Forever Your Duke

by Erica Ridley

  “Ooh,” she said. “I almost forgot about that one.”

  “What one?” he stammered. “What are we talking about?”

  She touched his arm, either to hush him or to get his attention.

  It hushed him and got his attention.

  It was the briefest touch. Practically accidental. Just a brushing of knuckles against his forearm. A playful little nudge, as if he were the naughty imp, and she the stern matron tasked with keeping him in line.

  Wonderful. Another fine image for his growing collection.

  Miss Finch was singing the virtues of a different young lady. Alexander was paying close attention. Or would be, if he hadn’t just now noticed that her extraordinary height wasn’t only advantageous for murmuring into one another’s ears, but also for kissing.

  Not that he would kiss her.

  He would never.

  It was just that, for some other gentleman who happened to be as tall as Alexander, if he happened to be standing next to Miss Finch—their kiss would be a comfortable fit, was all. Just an observation. Nothing he intended to put into practice.

  She sucked in a breath. “Damnable puppy! I’ll return in a moment. Max appears to be sneaking cakes from plates left too low on side tables.”

  There.

  Irrefutable proof—not that there had been any doubt—that Miss Finch was the opposite of acceptable.

  Respectable ladies did not curse.

  Respectable ladies did not bring their unleashed dogs to other people’s parties uninvited and allow them to wreak havoc on the party’s guests by stealing their tea cakes.

  No matter how winsome the puppy was.

  The cloying scent of his mother’s perfume tickled Alexander’s nose. “Please tell me you aren’t entertaining the notion of Miss Cynthia Louise Finch.”

  Alexander clenched his jaw. He and his mother had already had one dreadful row, in which she railed that he’d “allowed” Belle to throw away her good blood at the expense of the family. If it were up to Mother, she’d put a stop to the union at once.

  Luckily for Belle, who she wed was not up to their mother.

  Unluckily for Alexander, he was now being scrutinized even closer than before. There was no room for error. Or for scandal.

  “No,” he said. “I am not courting Miss Finch. The idea is absurd. She and a dukedom are completely incompatible in every way.”

  He watched.

  At this moment, she was cuddling a puppy and consoling her cousin, who appeared mortified to the point of apoplexy to discover a tea cake had been stolen.

  And now Miss Finch was personally replacing the surrounding guests’ repasts, presenting each with tiny plates piled high with cakes and biscuits.

  And now she was saying something witty that involved so many expansive comical gestures that the poor puppy nearly tumbled off her bosom and into the closest tea cup.

  And now the guests were howling with laughter, any earlier pique forgotten as they fought amongst themselves to be next in line to snuggle the adorable wiggly puppy.

  “Ghastly behavior,” said the Duchess of Nottingvale. “It’s a wonder they didn’t toss their tea into her face.”

  Alexander did not point out that the guests appeared merrier after Miss Finch’s intervention than they had before it.

  Or his suspicion that any tea dashed in her direction would soon be followed by a wet frolic through a public fountain.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “The primary requirement of any duchess is flawless comportment. I know my duty, and my duchess will perform hers.”

  “How goes the bride hunt?” his mother enquired. “Are you any closer?”

  “It’s been two days,” he reminded her. “I have until Twelfth Night.”

  “Do you need twelve days? Belle assures me all of the debutantes present are so respectable, you could select the next one to walk by and not go astray. Then again, I cannot put stock in her judgment anymore.”

  He tensed. “She’s happy, Mother. That’s all that matters.”

  “To her, perhaps.” The duchess sniffed.

  Alexander was not used to being the Good One in the family. He and his sister had always both been Good Ones.

  Belle had followed the rules just as carefully as he had.

  Almost as carefully.

  Very well, it appeared that what his sister had carefully accomplished was to hide her rule-breaking from others.

  He’d always known Belle was a gifted artist, but he had not known she’d taken a post as an advertisement illustrator under a male pseudonym.

  Mother still did not know.

  Belle wasn’t drawing announcements for Kew Gardens anymore. She was now the artist responsible for painting the fashion plates that would become aquatints in Alexander’s new venture. “Fit for a Duke” was a collection of men’s apparel, to be sold via catalogue.

  He was not involved in any aspect of the trade, of course. He was the titular duke, and the primary investor. He provided a lump sum and would later reap the reward of interest returned, as was proper.

  Belle had betrothed herself with the tailor.

  This was... not proper, and the reason their mother was more fearful than ever that Alexander might make an inappropriate match. Any misstep could ruin the family beyond repair.

  It wasn’t as if Belle’s “flagrant disregard” for the unblemished reputations of her family was contagious, for heaven’s sake.

  Alexander knew the rules. Unlike Miss Finch, he did not break them.

  He made them into a game.

  As a young boy, rule-following had been stifling, boring business. So he’d assigned points to each Do and Do Not, commensurate with his desire to do the opposite. The more he longed to bend a rule, the more points he earned for following it.

  His running score was in the millions.

  Mother’s eyes flashed up at him. “You must choose wisely, Vale.”

  “I know.” He let out a slow sigh. “I know.”

