by Maya Rodale
James had learned that those in possession of the least desirable characteristics, such as an unfortunate lack of conversational ability or a deplorable tendency to giggle, were often those who just happened to have dowries that included hundreds or thousands of acres of land that just happened to abut one of his own estates.
He still wasn’t accustomed to thinking of “his own estates.” Plural.
All the suitable ladies were suitable in the way a business transaction was—as per calculations performed on paper, with no regard to love, intimacy, attraction, or passion.
Thus, when the duchess insisted there was someone he simply must meet, James had no expectation of anything more than a polite conversation with a female who wouldn’t even come close to supplanting Meredith in his heart.
“May I present His Grace, the Duke of Durham. And this is Lady Jemma Winston.”
James was presented with a woman who was not unattractive. Her light brown hair curled around a pleasing face. Her complexion hinted at time spent out of doors—he noted a faint smattering of freckles, and a flush that didn’t flare and fade when presented with a human of the male persuasion. When she smiled, he noted one slightly crooked tooth, which seemed to enhance rather than detract from her appearance.
“It is so good to meet you, Your Grace.”
“I am pleased to meet you as well, Lady Jemma.”
“How are you finding London thus far?” Gah, that question again.
“I am becoming more accustomed to it each day.” He gave his standard answer.
“I shall leave you two to chat whilst I tend to Lady Amelia,” the duchess said. “She is standing alone near the instruments. I fear the worst.”
And with that, the duchess took herself off, leaving them alone in an obvious setup. It should have been awkward. And for a moment, it was. He still hadn’t gotten used to this forced mating dance, and he was still far too aware of other people watching him and discussing him. James already knew this would be in the papers by morning.
And then she said something he didn’t expect.
“I hear you like horses,” Lady Jemma began. At his grimace, she quickly added, “Oh, no, that wasn’t meant to be a cutting remark. I do as well. Frankly, I’m hoping that you’d rather talk about horses than music or the weather or what everyone is wearing.”
She smiled. A genuine, artless smile.
James was stunned.
“I see I’ve shocked you speechless. My mother despairs of me. I’ve never quite managed the art of simpering. But I do know how to spot the distance to a jump eight strides out. And you should see me at a hunt.”
James blinked. It was a moment before he could form words.
“I confess I am shocked that someone wishes to discuss something of substance and that I have been introduced to a lady with whom I shared a mutual interest. But happily shocked. And impressed. Many men I know couldn’t manage that, and I didn’t think ladies were encouraged to hunt. But then again, that never stopped my sister, Lady Amelia.”
“They aren’t encouraged, of course, but I do it anyway. It’s either that, or go slowly, quietly mad while arranging flowers and paying social calls. But enough about my shortcomings when it comes to being an earl’s daughter.”
James could only stare. She was pretty, with a face that was too quirky to be conventionally beautiful, but was all the more captivating because of it. Though she didn’t hold a candle to Meredith’s beauty, in his opinion.
And she was like him. A kindred spirit, Bridget would say.
She was the last woman he had expected to be introduced to. He wouldn’t look now, but somewhere in the room, he was certain the duchess wore her expression of I-am-right-and-will-outsmart-you-yet.
“You are looking at me queerly,” Lady Jemma said.
“I am just surprised to meet a woman like you. Well, surprised that we have been introduced. The duchess seems to throw a different sort of woman in my direction.”
“Yes, the ones with prestigious relations, a plethora of boys in the family, or adjoining lands.”
“Or all of the above, by some miracle.”
“Tell me about your stables in Maryland. I’ve only heard scurrilous gossip about them, and, as someone who manages our estate’s stables, I am keen to know more about your practice and methods.”
And with that, something twigged in James. He didn’t fall in love, or even in lust. He just relaxed. And began to enjoy himself. Thus far, he hadn’t met a single person at society events that he could have a real conversation with about a mutual interest, and here was one, in female form. One considered suitable, too.
He told her about his stables.
“We usually kept a dozen horses. I bred and trained them, mixing a heavier draft horse with the Thoroughbred stock in an effort to create the perfect sport horse. I was also experimenting with breeding some mustangs, too.”
“I don’t suppose your program has anything to do with that famous stolen horse the papers are always reporting on?” She referred to Messenger, and the horse his father once stole. “It’s old news, I know.”
James debated, quickly, and decided to ignore her references to the gossip in the newspapers. He had yet to meet someone in London who hadn’t read them. This was no reason not to engage in an interesting conversation with a charming and suitable woman.
“Yes. It’s true. A dastardly tale, too.”
“I am shocked. Simply shocked.”
“You wouldn’t be if you met Messenger, and knew a bit about my father. It’s a good story.”
“Do tell. Otherwise I shall have to suffer through a conversation with my mother and her friends about the fashion choices made this evening.”
“We can’t have that,” James said in all seriousness. But maybe there was a smile tugging at his lips. “The story it shall be. My father was stationed in New York City during the Revolutionary War.”
