It's Hard Out Here for a Duke

by Maya Rodale

  “We’re hoping it’ll be five, Your Graces.”

  With that, a small-ish boy with flaming red hair dashed over and lurked shyly behind his father.

  “And who is this?” James asked.

  “My son, John. He’s just ten years old. My oldest.” The boy wore plain, well-lived-in clothes that bore evidence of adventures and work. There was a smattering of freckles across his nose. “The missus and I have a few more.”

  “Sisters,” the boy muttered. “A lot of bloody sisters.”

  “John! Mind your manners in front of the duke and duchess. I’m so sorry, Your Graces, but—”

  But James only laughed.

  “I have three sisters myself, so I feel your pain, young man. They’re nothing but trouble and constantly plague a man. But it’s a brother’s job to tolerate them and look out for them.”

  The boy wore a skeptical expression. His father, one of thanks.

  “We brought something for your family,” the duchess said, motioning to the footman stationed with the carriage to bring one of the baskets over.

  “Thank you, Your Graces,” Mr. Simons said with an incline of his head. “The missus and I do appreciate it.”

  “If there is anything else we can do . . .” James said.

  “There is one thing. Sprock, my neighbor, and I have been having some trouble with the drainage ditches in the north fields . . .”

  A conversation on drainage ditches ensued, during which the duchess went inside to visit with Mrs. Simons. James had an inkling of the issue, having helped some neighbors back home with a similar problem, and promised to discuss it further with the estate manager and read up on it, if necessary. Marriage and addressing marquesses were problems he didn’t care to bother with, but drainage ditches—now this was something he could handle.

  Being a duke is not all soirees and games.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  The scene was repeated with each family they visited. It was always a family that had been farming this land for three generations, or four, or five. There were young mouths to feed and more on the way. There were leaky roofs, sick cows, and fences in need of repair.

  “These people need help,” James said quietly to the duchess as they settled into the carriage to return to the house. “The estate manager has said nothing to me of any of this. I had no idea of any of it.”

  “They all need you,” she said. “You see, James, being a duke isn’t all about attending the right parties or idling away the hours at some club. Families like Simons, Sprock, and the rest rely on your careful management of the estate for their livelihood. Good people rely on the lord of the manor to help them flourish, and in return, they support our lives.”

  “I thought the estate manager took care of all this.” James had a few meetings with the man, Spicer, in London, but he hadn’t mentioned any of this. “Which begs the question of what he has been doing instead.”

  “An estate manager will do as much or as little as required. They will serve as directed, or they will not serve at all. But they will never care overmuch about families that have been intertwined and supporting each other for generations. That is why we need you.”

  It was one thing to be needed as a stud horse, to provide an heir for the dukedom, which, until this visit, was how James felt.

  It was another matter entirely to know that good, honest, hardworking families relied on him for the management of the whole operation for their continued existence. He had to pay attention to their needs, and it was essential that he use his position to advocate and act on their behalf. It was also clear that real, honest lives would suffer if he left them at the mercy of this estate manager.

  Fleeing was still an option, but now there was a real, human cost attached to it.

  It also was clear now that a “quick jaunt” to the country and a tour of the stables were just an excuse.

  This is what she really brought him to see: the real duties and responsibilities of a man of his position.

  This was the why he’d been arrogantly asking about.

  This is what she’d wanted to tell him in the carriage, but she had learned it was better for him to experience it than to listen to another lecture. She was right. Something about the plight of these families and the beauty of the land had hooked him.

  He was needed—as more than just a show pony, but as a workhorse, too.

  And the only way he’d see this was to experience it, fully, in the flesh—without Meredith nearby to distract him.

  “I’m glad you understand,” the duchess said.

  James just shrugged, like an obnoxious youth. But the truth was, he was too choked up to speak. Because this path was calling to him now, appealing not to his vanity, but his sense of decency. And that was harder to deny—while still possessing a modicum of respect for himself.

  Well played, Duchess, well played.

  It is important that a duke be able to cultivate an imposing or even terrifying air.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  The following morning

  The duke’s study at Durham Park was not unlike the one in London. With its soaring ceilings, tall bookcases, and large windows and heavy furniture, it was designed to impress. Thus far, James was the one intimidated by it, and he hadn’t yet appreciated how it could serve him by intimidating his caller.