  Happiness had naught to do with the matter.

  He must content himself with “winning” the game. The satisfaction of having successfully followed the rules, exceeded his mother’s high expectations, and made a decision that would reflect favorably on the dukedom for generations to come.

  His family—existing and future—depended on him.

  “You’re a good man, Vale,” his mother said. “If your father could see you now...”

  He nodded stiffly.

  Father had taught his only son to follow in his footsteps from the moment Alexander could toddle. Expectations for a future duke had been drilled into him from birth.

  Alexander was raised in his father’s image because that was how his own father had been raised. He came from a long line of exemplary dukes, and was expected to continue the tradition with his own heirs.

  It was his duty.

  For all thirty of Alexander’s years, he strove to live up to his father’s example. To be the sort of duke that would have made his father proud.

  He would not stop now.

  He would never stop doing everything in his power to be the best man, duke, and future husband and father he could be.

  One day, his children would be emulating him.

  As well as their mother.

  “I’ll choose a duchess by Twelfth Night,” he promised his mother. “Someone worthy of the title.”

  She gave a sharp nod. “See that you do.”

  The moment she strode away, Alexander’s sister Belle sneaked up from behind and grabbed hold of his arm.

  “You know why Mother marched over here, don’t you? She saw you whispering with Cynthia Louise. Excellent work flying right past me in the ‘unacceptable match’ race.” Belle cackled. “I love it. Cynthia Louise is everything I never dreamt you’d choose.”

  “I didn’t choose her,” he said stiffly. “She’s helping me choose someone else.”

  “Mm-hm,” said Belle. “Mayhap Mother believes that.”

  “I cann
ot make impulsive choices,” he told her in exasperation. “The dukedom is on my shoulders. I cannot besmirch—”

  “If this is about Father,” Belle interrupted, “he’d be proud of you because you’re a decent person, not because you wear the right fashions.”

  “It’s not the clothes,” Alexander said. “It’s what’s inside of them. Me. Father isn’t here anymore… but you are. Mother is. My future heirs will be. I have to think about them.”

  “Can you think about making them with a wife you like?”

  Alexander hadn’t thought about that, to be honest.

  His personal preferences had never entered into the decision-making process.

  Perhaps there was a middle ground.

  He would choose someone respectable and proper, as his mother and forefathers expected.

  And he would try to make certain that person was someone he liked.

  Surely it was possible.

  He enjoyed his conversations with Miss Finch, and she wouldn’t do at all. Conversations with the right person could only be better.

  “Here she comes,” Belle whispered. “Lure her in.”

  Alexander scowled at his sister, but she was already retreating into the crowd and therefore missed his irritated expression entirely.

  A duke didn’t need to lure anyone. One mention of Alexander’s intent to take a bride, and the walls fairly shook from the effort of containing the plethora of contenders.

  Not that Miss Finch was interested in being a contender, he was forced to admit.

  If he wanted her to be—which he did not—his sister was probably right.

  He’d have to lure her in.

  “I’m going to lock Max in my bedchamber.” Miss Finch motioned in the general direction. “Walk with me?”

  Of course not.

  That would be highly improper.

  “I’ll accompany you as far as the corridor,” he said.

  A dreadful idea, but no harm would come of it.

  This was his house. He could stroll any corridor he pleased.

  She was a spinster. A chaperone. She was here to keep nubile nymphs out of his arms, not to tempt his self-control herself.

  There was absolutely no danger of anything untoward occurring.

  Nothing at all.

  “Your party is an unequivocal success,” she said the moment the roar of the crowd was behind them. “But are you having any fun?”

  “Dukes don’t have fun,” he explained to her. “Dukes have duty.”

  She made a face. “If I were a duke, I’d have nothing but fun.”

  “That’s why there’s a patriarchy,” he muttered. “Someone has to manage things.”

  “I manage to have fun,” she said with an unrepentant grin. “I brought skis. Do you want to try them?”

  “I can’t leave the party.” He stared at her. “It’s my party.”

  “Pah. I sneak out of parties like this all of the time. There are too many planned activities for anyone to notice. One summer, on a tour of Lord—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Are you saying you would play at skis with me... if it weren’t your party?”

  “No skis,” he said firmly. “No risking my life until there’s an heir, and even then it’s an irresponsible idea.”

  “Irresponsible but fun,” she said. “You keep missing the point.”

  “Not everything is fun. What if I broke my leg?”

  “I broke mine twice.” Her eyes took on a far-off sparkle. “Eventually, I flew over that crevice.”

  “You jumped across a wide crevice?” he said in horror. “On skis?”

  She nodded. “Fell into, twice. Soared across, once. Indubitably worth it. I won an astronomical wager.”

  “You’re a madwoman,” he informed her.

  Part of him wished he’d been there to see her win the bet.

  “One moment...” She and Max slipped into her guest chamber.

  She closed the door behind them.

  He tensed.

  From the corridor, all Alexander could hear was what sounded like his very expensive furniture scraping across his equally expensive floors, followed by excited yips from the puppy, and a peal of laughter from Miss Finch.