“You mean the War of Colonial Aggression?”
She smiled. Her eyes sparkled. She was flirting with him.
“While he was stationed there, he met my mother, and they fell in love. After the war he returned to London . . . to all this . . . but it didn’t hold the same appeal it once had. Or so I presume. His heart was in America now. So he started plotting his return. Knowing he’d need to support himself and his bride, he cast about for something to do. The only thing he was good at was horses. And his brother, the duke, had horses. Lots of horses.”
“Don’t tell me he stole a horse from a duke. Even if the duke was his own brother.”
“He stole a horse from a duke. Not just any horse, either. Messenger was known to win races by a full ten seconds ahead of the next horse.”
“Obviously he could never return to England after that,” Lady Jemma said with a voice full of awe. Not only was it against the law, but it was against common decency. One didn’t take a man’s horse. Especially his lucrative, prize-winning racehorse.
“I think he was well aware of it.” Repeating the story now, James realized what it meant for his father to steal from his brother, a duke, and to know with utter certainty that he could never return to England.
He would have known that he was leaving this forever.
Love mattered more.
More than family, more than duty to the estate, more than a title.
“So he stole a horse and absconded to America for love, knowing he could never return? I’m not very romantic, but even that makes me think about swooning.”
“I don’t think one thinks about swooning,” James replied.
“Are you an expert?”
“I do have three sisters . . . although none of them are the swooning sort. So perhaps not.”
“Well it’s a very romantic story.”
“I suppose it is.”
“And you are following in your father’s footsteps?”
Would he marry for love and throw away the dukedom? That couldn’t be what she meant. That couldn’t be something he discussed casuall
y at a social function.
“I took over the farm when he passed on,” James answered. “Except for the part where I ended up here, assuming the fate my father ran away from.”
James swallowed a lump in his throat. What would his father have done if he’d lived and the duchess had come for him? Would he have returned to assume this role, or would he still be lounging against the old oak tree, watching the horses graze in the field, under that big blue sky?
“But you must be curious about the duke’s stables,” Lady Jemma continued. “The ones from whence Messenger came.”
“They’re kept at one of the estates, Durham Park. But I haven’t had a moment to attend to it.”
Jack, the head groomsman, had told him about it. There were fine stables for two dozen horses. The estate contained vast expanses of land, rolling hills, and riding paths cut through forests. It was, by all accounts, idyllic.
“Durham Park is not far from London and well worth the journey. I do know there is some very fine stock in the stables. The land is beautiful. The house is impressive as well, but I suppose it goes without saying that all ducal residences are impressive.”
“How do you know all that when I do not?”
“Because I have gone to visit on numerous occasions and had been corresponding with the late duke about it. Discreetly, of course, because I am a woman, and if word got out that I was horse mad and actually competent at something other than household management, my mother fears that she would never marry me off. I am taking a great risk with my reputation with you tonight, Your Grace, in revealing this scandalous aspect of myself to you.”
He took a step closer. An infinitesimal step. But it closed the distance between them just a little bit.
“I promise, your secret is safe with me.”
And just like that . . . they had a secret. He had a friend. He had met another woman who didn’t terrify him, or bore him. One who was suitable.
James was struck with the desire to tell Meredith. He wanted to return to Durham House, climb the stairs to her room, slip inside, and lie down on the bed beside her. He wanted to talk in the dark and tell her about this evening, and finding a friend, and then stop talking for the rest of the night. Nothing happened in his life now that he didn’t want to share with her. Nothing made him feel lonely quite like having to keep his distance from her.
But he knew something about women, being experienced, in addition to having listened to three sisters grow up, so he knew better than to tell Meredith, guess what! I met a suitable match!
Not that he wanted to make presumptions about her feelings for him. He didn’t want to be one of those men who just assumed any woman must want him, especially now that he was this supposedly lofty duke. She had made it plain that because of his title, nothing could transpire between them.
The musicale was set to begin, and the hostess busied herself with ushering everyone to their seats. James returned to his family—though he was surprised to see Claire sitting with what one would call a Suitable Prospect. Judging by the astonished and gossiping reactions of those around them, it seemed he was a Very Suitable Prospect.
If she was making an effort . . .
And, come to think of it, Bridget was, too, what with her fawning over some bloke named Rupert, whom she always sought out at balls. Amelia told him about it, after reading her diary.
And if Bridget was making an effort . . .
His sisters were trying—trying to fit in, trying to find matches. That meant something. That meant they were thinking of staying, and thinking of making a life here. That meant that if he wanted to stay close to them—and he did, much as he might roll his eyes and lament to the Lord about the trials and tribulations of being saddled with three sisters—he would have to try, too.
Perhaps he would start tomorrow, by paying a visit to the charmingly horse-mad and eminently suitable Lady Jemma.
The gossips will report on anything and everything when it comes to a duke.
