Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  “My father is an—is a peer of the realm.”

  He nodded. “I’d gathered that.”

  She sent him a weak smile. “I’m sure you also gathered—from what I said the day I named Duke—that he has plans for me to marry one. A duke, that is.”

  Again, Max nodded, aiming for casual interest. He had no wish to spook her when they were finally speaking of something real, something personal.

  “Is that such a bad thing?” he asked, curious to know her true thoughts.

  Her lips twisted with chagrin. “You must think me terribly spoiled to oppose such a match.”

  He huffed. “Not at all.” That would smack of the pot calling the kettle black, though she couldn’t know that. Still, while he knew his own objections to becoming a duke, what were hers to becoming a duchess? Was it simply because she didn’t wish to bow to the dictates of her family? Or did she have deeper reasons?

  “I only wondered why.”

  T’was her turn to huff. “For one, I should like to marry for more than just social position.”

  “You would like to marry for love,” he said, his voice raspy even to his own ears.

  Her eyes flew back to him. “Yes,” she said simply.

  Their gazes held as they walked side by side.

  “Me, as well,” he admitted, and realized he meant it. He hadn’t given much thought to marriage or family, so consumed was he with his fight to win representation for those who needed it most. But whether he became a duke or remained a barrister, love was something he wanted in his life.

  He could love her.

  Perhaps. Should he become the duke, and thus a suitable husband for her, perhaps he could.

  Who was he kidding? It would be easy to love her, whether he became a duke or not.

  But they weren’t discussing him. Or were they?

  “Perhaps you could come to love this duke,” he ventured.

  She looked away from him then, and one delicate shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “Perhaps I already have feelings for another.”

  Another hard thump of his heart. She meant him.

  He should confess all. It was clear her feelings were for him, not a title. He could tell her now, and then if he were to inherit, they could—

  “But that’s not the only reason I have no wish to marry this duke,” she said, and the words died on his lips.

  “No?”

  He noticed she’d started wringing her hands now. He walked along beside her in the tense silence, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. He used the time to think as well. Surely whatever concerns she had could be overcome. Were he to become duke, he’d do anything in his power to make her happy.

  Finally, she released a long breath, as if unburdening herself of things she’d long wished to say.

  “I imagine most girls dream of being a duchess,” she said. “We’re taught from the cradle that it is the pinnacle of womanhood.” She rolled her eyes then, and her lips pursed. “But for me, it’s not a dream. It’s expected.”

  She released her hands, bringing them to her sides in fists.

  “I live my life allowed only to do that which increases my marital prospects. And because of my—” She darted a glance at him, her cheeks pinking before she looked away again. “Because of how I look, I am often treated with snideness from other women. I am over-scrutinized and talked about wherever I go—just loudly enough that I can hear them even though I must pretend that I don’t.”

  While she no longer wrung her hands, the thumb on her left one worked furiously against another of her fingers. An expression of nerves, he’d wager. Then her lips twisted into a wry smile. “I know, poor little rich girl.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all,” he said. “I was thinking how of awful that must be.”

  She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I no longer wish to be an object of society,” she said. “As a duchess, it will be even worse. Perhaps I’d have more liberty as a married woman—if my husband allows it. But I’d be even more in the stage lights. Expected to be perfect all of the time.”

  He didn’t think she could ever not be perfect, but this didn’t seem the time tell her so.

  And he understood her fears. Hadn’t he been looking at the dukedom as a prison of sorts? But maybe it didn’t have to be. Maybe, together, they could create their own freedom.

  “That’s not the worst of it, though,” she all but whispered, making this quiet, foggy footpath feel even more like a place of confession. His ears pricked at the seriousness of her tone. Here, they would come to to crux of it.

  “I have a sister,” she said. “An older sister. She is my favorite person in the world. She is kind and funny and…well, she is all that is good.”

  She went silent again. And again, that thumb slid over and over its neighboring knuckle.

  “She sounds delightful,” he offered, hoping she’d continue her thought.

  “She is, though you’ll never convince her of it. You see…” She looked over at him and the pain that strained the lines of her face hurt to look upon.

  “My sister is what most call plain. I think her beautiful in every way, but our parents…well, they value only what others see, only what they deem the loftiest lord will wish to marry. Our entire lives, they have compared the two of us and…found her wanting.”

  Her voice warbled and bright red splotched her cheeks now—from anger, or embarrassment, or chafing from the wind, he couldn’t be certain.

  “And now they have forced her into an engagement with someone entirely unworthy of her, simply to clear the way for me to land their duke,” she spat.

  Definitely anger at the injustice, then. He expected nothing less from his Boadicea.

  But he also saw shame shining bright and wet in her eyes.

  She was stunningly beautiful. She’d taken his breath away from the moment he’d first seen her. But he’d been equally taken by her bravery, her protectiveness and her spirit.

  He couldn’t imagine what it must have done to that spirit, growing up watching someone she loved being put down and made to feel inferior to her. The way she’d said “compared” conveyed a wealth of emotion, and anger boiled inside him at these unknown parents. They had undoubtedly hurt her sister, but they’d also hurt her.