  She was out of breath and disheveled when she slipped back out of the door and closed it tight behind her.

  “There,” she said, the word husky and breathless. “What now?”

  Now, Alexander was going to shove his hands behind his back and perform any magic necessary to keep himself from kissing her.

  She grinned at him. “Cat got your tongue?”

  There were many, many things Alexander would like to do with his tongue, none of which were appropriate thoughts toward Miss Finch.

  He turned from her, heroically, all of the game-points in the world raining down around him in celebration of his stoic ducal restraint.

  “I’m teasing,” she said, and nudged at his arm the way she liked to do when she was poking verbally at him.

  It might have resulted in nothing more than that, except Alexander had chosen that exact moment to start walking away from her. His stride bent his arm at such an angle that instead of nudging him with her knuckles, her fingers tangled with his.

  They were now holding hands.

  In the middle of his guest corridor.

  “Er,” Alexander said.

  He should have let go of her hand by now.

  He was going to.

  Any second.

  Miss Finch looked just as discombobulated. She had frozen still, which was the opposite of her natural state of human hurricane. Color rose up her cheeks.

  They were very nice cheeks. They led the eye to her plump, kissable lips.

  Which had parted, either in anticipation of the kiss that hung in the air between them, or because she too struggled for air.

  He dropped her hand.

  “My apologies,” he said gruffly.

  She touched her fingers to her mouth, and then to her chest. “None needed.”

  “I should not have touched you.” Why was he going on about this?

  She nodded. “I should not have let you.”

  “Then we understand each other,” he said.

  He understood very, very well.

  Under no circumstances could they be alone together again.

  Especially if it might lead to fun.

  Chapter 6

  Cynthia Louise stared down at the straw she’d drawn.

  After spending last night and all morning keeping every subsequent interaction with Nottingvale as formal and lieutenant-ish as possible, of course they’d been randomly assigned to the same team for the evening game of charades.

  Each group of performers was spread out in pockets throughout the ballroom, leaving the raised wooden dais open for the pantomimes.

  Cynthia’s team consisted of the Duke of Nottingvale, three debutantes, said debutantes’ mothers and chaperones—who had not been assigned to the group, but hovered over their charges’ shoulders protectively—as well as the duke’s tailor and future brother-in-law, Mr. McAlistair.

  Gertie’s group consisted of both local blacksmiths, the local dairy farmer, the local baker, the castle solicitor, and Lady Isabelle, the duke’s sister. Gertie’s group was on the opposite side of the ballroom.

  It was going to be impossible to matchmake from here.

  “I could switch places with Lady Gertrude,” Cynthia said.

  “You can’t switch places,” snapped one of the mothers, who hadn’t been assigned to this group at all. “Straws were drawn for a reason.”

  “I’m surprised you’re here at all,” said one of the other mothers. “I thought I saw you leaving the party after breakfast.”

  “Uncivilized,” sniffed another.

  “I had to leave after breakfast,” Cynthia said. “Don’t you read the Cressmouth Gazette? Today was the final ice carving demonstration in the castle park.”

  “You were gone for hours. How long can it take to look at ice sculptures?�
�

  “I’ve no idea,” Cynthia said with a shrug. “I can tell you it took two hours and thirty-six minutes to attempt to carve a completely unrecognizable frozen facsimile of a partridge.”

  “You were in the ice-carving competition?” Nottingvale closed his eyes. “Of course you were.”

  “I finished in last place,” she said cheerfully. “It was glorious. Let me know if you’d like to decorate your garden with frozen blobs that in no way resemble bird-like creatures.”

  “Lady Gertrude is such a treasure,” whispered one of the mothers. “How can she be related to... her?”

  “Gossip is far more gauche than ice-sculpting,” Cynthia informed her haughtily. “Although I suppose at least you didn’t wait to do it behind my back.”

  “She also does it behind your back,” the daughter whispered.

  “I know,” Cynthia whispered back.

  Twelve years ago, when bright-eyed Cynthia Louise Finch was a brand-new debutante, the gossip had crushed her soul. She was a lump of clay. No, not a lump of clay—clay could be molded into something serviceable. She was just a lump. No one with any brains would wander into a patch of wallflowers with her in it, they said.

  Six years of that balderdash later, she’d had enough. If she was to be gossiped sorrowfully about for achieving nothing, then she might as well be gossiped about for achieving something.

  Her circle of friends increased exponentially. Oh, there were no more vouchers to Almack’s and the like, but those stultifying evenings were replaced by poetry readings and battledore tournaments and political debates and learning how to fence.

  It was leagues better than being a wallflower. And, if these matrons were paragons of their class, apparently better than being wife to a lord, as well.

  Who cared if no one had ever asked Cynthia for her hand? She was too busy for a husband. She could barely squeeze in an hour or two of matchmaking between all of the ice carving and sled races. She might have once dreamt of love, but enjoying life on her own terms was much better than failing to live up to someone else’s.

  “So,” murmured the Duke of Nottingvale. “Not these girls?”

  “The young ladies themselves are perfectly charming,” she murmured back. “It’s their mothers who have forgotten their manners. Just watch the performance.”