answer that, Selina,” warned Lady Ursula. “It’s a trap.”

  Selina’s eyes were wide and innocent. “I’m sure no one would dare criticise His Grace for either fault, Auntie.”

  “That’s not the same thing as saying I am faultless,” he observed. Selina met his gaze for a moment. Something simmered in the air between them. Perhaps dislike, perhaps not.

  “No,” she admitted. “It is not the same.”

  “Ladies,” said the duchess, rising to her feet. “Shall we withdraw?”

  The ladies rose and departed to the drawing room. The duchess’s timing had saved Selina from expanding on her judgement of Malcolm. But nothing could save Malcolm from the task of conversing with the Duke of Loxwell after he had done his best to flirt with Loxwell’s sister.

  Loxwell offered a brandy, which Malcolm accepted. With the women out of the room, Malcolm was expecting Loxwell to return to his solemn self, and he was surprised – even a little gratified – to find that he did not.

  “You’re a brave man, to take on Selina,” said the young duke, raising his glass in an ironic toast.

  Malcolm’s thoughts skittered down quite a different route before he realised that Loxwell was speaking of Twynham. “I make no allowances for her feminine delicacy. Lady Selina strikes me as an opponent deserving of the best fight I can give her.”

  Loxwell smiled wryly. “I imagine she would tell you that delicacy is not the only way to be feminine.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Malcolm studied the man sitting opposite him over the top of his brandy glass. He had given some consideration to Loxwell’s character before, of course, as one did when faced with a rival in Parliament. He had looked over the younger duke and found him studious, earnest, a sort of moral paragon of aristocracy. In a word, dull.

  What he had not realised until now was how much he envied Loxwell.

  Alexander Balfour, at a younger age and with much less experience, had a great number of blessings that Malcolm lacked. He was respected politically, where Malcolm was compared unfavourably to an iron-fisted father. He was capable of hard work and unwavering diligence, where Malcolm favoured flash-in-the-pan strokes of brilliance which were as unreliable as they were dazzling. Loxwell always seemed sure of himself, even in his earliest days as a duke. Malcolm had felt the nag of inadequacy since he first heard those fatal words, “Your Grace”.

  And now he saw that Loxwell was a family man, peaceful and contented in the bosom of a loving crowd composed of wife and siblings and, soon, an heir.

  His father’s words came to mind. First, seek out your enemy’s weakness. Malcolm was still his own worst enemy, and envy was a weakness indeed.

  “I hope you know how fortunate you are, Loxwell,” he said, idly swirling his brandy. Loxwell raised an eyebrow.

  “We are both fortunate, I’d say.”

  “A family like yours is worth my wealth ten times over.”

  Loxwell glanced downwards, as though both puzzled and flattered. “I never took you for the sentimental sort, Caversham.”

  “Oh, I’m as surprised as you are.” Malcolm wondered whether he had found a way to investigate the question that had been needling at him. The matter of Selina, and her insistence that she would not marry. “It must be a relief to have two of your sisters settled. I imagine they are quite the weighty responsibility.”

  Loxwell shook his head ruefully. “You know me, Caversham. I must always feel responsible for something. But I don’t feel that it’s my place to hand my sisters off to any man who asks for them. They must be free to make their own decisions.”

  “Very wise.” Did he dare press any further? Loxwell did not seem at all suspicious, but he had always been hard to read. “Lady Selina, in particular, would object to being handed off, I think?”

  He had gone too far. Loxwell fixed him with a look that advised extreme caution.

  “Selina would object to being discussed at all in that regard.”

  “Of course.” Malcolm cleared his throat. “I meant nothing by it.”

  “Of course.” Loxwell got to his feet. “Shall we join the ladies?”

  As Malcolm rose, his host hesitated.

  “Selina’s happiness is a cause very dear to my heart,” he said, finally. “But she is a much better custodian of that happiness than I a
m. She knows her own mind.”

  And that mind was dead set against marriage in general, marriage to a duke in particular, and marriage to Malcolm most of all. The implication was clear. Malcolm was in no doubt that Selina had expressed her distaste for him to her brother.

  The scene they broke upon in the drawing room was touchingly domestic. Lady Isobel sat at her harp, a dreamy expression on her face as her fingers pulled effortless music from the strings. Lady Ursula reclined with her feet propped on a footstool, chattering happily as the duchess listened and smiled.