  He reached for her hand, stilling her agitated movement, enfolding it in his own. He brought them to a stop in the middle of the path and gave a gentle tug. She turned toward him willingly enough, but she wouldn’t look up at him.

  Maxwell reached for her other hand, too, and squeezed lightly. “It’s not your fault.”

  She did look up then, another half-shrug lifting one shoulder. That vulnerable, disbelieving gesture nearly undid him.

  Her left hand flexed in his, unconsciously he thought. She likely wished to wring her hands once more, but he had no intention of letting her go. Max ran his thumbs soothingly over her knuckles instead, wishing he knew what to say.

  As he passed over one of her fingers, he felt a raised knot. He glanced down and saw that her pinky was permanently bent at an odd angle.

  When she noticed where he was looking, she tugged her hands from his and tightened the left one into a fist, as if to hide her imperfection from him.

  And his heart broke for her.

  Just like her sister, it seemed, she had no idea that it wasn’t how she looked on the outside that made her so beautiful to him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head. “What’s done is done. No matter how hard I fight it, in the end, my sister shan’t have the love match she deserves, and neither shall I. She shall marry the despot they found for her, and I shall be forced to marry their duke.”

  Their duke, she’d said again. As if she were already building a wall around her heart where he—where the duke?—was concerned, if only because she associated him with her cruel parents.

  “Perhaps this duke won’t be so bad,” he said gently. Christ, was he speaking of himself in the third person now? “Perhaps he wi
ll be your love match after all.”

  One single tear slid from the corner of her eye, trailing over the apple of her cheek and brushing the corner of her mouth. Then another.

  “But that would be awful. Don’t you see? How could I live with always knowing that my happiness came at the expense of my sister’s?”

  Her words pierced like a dagger. What could he possibly do about that? He wanted to fix this for her—he had to fix this for her.

  Maxwell wasn’t positive how aristocratic marriages worked, per se, so the barrister in him asked clarifying questions. “So, your parents are insistent that you marry this duke?”

  She nodded miserably.

  “And I’m to understand that a younger sister cannot become engaged until the older sister is spoken for?”

  She blinked up at him, a bemused crease forming between her brows as she considered his questions. At least there were no more tears.

  “Well, it’s not a law or anything, but yes, that is the custom. And my parents are nothing if not traditional.”

  “I see. How, if at all, can an engagement be broken?”

  She winced. “Breach of promise is a serious offense. If a man breaks off the engagement, the woman is all but ruined. He, too, can face harsh repercussions if her family is not amenable.”

  “And if a woman instigates it?”

  “A woman can cry off more easily, if the gentleman goes along with it. However, if you’re thinking of my sister, my father would disown her even if her lout of an affianced would let her go. She could end up without a home or any means of support.”

  Maxwell nodded, his resolve growing. He hadn’t wished to become a duke, but in the past weeks, his eyes had been opened to the possibilities it would afford. While he would no longer be able to help individuals as a barrister, he would have the power to help more people by working for their interests in Parliament.

  And only he could help this woman—and her sister. In doing so, he might even win her love. If that wasn’t worth embracing a dukedom for…

  “Then your duke shall simply have to take your sister in. Or insist that she be given the time to find a proper husband, if she desires, and wait for you until she does so.”

  His Boadicea no longer looked bemused—her black brows had lifted and her mouth had dropped open in pure incredulity. Then she made a sound that was part huff, part snort of disbelief. “No man would do that.”

  Maxwell reached for her then. He cradled her face in his palm, wiping away the last vestige of her tears with his thumb.

  “I would,” he murmured, “were I your duke.”

  And he kissed her.

  T’was a sweet kiss, at first. A promise, even if she couldn’t know it.

  He tasted the salt on her lips and something roared within him. Max pulled her to him and wrapped her in his arms—instinctively wishing to protect her from anything, everything, that would make her cry.

  He should stop this kiss now, tell her who he was, reassure her that all would be well.

  But then her tongue touched his in a tentative foray. A hesitant invitation.

  One he could not resist.

  He rewarded her courage with a bold, sensual stroke of his own. A groan tore from his throat as he fought for restraint. If her parents had guarded her so closely, this could very well be her first kiss. Just the idea that he might be the first to taste her lips sent fire blazing through his veins. Thinking of all the other firsts to come practically turned him to cinder.

  But he reined himself in…he had to go slowly.

  She wouldn’t let him hold back. His fierce warrior queen threw her arms over his shoulders and pulled herself more tightly against him. His nerves singed at the feel of her sliding over him, of her curves settling into the plains and valleys of his body, fitting herself to him.

  She matched his kisses and caresses with abandon, at first mimicking his movements, but then experimenting with moves of her own.

  He barely even noticed when Duke, who’d run up ahead of them, came barreling back past them as if he were the one on fire. Max’s entire world had narrowed to this one place, this one moment, this one woman.

  The only thing he cared about was making her burn as he did.

  Until a shockingly familiar voice doused everything.

  “Unhand my daughter.”

  Chapter 6

  Emmaline jerked at the sound of her father’s angry command.

