by Maya Rodale
She and James dropped their hands. Stepped back away from each other, creating distance between them. They parted, and as they crossed the ballroom to join the others, she remarked softly, “Dance like that, and look at the London ladies like that, they’ll all be throwing themselves at you.”
His response was quick and sure: “And what if I only want you?”
Impossible. It was all kinds of impossible.
Just because a duke is often the highest-ranking person does not mean he is excused from learning the order of precedence and all the ways to address (lesser) peers.
—The Rules for Dukes
The next day
The duchess had assembled the lot of them in the drawing room for more lessons. To say the Cavendish siblings were not enthusiastic was an understatement. Lady Amelia slouched on the settee like a sulking young girl, and Lady Claire looked frightfully bored. Only Lady Bridget seemed to be making an effort to sit upright and pay attention; in that, she reminded Meredith of herself years ago.
As for the duke—he was seated in a chair that was entirely too small for his frame. His long, muscular legs, clad in fawn-colored breeches, were stretched out before him. His strong arms were crossed over his chest. Meredith could see, and practically feel, all the tension coiled in his limbs.
His gaze flitted in her direction, resting on her face for a brief second. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring and in this intimate setting—especially after that dance lesson had raised some eyebrows—and she must take care to hide what happened to her heart and her nerves when he was near.
She schooled her attention on the bored Cavendish siblings. Meredith couldn’t entirely blame them for finding these sessions tedious; today’s lesson was one of the more frustrating and maddening topics, but it was required learning if one were to mingle with the haute ton.
“One of the most important things to know is the order of precedence,” the duchess began. Claire lifted her eyebrow skeptically. “Making a mistake with this can be perceived as a grave insult. For example, in 1818, the Countess of Delmar accidentally sent Lord White into dinner before the Marquess of Thorne. Their families have been feuding ever since. The countess’s reputation has never quite recovered.”
“What does the countess’s reputation matter to me?” Lady Amelia inquired.
“That is entirely beside the point.”
“It’s like with horses, Amelia,” James cut in. “The leader of the pack must go through the entryway first. The others follow. It keeps the whole pack calm and orderly.”
“A very apt analogy, Duke, though one I will thank you not to make among the haute ton,” the duchess replied dryly.
But Meredith was biting back a smile, imagining the haute ton as a pack of ponies and finding it quite made sense.
“I can’t believe there’s an order for going into supper,” Bridget muttered. This drew another quick smile from Meredith, one she took care that the duchess wouldn’t see.
“Rest assured, Bridget, I bet as sisters to a duke we’ll get in first,” Claire said, patting her sister’s hand consolingly.
“It will depend upon who else is in attendance that particular evening,” the duchess added. “For example, if the king or queen or one of the royal dukes were present, you would certainly not be first. But at soirees at one of our country estates, it is likely that you would.”
“Glad this title is good for something,” James said dryly. “Wouldn’t want my beloved sisters to starve at a party.”
That earned him scowls from all three beloved sisters.
“Now, who can tell me the rankings of the peerage?”
Amelia was staring out the window longingly. Bridget was flipping through the fat volume of Debrett’s Book of the Peerage. Claire looked as if her thoughts were elsewhere. James closed his eyes. The duchess emitted the slightest sigh of frustration.
Or despair; it might have been despair.
Meredith needed to rescue everyone.
“I know this is not the most scintillating of subject matters, but it is important,” she said. “If only so you know when you might go into supper or so that if you insult someone it is at least deliberate.”
She wanted to add, at least you are assured attendance at the balls. At least your station is at the top of the list. Hers was barely on the list at all.
“Thank you, Miss Green. Please, do tell us the order of precedence.”
“The king and queen, of course. Princes and royal dukes. Then it’s duke, marquess, earl, viscount, and baron. Their wives are duchess, marchioness, countess, viscountess, baroness. And then there is the landed gentry . . .”
She continued on.
And on.
And still did not get to her place on the list. Commoners taken in by duchesses were near the bottom.
She glanced at the duke, asking him with her eyes: Do you see now, what separates us? Titles, money, land of one’s own, and the strict separation of those at the top of the list and those at the bottom.
Whether one was listed in that fat volume of Debrett’s. Or not.
He held her gaze. But did he see?
“Excellent, Miss Green, thank you. Next, let us review how to address a peer when speaking versus when one is writing. For example: a duke is addressed in speech as Your Grace, whilst his social equals might merely address him as Duke. In formal correspondence one would write My Lord Duke, though in social correspondence it would be Dear Duke of Durham.”
“And his sisters might address him formally as My Lord Annoying Older Brother or informally as Annoying Brother,” Amelia added.
“I have a name,” James said, through gritted teeth. But everyone ignored him.
“Why are spoken and written forms of address different?” Lady Bridget asked.
“Because it is,” the duchess answered.