  Selina was sitting where the candlelight glowed brightest, a basket in her lap filled with skeins of wool in pastel colours. She barely looked up as he entered. Watching her felt like intruding upon something intimate.

  Ladies often took it into their heads to display their finer accomplishments whenever Malcolm happened to be nearby. They would recite poetry, or offer to sketch his profile, or start speaking in Italian. But Selina did not care for his attention enough to make a peacock of herself. She took up a soft blue ball of wool and began casting on. Malcolm took a step towards her, but Lady Ursula caught his eye and patted the seat beside her.

  “Sit with me, do! I am telling Daisy a story from my youth, and you would benefit from hearing it, too.”

  “My aunt has taken a shine to you, Caversham,” murmured Loxwell, keeping his face absolutely straight. “Beware.”

  Malcolm gave the elderly lady his most charming smile. “I hope you are not trying to reform me, Lady Ursula. I am a hopeless case.”

  “I suspected as much,” said Ursula. “Your trouble, dear boy, is that you grew into your looks at too young an age. Good looking men are nothing but trouble. I have always said so.”

  “Auntie,” the duchess admonished fondly. Malcolm pulled up a chair and sat close beside them.

  “I wish I’d had you to teach me the error of my ways earlier, my lady. Imagine how much better I’d have turned out!”

  “Dear boy,” said Lady Ursula fondly. “Now, Daisy, where was I?”

  “You were telling me about the American entrepreneur and the talking parrot,” said the duchess.

  With that prompt, Lady Ursula embarked upon a lurid tale of treachery and flirtation. Malcolm suspected that at least half of it was true.

  Though Ursula’s autobiography was extraordinary enough to hold anyone’s attention, Malcolm’s ear was more than half caught by the peaceful click of Selina’s knitting needles. Their rhythm was hypnotic. The strangeness of seeing Selina taking up something as simple and homely as knitting, even more so.

  The conversation had lulled for a moment too long before Malcolm realised Lady Ursula was waiting for him to speak.

  “Forgive me,” he said, wrenching his attention from Selina. “I was… distracted by the music. What piece is Lady Isobel playing?”

  “One of her own composition,” said the duchess. Malcolm was genuinely surprised.

  “It’s fit for a concert hall!”

  “That is what I am always telling her,” said Lady Ursula. She let out a great yawn. “Now, I have educated you children long enough. I have reached the time of life when even a handsome duke cannot persuade me to stay up past my bedtime.”

  The duchess pressed a hand to her rounded stomach, an odd expression coming over her face. “I think I will join you, Auntie. I am not quite…” She seemed to recollect that Malcolm was listening. “I expect I am simply a little tired. Do forgive me, Caversham.”

  “Don’t fret on my account, Duchess.” He stood and bowed as Daisy and Ursula left the room, each leaning upon the other.

  Loxwell had not failed to notice his wife’s discomfort. He made a brief attempt at conversation with Malcolm, the worry evident on his face.

  “Loxwell,” said Malcolm firmly, “there is no need to stand on ceremony, you know.”

  The young duke rose to his feet, clearly much relieved. “I will only be a moment.”

  Malcolm sat alone, watching Selina knit while the harp music lent the air a dreamlike quality, until she glanced up and invited him to sit beside her with a nod.

  “You are very industrious this evening,” he said. “I feel a little misled. You promised me you would change my mind about Twynham.”

  A shadow crossed Selina’s face. “I am afraid Daisy was quite distressed when she heard about Sir Roderick’s conduct towards me. She feels responsible for me, in a way, since she married my brother. I didn’t want to risk upsetting her by arguing over dinner.”

  “And now you are engaged in something much more important,” said Malcolm, reaching out to touch the neatly knitted square hanging from Selina’s needles.

  “A blanket for the baby.” She held it closer for his inspection, as though he knew anything about wool or babies or knitting. “It will be born before the weather turns warm again.”

  “May I assist you?”

  She gave him an odd look, as though she was not sure whether he was teasing her. “Would His Grace the Duke of Caversham deign to hold a skein of wool for me to wind into a ball?”

  “I’d rather dance with you, in fact, as a compliment to your sister’s music, but I know you will refuse me.”

  Selina took up a long skein of soft red yarn. “Hold out your hands,” she commanded.