—The Rules for Dukes
The following morning
Breakfast at Durham House
“Let’s see what the gossips have to say today,” the duchess said, opening The London Weekly directly to the gossip columns. While she consumed the news, the rest of the family consumed food.
“The new Duke of Durham was spotted engaged in a lengthy conversation with Lady Jemma, the daughter of Earl Winston. His lordship’s stables are widely regarded as some of the best in England, and so we can only presume that horses were among the topics of conversation. But perhaps they also discussed things of a more romantic nature?”
Meredith concentrated very hard on bringing the cup of tea from its saucer to her lips without a shaking hand or the slightest tremble revealing that she cared.
Caring was silly.
This was bound to happen, she told herself.
It was inevitable that his name would be linked in the papers with a suitable woman, like Lady Jemma. But that wasn’t what stung.
It was that they had something in common. Something more than just one night of pleasure at an inn in Southampton.
Meredith tried to tell herself it was only gossip. The papers got things wrong all the time. It didn’t really signify. There was no point in trembling hands or tumultuous feelings.
“You did seem to enjoy your conversation with her,” the duchess said, looking at the duke.
“You were talking for quite a while, actually. And you didn’t even notice when I made faces at you across the room,” Amelia added.
Meredith’s heart sank.
“I noticed when you did that to me,” Claire muttered.
“Perhaps you should pay less attention to other people’s business and more to your own, Lady Amelia,” the duchess admonished. “It would be an excellent match, Duke. Will you pay a call upon her?”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Meredith didn’t want to look, but there was no way to stop herself from lifting her gaze away from a small spot of tea on the tablecloth and up to him. Just James. Sitting at the head of the dining table.
Like the head of the household.
The head of the family.
Like the duke.
She saw his gaze shift to her. Then to his sisters.
She saw his jaw tighten.
There was a long, agonizing pause before he said anything.
Her heart beat hard. Her skin felt hot and cold and clammy. She set down the teacup before she could no longer hide the tremble in her hand.
This was happening. This was beginning. It was inevitable.
But logic failed to comfort her, and the truth of the situation did little to ease her heartache.
Matters were not helped when he said, “Yes. I am considering it.”
A duke must know the proper etiquette of courtship. He shall find it useful when pursuing a suitable bride.
—The Rules for Dukes
Later that morning
Meredith had survived the inevitable revelation that James would be properly courting a proper lady. Was it wrong that it felt so soon, so sudden? Nevertheless, she believed that she had not only survived, but did so discreetly, so as not to reveal the turmoil of her heart.
Meredith’s hopes and dreams to further avoid the duke that day—out of desire for some emotional self-preservation—were dashed shortly after breakfast.
“I must escort the girls for more fittings with the modiste this morning,” Her Grace began. “But it sounds like the duke will need to be informed of the etiquette and protocol surrounding courtship calls sooner rather than later, thank the Lord. Miss Green, do take a moment to instruct His Grace.”
The answer was yes. Of course it was yes.
Even if the words on her lips were, I’d rather stick myself in the eye with a thousand sewing needles.
She merely had to instruct him on the etiquette and protocol for courting a gently bred lady, with intentions to one day wed her. She had to help him find and woo and win the hand
of another woman.
Even if her heart rebelled at the thought.
Fate was cruel like that.
Or perhaps the duchess was the cruel mistress here. Perhaps she noticed that frisson in the air between Meredith and James whenever they were together, and this was a deliberate maneuver to put to rest any daydreams of love Meredith might harbor between her and the duke.
Or perhaps Her Grace felt it was more important to accompany the girls to the modiste, and Meredith was merely experiencing the pangs of a guilty conscience.
She went to the study.
The elegance of their surroundings reminded her of her place even if a look in James’s eyes made her forget for just a second. She took a deep breath, willed her heartbeat to steady, and steeled herself to do her duty to the dukedom, just as he must do.
“Meredith.” He stood when she entered the room.
“The duchess requested that I speak to you about the etiquette and protocol for a courtship call,” she said.
“Did she?” he asked dryly, suggesting he found this uncomfortable as well.
“As you might imagine, the etiquette for a courtship call is as strict as anything else,” she began. At his direction, she took a seat, but on the settee opposite him. Distance. She must keep distance between them.
“Meredith . . .”
He murmured her name. He awkwardly reached for her hands, which were elegantly folded in her lap. She wanted to reach for him, she really did.
But the duchess. But the dukedom. But Durham.
“You may call and leave your card in the afternoon,” she began, reciting the protocol for a system she never really participated in. Nevertheless, she knew it well. “Or you may drop in during their calling hours. If so, it is likely that you will join others during the visit, which will only amplify the message of your call. Lady Jemma and her mother have calling hours on Thursdays.”
“How do you know that?” James asked, awed.
“I have been the duchess’s companion for twelve years. There is little about the haute ton that I do not know.”