That reply was met with a peevish purse of Bridget’s lips—as if she were learning from the duchess already.
“Just think of what other, more useful things we might spend our time studying,” Claire remarked to no one in particular. “Like calculus or geometry.”
“I’m not sure which would be more tedious,” Amelia muttered. “I honestly cannot decide.”
“Now tell me, how might one address the younger son of an earl?” Her Grace asked.
“I would say ‘Hello, sir, won’t you tell me your name?’” Amelia replied.
“No, you wouldn’t say anything unless you were introduced to him by a mutual acquaintance. At which point you might say ‘Hello, Mr. Younger Son. I am honored to make your acquaintance.’”
“Hello, Mr. Younger Son, what are the chances you stand to inherit?” Claire added dryly.
“But we don’t have any mutual acquaintances,” Bridget pointed out.
“I shall perform introductions to eligible suitors for you, ladies, and potential brides for you, Duke.”
There it was: a sudden statement of the obvious and inevitable that still managed to knock the breath from her lips. It was not shocking news that he would have to marry, and marry a woman with her family in Debrett’s, perhaps even with pages devoted to her lineage. He would have to wed a woman who was addressed differently whether on paper or in person.
And she, Meredith, would have to watch it all, until she accompanied the duchess to the dower house, eventually. Her youth would fade, along with it her prospects. Eventually the duchess would pass on, and Meredith would be alone in the world, with just the memories of that one stolen night of passion. The world would carry on with everything and everyone in their rightful places.
But what if it could be different?
All those questions the Cavendish girls asked—ones she had never considered, always accepted—made Meredith want to ask some questions of her own. There was something about the way these American siblings refused to find all these rules and titles impressive, to say nothing of the protocol holding the aristocracy together.
Lady Claire stubbornly refused to hide her passion for mat
hematics; it made Meredith wonder what talents of her own she might have discovered had she not been dedicated to embroidery and letter writing.
Lady Amelia hungered to see the world, or at least London; it made Meredith wonder what she was missing by always hovering in the duchess’s shadow.
And each day, Meredith watched Lady Bridget try to shrink herself into the little box of Perfect Lady, and she wanted to put a stop to it.
Their questions, their interests, their spirits, all combined to plant a seed in Meredith. That little question, what if it could be different, had taken root in her head and heart. Who knew what it might bloom into?
“If you’ll excuse me,” the duke interrupted, “there’s an urgent matter I must attend to in the stables.”
“Miss Green, do go have a word with him while I continue with these ladies. See if you can make him see sense and reason.”
Generally speaking, dukes do not muck about in the stables themselves. That is what grooms are for.
—The Rules for Dukes
Despite being told that dukes didn’t do such things, James did indeed spend time mucking about in the stables. Of course there was no need for him to do so, as the grooms and stable hands were more than competent. The horses were fine and well cared for.
But there was a deep, driving need for James to be in a space that felt like home. He needed the company of creatures who didn’t care about his fancy title, newfound wealth, whether his boots were dirty, or if he addressed an earl correctly.
James needed to be in a space where he knew what he was doing. He’d been unsure of himself during the dreaded duke lessons, unsure of how to conduct himself with estate managers, and unsure of how to act when being presented with a formal dinner setting of more cutlery than any reasonable man needed.
James was excruciatingly aware of being watched by all the servants.
He also needed to do something with his hands, even if it was just the tremendously soothing activity of brushing a horse’s coat in preparation for a hard and fast ride around Hyde Park. It didn’t compare to galloping through the Maryland countryside, but it was better than being caged in a drawing room.
It was easy enough to listen to the duchess lecture him on the rules and his new role in life. He was American, not a moron. He just couldn’t bring himself to embrace the lot of it. The only reason he could see to bother being all ducal was to attract Miss Green, but she’d made it clear that was impossible. Instead, he just wanted to escape. So he lifted a saddle onto the horse’s back in preparation for a ride from which he may or may not return.
As companion to the duchess, Meredith spent her time in the company of Her Grace, who, it should go without saying, had not once found important estate business to conduct in the stables.
While she was as happy as a Cavendish to escape the drawing room, it was with some trepidation that she approached the stables and thus, the duke.
They shouldn’t be alone together. Not when he looked at her the way he did—like he had seen her unclothed, laid bare, crying out in pleasure. No matter who was around, he looked at her like that. It was almost enough to forget her place.
They especially shouldn’t be alone somewhere as elemental as the stables—away from the supervising eyes of household servants, away from the finery of the house reminding them to behave and remember their places.
Meredith recognized Johnny, one of the grooms, and nodded to him as she stepped inside. The stables were dimly lit, and the air was thick with the scent of hay and horse and earth.
“Have you seen His Grace?”
“Last stall on the left, Miss Green.”
“Thank you, Johnny.”
