The Heiress Gets a Duke

by Harper St. George

  Violet raised a brow and shook her head as if August were the difficult one. “They’re not reasonable people. You can’t make rational arguments with them and get anywhere. You of all people should know that by now. You heard them in the carriage.”

  There was sound logic in Violet’s words, and it only served to further depress August’s mood. “Yes. I don’t think they can be swayed. Then what do you plan?”

  Violet shrugged, and worry creased her brow. “I don’t know yet, but I do know that only I will be charged with speaking vows to him, and if I don’t do it, then there can be no marriage.”

  The first genuine smile of the night curved August’s lips. Violet was difficult to rile, but once it happened, she was the most stubborn person August knew. “So that’s it? You’ll simply stand there and refuse to repeat your vows?” She could already see it now. Mother would be livid, and Papa would offer her a pony to say them. The scene had her letting out a small laugh.

  Violet didn’t seem as amused. “I hope to stop it before it goes that far. I telegrammed both Max and Teddy but haven’t heard back yet. Do you think they’re holding on to the response?”

  “I didn’t even think of that possibility. “August groaned and leaned to the side until her head rested on the back of the sofa, but then she sat back up almost immediately. “I haven’t tried reaching Maxwell yet. I naively—and absurdly, it seems—believed that we could get past this ourselves. I’ll also send him one in the morning. Perhaps if he contacts Papa, he can set things to rights again. If not, then perhaps he can come to London, and we have to simply hold off a wedding until he can get here.” But just in case, she would come up with some other way to dissuade the duke. She had no idea how yet, but there was still time.

  They were both silent as the enormity of the situation settled over them. After a moment, Violet spoke as she pulled off her gloves, revealing the near-constant ink stains that marred her fingers. “I overheard you and the duke in the garden.”

  That explained Violet’s silence in the carriage. August wracked her brain to remember if she had mentioned the kiss aloud. How awkward it would be if the man she had properly kissed turned out to be her sister’s fiancé.

  “What happened between you . . . at the fight?”

  “I fell and landed near the roped-off section where they were brawling. He caught me before I could hit the ground, thankfully.”

  Violet watched her with knowing eyes. Sometimes she saw far too much. “And then?” she prodded when August fell silent.

  Unable and unwilling to lie to her sister, August said, “We kissed. It was very brief, I assure you, and not an experience I plan to repeat.” She fell silent as she waited for Violet’s judgment.

  Her sister fell silent, as well, and she got that pensive look she would sometimes get. August could never figure out if it was disappointment or some other sign of distress, so she babbled to fill the silence. “I am sorry. I swear to you that I had no idea who he was. It happened so fast that I barely had time to think about it.”

  “August, you have no need to apologize. I don’t want him. I only . . .” A crease formed between her brows, and she stared at August as if she were the older one and August the younger. “You’ve never been so reckless. I know you’ve kissed men at a dance or dinner, but never a stranger.”

  All of those thoughts had tumbled over and over in August’s mind ever since that night. It was why she had tried so hard to make herself forget him, and she’d come close to succeeding. Oh, she had relived the pleasure of the kiss more than she wanted to admit, but guilt had always followed. He could have been anyone that night. Married. The leader of a street gang.

  A duke.

  “I don’t know how it happened.” She glanced down at her hands folded in her lap, because she could not meet her sister’s questioning gaze. “I still can’t explain why I did it. He asked me to and so I did.” It sounded inane and impulsive, which was so unlike her.

  But when she looked up, the hint of a smile curved Violet’s lips. “And you liked it.”

  It wasn’t a question. Apparently, it was obvious. She had kissed the duke and had liked it. What was happening to her?

  “A little.” August stood, preferring not to dwell on that. “It hardly matters. I’m allowed to take leave of my senses every now and then, aren’t I?”

  “Of course,” said Violet, but humor lurked in the depths of her eyes.

  “So you don’t hate me? Even if you end up engaged to him?”

  “I don’t hate you, and I will not end up engaged to him.”

  “Good. Then I’m going to go to bed. It’s been an exhausting evening, and I need to telegram Max in the morning.”

  “I suppose we’ll find out if the duke approves of our family soon,” said Violet, standing. “Mother says it’s likely he’ll make his intentions known at Camille’s ball.”

  Bother! It was as if this plan was moving forward at the pace of a runaway train, and she was powerless to stop it. Since it was obvious her parents were not going to see reason, she had to get busy coming up with ways to make the duke see that marrying into their family would be a poor decision.

  * * *

  * * *

  Evan settled himself against the plush interior of the Rothschild carriage and stretched out his legs as much as he could. As far as evenings went, dinner at the Ashcrofts’ had not been terrible.

  His mother sat next to him and waited for the carriage to lurch smoothly forward before she gave him a brief glance. “Well, what did you think of Violet?”

  “She was lovely. She’ll make an excellent duchess.”

  Mother let out an audible sigh of relief. “Yes, I believe she will. She has a bit to learn, being American, but she seems bright and mild mannered. Both virtues will do her well.”

  But she was not who he wanted. It was entirely likely that August would not settle into the role of duchess nearly so easily, but she would suit the role of his wife. He waited a heartbeat as the enormity of that thought washed over him. His wife. August Crenshaw would be his wife.