  “Like so?” He stuck his hands out flat before him. Selina frowned.

  “You haven’t done this before.”

  “When it comes to the domestic arts, I am a complete innocent.”

  She glanced at him as though asking permission, and when he did not object, she put her hands on his and moved them into position, tilted upwards and about a foot apart. Her fingers did not linger. She was quick and practical.

  She looped the skein about his hands. Malcolm held it taut as she began to wind it. “Have none of your sweethearts ever asked you to do this?” she asked, her eyes on the growing ball of wool.

  “I am not the sort of man who has sweethearts.”

  She stopped winding, sceptical. “That is not true. You know what they call you.”

  “Do I?” He could not help but grin. “Go on.”

  Selina clicked her tongue and resumed her work. “I won’t be responsible for your head growing any larger. If you want to know, you must ask someone else.”

  “Did you do this with your sweetheart, all those years ago?”

  Her fingers barely fumbled. “I suppose I did.”

  “And was he an innocent, too?”

  Selina crushed the ball of wool in her hand. She raised her eyes and looked at Malcolm, challenging him to retract the question.

  “In the domestic arts,” he added smoothly. “What did you think I meant?”

  “You know very well what I thought you meant, Your Grace.”

  He could see the way the delicate muscles of her neck tightened with her anger. It was delicious to be able to draw such emotions from her. She, who prized herself on her poise, her restraint.

  “Naivety does not intrigue me,” he said. “I would rather have an equal than an innocent.”

  The mask came back down, hiding her emotion beneath smooth indifference. “No one has ever accused you of innocence, Your Grace.”

  “I wish you would call me Caversham.”

  Her hand brushed against his as she resumed winding the wool. Deep inside, Malcolm felt that yearning ache.

  Her eyes were twin pools of glimmering black-brown, unreadable. “Surely you don’t consider me your equal, Your Grace.”

  A lock of her chestnut hair fell forward across her face as she leaned into her work. Without thinking, Malcolm reached out, the wool falling from his hand, and brushed it back.

  His hand remained there, cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed tenderly over the sculptural line of her cheekbone.

  Selina’s lips parted. A warning flashed in her eyes, only to recede again when he did not let go.

  “I consider you my superior, in fact,” he said. Forming the words was surprisingly difficult. His mouth was dry. Perhaps becau
se he was admitting to a weakness. Perhaps because of the intoxicating power in her dark gaze.

  The door opened and the Duke of Loxwell returned to the drawing room.

  Malcolm dropped his hand, broke the mesmerism of Selina’s stare, and jerked to his feet, forgetting that the wool had fallen into his lap. He struggled to catch it, painfully aware that Lady Isobel had left off her harp to watch him in curious surprise.

  He could not look at Selina. What sort of man went about caressing their political rivals on the cheek and begging to be addressed as a friend, after all? There was no explaining it away.

  Loxwell, thank goodness, still appeared distracted. Malcolm untangled himself, with difficulty, from the fallen wool and managed to ask after the duchess with some semblance of composure.

  “She is well, she is well.” Loxwell rubbed his hands together as though attempting to buoy his own spirits. “You must think me an overcautious fool, Caversham. But with her time approaching, I must confess that I…” He smiled ruefully. “I am a fool indeed. I always am, where my wife is concerned.”

  “I don’t find it foolish at all.” Malcolm brushed off an imaginary speck of dust on his sleeve, if only to save himself from looking Loxwell in the eye. “I will take my leave. Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Loxwell.”

  “The pleasure has been ours, Caversham.”

  He took his leave of Lady Isobel in the usual way, but when he turned to Selina, found himself at a loss.

  He was not used to losing his composure. How typical of Selina, then, to remain perfectly poised while his heart was beating a military tattoo. He might have persuaded himself that the touch to her cheek had warmed her, if it were not for the cool equanimity of her smile as she bid him farewell.

  “Do call again, Your Grace,” she said. “I have not yet delivered the political polemic you were promised.”

  As Malcolm stepped out into the crisp darkness between the Loxwell residence and his carriage, he glanced back over his shoulder at the light spilling from the windows. The house was aglow, upstairs and down, the Balfour family warm and contented inside it.

  At least, in the dark and empty house that awaited him, there was a friendly dog who would be glad of his company. Malcolm supposed he would have to content himself with that.