She walked down the center aisle, past large horses standing in their stalls. Some stuck their heads out, curious as to the new person in their midst, while others were more interested in eating or sleeping.
She found the duke, right where the groom had told her to look.
James was brushing down a big white horse. He probably knew the proper name for its breed, and the correct way to describe its height (it wasn’t feet; was it hands?), and all the little details about its demeanor, and how it related to all the other types of horses.
In other words, exactly what the duchess had been trying to teach them earlier, except about a certain type of people instead.
James paused when he saw her. She had to stop thinking of him in her head as James, or Just James. It would raise too many questions if she were to accidentally address him that way in front of others.
He straightened upright slowly. There was muck on his boots, his shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and there were damp patches of sweat on his white shirt. His hair was a bit shaggy, falling forward into his eyes.
He was a mess.
An undignified, elemental mess.
She’d never found him more attractive.
Especially when he gave her a lazy smile and drawled, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Green?”
“I am to have a word with you.”
Something shuttered in his expression.
“Don’t waste your breath on that. I believe that knowing the hierarchy of those in society is tremendously important. Everyone knowing their place and the rules to the game keeps things running smoothly. It’s the same with horses. And I know a man of my position”—and those words were said with some distaste—“has a duty to uphold the lot of it. I know.”
“So you were paying attention.”
“It so happens, Miss Green, that I’m not just a pretty face.”
James gave her a smoldering smile that she weakly returned. Aye, but he did have a pretty face. Strong features, a firm mouth, and those eyes . . . they were sparkling at her again.
“Excellent. Perhaps you might endeavor to reveal your brilliance to the duchess.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why not?”
“Should I tell you a story?”
No. Yes.
“I trained a horse back home, a filly named Athena. That horse could run faster and with more power than any other horse I’d seen—as long as no one was looking. The minute you put a saddle on her and took her to the starting line at the track with all the shouting and hollering, she refused to even trot. That girl walked around the track, coming in dead last. On purpose. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted to run for the joy of it, to feel the wind in her mane, to express her truest natural self. As soon as running became a high-stakes race, a competitive sprint in a circle for a prize she’d never see, she lost interest.”
“That’s a good story, but what does this have to do with anything?”
“The minute the duchess realizes I know how to address the daughter of a marquess or can do a bloody quadrille with my eyes closed is the moment she decides to take us into the ring and show us off, like show ponies. Do you see?”
“You want to be a duke when no one’s watching?”
“To be honest, I’m not certain I want to be a duke at all.”
“Then why are you here? You’ve come a long way to not be a duke.”
“Because how do you say no to all this?” He gestured to the stables, yes, but she knew he meant the grand house beyond it, and the vast estates beyond that, and the adventure of it all. He shrugged his shoulders, then fixed his gaze on hers. “How do you say no before you’ve seen it, experienced it, tasted it, stayed up all night with it?”
“Your Grace . . .” she murmured, fearing he was no longer talking about the dukedom.
“And frankly, how do you say no to my three sisters?”
This brought a smile to her lips. Meredith was starting to know them—the way they teased and chattered and loved each other fiercely. Part of her yearned to be a part of their pack, but part of her hung back, afraid of being swept away by their exuberance. And, of course, forgetting her place.
“You know, my father never spoke about this. All those hours we spent together, jus
t us and the horses, and he never mentioned it. We had no idea about any of this.”
And with that, Meredith began to understand. He was as surprised as anyone that he was now Durham. At least a small part of him was here to try to understand his father, to try to get close to a man he had lost and, in some ways, the man he had never known.
It wasn’t greed or a hunger for power or glory that drove him. Just a son, wanting to know and stay close to the father he’d lost.
Meredith thought it sad and sweet and wonderful all at once.
“I understand,” she said softly. “So wouldn’t you want to see and experience all this life has to offer, so you might know the life your father led? All the soirees, and elegant conversation. And you haven’t even seen the ducal seat yet—the stables there are marvelous. The envy of many.”
“You mean, the life he gave up?” There was that. He continued. “What I’ve seen so far are rules, each one more stupid than the last.”
James—how could she think of him as anything but James in environs like these?—set down the brush and took a step closer to her.
And then one more.
And then they were oh, so close together because there was only so much room for two people and a horse in this stall. “The only thing that excites me about London is you.”
They stood nearly toe to toe. She imagined she could feel the heat pulsating from his body. Or maybe that was herself, heated with wanting this man.
It was the damndest thing—here she was trying to convince him to make himself so far out of her orbit that nothing could ever happen between them. But they were standing in the stables, speaking as equals, with a thick undercurrent of desire pulsing between them, all of it tempting her to dreams she shouldn’t even dream because they would never come true.
Because like it or not, he was the duke.
“Pity, that.”
“Now why is that a pity?” He leaned against the wooden wall of the stall, like he was settling in for a lengthy and detailed explanation of why he shouldn’t fancy her.