  He turned the thought over in his mind like a new frock coat. Running his palms along the hemming to check for rough edges, smoothing out the lapels, and savoring the rich feel of the fabric before trying it on for comfort. It was snug like all new things could be before they became supple with time and familiarity, but the fit was good. Yes, this could work.

  He waited the space of two heartbeats before he said, “I want August Crenshaw, not her younger sister.”

  The steady clip-clop of the horses emphasized the silence that had fallen. His mother was a quiet person, rather like the younger Miss Crenshaw. He was not at all certain how she would take having the elder Miss Crenshaw for a daughter-in-law. He wanted August regardless, but he also hoped his mother could find peace with his choice.

  She finally turned to him. “Do you have any idea what you’ll be facing with her? She’s not the least bit biddable or conventional.” Despite her words, her voice was gentle.

  He smiled as he remembered the bold way August had approached him in the drawing room. Then again in the garden. Then his thoughts went further back to the kiss. “Yes, I know. That’s rather why I like her.”

  His mother stared at him for so long that he was taken aback and uncertain of her thoughts. It had never occurred to him that she would say no. Hadn’t he agreed to this scheme of hers and Clark? The final choice of his own wife should be his.

  “You oppose August? Is that why you chose Violet instead of her even though she’s the eldest?”

  “Mrs. Crenshaw made the choice. She seemed to think that Violet would make a more suitable wife, and I had no reason to disagree. Everyone knows the elder one is a bluestocking.”

  “And bluestockings make terrible wives?”

  “No.” She sighed and raised a hand to place it against his cheek, much like she
had done when he had been a child. “You never wanted to take the path laid out for you.” She smiled and gave his face a pat before lowering her hand back to her lap. “She is more spirited and stronger willed, but it is your choice, dear boy. I would welcome either of them as long as they can help us out of this tangle you inherited.”

  He frowned at the reminder that they were not in the clear yet. When the carriage turned at Curzon Street and stopped before Sterling House, he disembarked to help her out but climbed back inside.

  She turned on the pavement and raised a brow at him. “This is your home, Evan. Your suite is ready and waiting for you.”

  He shook his head, still not ready to live in the house he considered his father’s domain. He kept rooms at Montague Club. With only a few precious weeks of freedom left, he intended to embrace them. “Thank you, but no. I’ve promised to meet up with friends.”

  The evening had been a full day of honest work as far as he was concerned. Now that they were one step closer to restoring the dignity of the title, he planned to go celebrate.

  Chapter 7

  Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could.

  Abigail Adams

  To: Maxwell Crenshaw, Crenshaw Iron Works, New York, NY

  Papa is determined Violet will marry a peer STOP She is distraught STOP Please intervene STOP Letter to follow STOP

  From: Miss August Crenshaw

  To: Miss August Crenshaw, 12 Upper Grosvenor St., London

  Appalling STOP Have demanded explanation STOP I look forward to your letter STOP

  From: Maxwell Crenshaw

  August stepped into the foyer of Hereford’s townhome and was nearly overrun by a maid carrying an arrangement of lilies larger than she was. The poor girl wobbled and might very well have fallen over from the impact if the housekeeper had not swooped in behind her and steadied her.

  “Apologies, miss.” The voice came from somewhere behind the lilies, and the girl tried to bob a quick curtsy, but the movement sent her wobbling again.

  “No harm done,” said August as she took in the chaos around her.

  The housekeeper shooed the maid away along with a trio of others who came trailing out of the front parlor, each of them bearing identical arrangements as they marched up the curved staircase. The ball was tomorrow night, so August had no doubt they were bound for the ballroom. The footman who had accompanied them to the fight, Henry, stood at the curve in the staircase tying garland to the banister, while another directed him in the proper draping from below. He had looked up when she first entered but now pretended absorption in his task.

  “Well, everything looks marvelous,” August said to absolutely no one.

  The butler appeared justifiably put out by her arrival in the midst of such chaos, while her chaperone—the Honorable Mrs. Harold Barnes—shook her head at the madness.

  “Her Grace is expecting you.” Keeping his nose well in the air, the butler began to lead them to the drawing room, but a voice from above stopped him.

  “August! August, is that you?” Camille appeared at the first-floor landing, her face alight with happiness. Upon seeing August, she hurried down the stairs far too quickly to be considered proper for a duchess.

  Mrs. Barnes sniffed in disapproval, but August hurried over to meet her friend at the bottom step. Camille had all but disappeared since the Ashcroft dinner, and that had been days ago. “I came as soon as I received your note. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Camille took her hands once she reached the bottom and said, “Of course you’re not. I am so glad you’re here.”

  It was only now that Camille was close that August could see that her friend’s eyes were almost unnaturally bright, and her grip was hard. Desperate. Her gaze was so fixed on August that she had yet to even acknowledge Mrs. Barnes. “Camille, are—?”

  The question was destined to go unasked as another voice screeched, “Lilies? Who ordered lilies? I specifically requested roses!”