  Her father!

  Every bit of exhilaration that had been coursing through her body turned sharp and stinging, driving fear through her instead. She tried to pull away from her knight but he refused, using his body to shield her from her sire.

  He gentled their embrace, however, and tried to soothe her with long strokes down her back and arms. She looked up at him then, her heart rabbiting in her chest, but his hazel eyes remained steady on her—as if trying to convey that everything would be all right.

  He was wrong, of course. Her father would kill him! Might even get away with it, given his power and influence. What a fool she’d been to come here, to think she could have this moment out of time for herself before she was married off.

  But she would not allow her knight to pay for her sins.

  Emmaline ducked out of his arms and neatly side-stepped him, putting herself firmly between the two men as she faced her father squarely.

  Her throat went dry.

  It wasn’t rage she saw on her father’s face, but cold fury, the awful tic in his jaw a dead giveaway to his thoughts.

  He was definitely plotting her knight’s demise.

  “Father,” she began. She had to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. She willed her knight to stay out of it, to let her handle this.

  But he turned to face her father as well.

  “Montgomery,” he said.

  Emmaline started, certain she’d misheard. How did he—?

  But her father’s widening eyes confirmed that the two men knew each other already.

  “Granville?”

  Granville. Granville. Where had she heard that name?

  A snippet of gossip flitted through her memory. “Granville, I think. Some distant second cousin or some such. Imagine, one of the oldest dukedoms in England going to a country barrister.”

  Which meant—

  Emmaline’s skin turned to ice.

  Her knight was also her father’s duke?

  The maybe-duke.

  Your duke, he’d said.

  Oh, my Lord! Had he known all along who she was?

  She flushed hot with humiliation, remembering all the things she’d said. With shame, as well, for making assumptions about him. But drat it all, he shouldn’t have let her labor under such misapprehensions! She turned to demand answers from him, but he appeared as shocked to see her father as the other man was to see him.

  Emmaline shifted her gaze between the two of them, reeling. For a long moment, silence reigned. It seemed they were all trying to find their equilibrium.

  Her father recovered first, his brows dipping as his lips turned up in a satisfied grimace, which was as close as her father came to a smile.

  “So it is Granville you’ve been meeting all these mornings,” he said. “Not quite how I intended for you to bring the man up to scratch, but I applaud your ingenuity, daughter. Well done.”

  She went cold once again. Ignoring her father, she whirled to face her—Granville. Surely he wouldn’t believe she’d be so dishonorable.

  But his face had turned inscrutable, a marble bust once again—cold, beautiful, unapproachable.

  “I would never,” she whispered, but he gave no indication he’d heard.

  “I expect you will do the honorable thing,” her father demanded.

  Granville didn’t look at her, only dipped his chin in a sharp nod. “Of course.”

  “I shall expect you in my study at one of the clock, then.”

  “Just so,” Granville agreed.

  And he turned and walked away.

>   Half past four

  Montgomery House, Mayfair

  They’d been closeted in her father’s study for an age.

  Emmaline had been pacing outside for just as long.

  “You’ll make yourself ill,” her sister warned.

  No more than she already was. She stopped in front of the door once more and plastered her ear against the wood, even as she knew the futility of it. That door was a least an inch and a half of solid English oak, as she could attest. When she’d been a young girl, she’d nearly lost her pinky finger when the heavy door closed on it during a game of hide-and-seek with Amelia. The bone hadn’t healed properly, and it still ached sometimes.

  As was her habit when she was nervous, she ran her thumb up and down the inside of that finger, caressing the misshapen knuckle. A small, barely noticeable imperfection, but her mother had acted like it was the end of the world. “Who will marry a girl with a mangled hand?” she’d cried dramatically, and poor Amelia had been punished for allowing it to happen.

  Joke’s on you, Mother, Emmaline thought. Apparently, a duke would be marrying her, mangled hand and all. Perhaps against his will.

  Lord, she still couldn’t get her mind around it all. Her knight was the duke’s heir presumptive.

  And he may very well believe that she’d set out to trap him from the first.

  “Come, sit with me,” Amelia cajoled, patting the blue-and-cream-striped settee next to her. “That door is not going to open any sooner, no matter how many times you try to eavesdrop or how many holes you wear in the rug.”

  Emmaline turned to her sister, who smiled reassuringly in that calm way she had about her. She sighed and joined Amelia, and just as she’d done when they were children, Emmaline leaned against her sister and rested her head upon her shoulder.

  Of course, given that Emmaline was nearly a head taller than her diminutive sibling now, it wasn’t quite as easy as it once was. She’d likely end up with a crick in her neck. But it still soothed her soul as it always had.

  “Now,” Amelia said, “tell me what’s happened.”

  And she did, from the day she and Granville had rescued Duke, all the days in between, and ending with Father catching her in Granville’s arms. She left out the most personal moments, and the majority of what she’d shared with him about Amelia. Her sister had her pride, after all, and while she wasn’t sensitive about much, Amelia had flatly refused to discuss her engagement with anyone, even Emmaline.