  Footsteps warned of an approach seconds before two women appeared at the landing. August immediately recognized Lady Russell, Hereford’s sister, and her friend Lady Fawly. She had met them both at dinner her first week in London and had found them very similar in disposition to Hereford. Self-important and vaguely condescending.

  “Miss Crenshaw. I did not hear your arrival,” said Lady Russell, her lips pursed in disapproval.

  “I invited her for tea.” Camille took her arm and practically dragged her toward the drawing room, calling over her shoulder, “And it was I who ordered the lilies. Roses are so overdone, don’t you think?”

  A silence colder than the bitterest New York winter descended from the upper floor. August tried to ignore it, but the glacial stillness followed them into the depths of the house. She felt that she should call out a greeting, but it seemed disloyal to Camille, so she kept quiet and let her friend lead her away.

  Camille was all smiles again as she opened the door to her private drawing room. The tea service was already set up near the sofa and matching chair. “Mrs. Barnes, I presume?” Camille asked as the woman followed August into the room.

  In the chaos, August realized that she had forgotten to properly introduce them. “My apologies. This is Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes, please forgive my error. Her Grace, the Duchess of Hereford.”

  After pleasantries were exchanged, Camille went to close the door. However, the butler stood there in the opening and gently pushed it back so that she was forced to let go. “His Grace prefers the door open.”

  Camille stiffened, her shoulders held firm. Instead of saying a word to him, she addressed Mrs. Barnes. “Would you care for tea?”

  August only barely kept her jaw from dropping open at the impertinence of the servant. To be fair, he had been courteous, but she could not imagine any of her own servants in New York or London contradicting her wishes so openly.

  “Thank you, Your Grace, but if you do not mind, I shall set myself up over here by the window.” She indicated the carpetbag she carried, which held her knitting. As chaperones went, August had to admit Mrs. Barnes wasn’t intolerable. She typically kept out of the way.

  The butler’s footfalls could be heard retreating as she settled herself. Camille took a seat on the sofa beside August and served them both tea. August stole glances at her friend’s face, but it was impassive as she focused on the task. Shifting in her seat, she noted the accompanying tray was practically bare, holding only a scone for each of them with the tiniest pots of clotted cream and jam she had ever seen. The room itself was comfortable enough, done in what was once a tasteful lemon and gold scheme, but the colors had faded until they were nearly indistinguishable from the other. The front rooms with their fresh wallpaper and new furnishings were ostentatious by comparison. Evidence of the fortune Hereford had needed to restore his estates.

  An awkward silence heavy with all the things they longed to say but couldn’t in the presence of others filled the space between them. It was only broken by the clacking of knitting needles and the clink of the cups against their saucers.

  “I am sorry your mother and Violet were unable to come.”

  August tried to ferret out Camille’s mood, but she kept her gaze focused on the china. “They send their regrets. Mother insisted on yet another fitting for Violet. Despite the fact that all of our ball gowns are new, she wanted to make absolutely certain the gown was perfect for tomorrow night.”

  “And how is Violet feeling about . . .” Camille glanced at Mrs. Barnes, who appeared happily absorbed in her task. It seemed she was making a scarf with the questionable color choices of an alternating pattern of brown, mustard yellow, and puce. Lowering her voice, she continued. “You-know-who and the likely proposal?” She mouthed the last word.

  “As you would expect. She has vowed to not go through with it.”

  “And your parents?”

&nbs
p; “Still praising him as if he is a saint.” August took a sip of her tea so that she would have something else to focus on besides Rothschild.

  It wasn’t easy. The man had hardly left her thoughts since the dinner party. He had been rude, sarcastic, and utterly arrogant. Mother kept going on about his looks and titles, as if those alone could make up for so little else to recommend him. Yes, the man had an acceptable bone structure and lips that promised kissing him wouldn’t be the worst part of a girl’s day. And, yes, she could admit that when his gaze focused on her it made her feel . . . something. However, she was also intelligent enough to know that it was the practiced look of a libertine and meant entirely nothing.

  “I’ve asked Papa to share the reports he’s gathered on the d—” A quick glance at Mrs. Barnes assured her that the needles were still going at full steam. While rumors were already flying since the dinner, there would be no use feeding the rumor mill until things were publicly known. “The information about the gentleman in question, and he has agreed to share it with me, but so far he’s found countless reasons to put it off. I currently have a pile of reports on my desk related to a factory in York. I’m to read them all and write up a recommendation on whether to purchase it or not, and then we will discuss”—another glance at Mrs. Barnes—“the other situation.”

  Setting her cup down with a slightly harsher rattle than intended, August asked in a low voice, “Can we not have a discussion without a chaperone? Or at least with the door closed?” As if awaiting the cue, a crash sounded from the front entryway as what sounded like a ladder toppled over.

  “I am sorry.” Camille’s face fell seconds before she covered it with her hands. “I should not have asked you over with the preparations under way.”

  August scooted closer to her friend and took her in her arms. “Nonsense, I’m not upset about the noise, merely the lack of privacy.” Through it all, the click-clack of the needles could be heard from the direction of the window. “How have you been? It’s been days since we’ve talked. Have you been too busy with the ball, or is it something else?”