  Today he would see Spicer, the estate manager. The one who had apparently neglected to, oh, manage the estate.

  James would have to question the man about things he didn’t quite understand, demonstrate a sense of authority he didn’t feel, and display a knowledge he didn’t possess.

  Hence, he chose as his setting the study that could make a grown man feel small. James started to appreciate it now, and started to make sense of these big, grand houses.

  The butler announced Spicer, a short, balding man in a neatly pressed, though ill-fitting, suit of clothes.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” James said, feeling that was far too polite and even deferential to a subordinate. It wasn’t as if the man had a choice in the matter.

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  James took a seat behind the large, intricately engraved oak desk, then indicated that Spicer might sit on one of the chairs opposite.

  Then he waited a moment before speaking. A long moment. It was a trick James had learned from his father, who would give a lengthy pause whenever James was in trouble and about to receive a lecture. That moment of silence was always more terrifying than anything he could possibly say.

  “I had the pleasure of visiting with the tenants yesterday.”

  “A time-consuming endeavor, one a busy London man such as yourself needn’t concern yourself with regularly.”

  “On the contrary, it was apparent that I do need to concern myself with it.” James paused. “Regularly.”

  Spicer paled, slightly.

  “Now that I am aware of your interest, Your Grace, I can provide you with regular reports.”

  “That would be excellent. I should like them weekly.”

  “Weekly?”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Er, seasonally.”

  “I should like them weekly. Having visited with many of the families yesterday, I learned of many issues requiring more immediate attentions. A seasonal update will not suffice. Are you aware of the situation with the drainage ditch in the north fields?”

  Spicer nodded, barely.

  “Or the Joneses’ fence. Or Mr. Thayer’s roof.”

  “I’ll see to them,” Spicer said meekly, which was the only thing he could say, really.

  “Thank you.” James realized that was probably too soft. He imagined Meredith, whispering in his ear: Take charge. Be confident. You know what to do. Fight for your tenants. He cleared his throat and tried for something more confident, more authoritative, more ducal: “See that you do. I’ll expect to see your plans to fix these things in next week’s report.”

  “Will that be
all, Your Grace? I should like to get started.”

  “The account books,” James said. “I should like to take a look at them to familiarize myself with the running of things.”

  And to see what else you have been mismanaging.

  In truth, James would have Claire look them over, since she had an eye for numbers and figures and that sort of thing. He could muddle through it in a day, but she’d comprehend it within the hour and actually enjoy the process.

  Not that Spicer needed to know that. James gave him a firm stare.

  “I’ll have them sent to you in London,” Spicer said.

  There was an awkward moment where both men just sat there in another excruciating silence—until James realized it was up to him to bring the interview to a close.

  “That will be all, Spicer.”

  “Good day, Your Grace.” Spicer bowed, and shuffled out, and only when the door clicked shut behind him did James allow himself to deflate—and wonder how a man was supposed to act thusly all the time.

  A duke ought to put the estate first, above all.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  Later that afternoon

  Having tackled some important estate work, James took advantage of an opportunity to make his way down to the stables.

  In spite of the protests of the grooms, he saddled a horse himself—a spirited mare that one of the grooms, Peter, said had been cooped up too long. She reminded him of Artemis, one of the few horses he’d raised and couldn’t bring himself to sell. He got a lump in his throat even now as he remembered saying goodbye to her.

  Another groom, Henry, told him which way to go: “Follow this dirt road down to the old barn, then cross over Sprock’s field. You’ll come across a thicket of trees and a nice, cold stream. After that, you can ride up the hill and get a bloody good view of the place.”

  James and the mare, Cleopatra, set off along the dirt road, quickly came across the old barn (the one needing the new roof), and at Sprock’s field—a wide expanse of green fields, dotted with rabbits and a flock of sheep—he took a long look at the drainage ditch situation, which still didn’t make much sense to him, and then urged the horse into a gallop.

  Oh, damn, did she fly across the wide, open space.

  Hooves thundering. Heart pounding.

  This.

  The wind in his hair. The blue sky above. The ground below. Lungs heaving.

  This.

  This was the feeling he’d been missing. The simple connection of man, beast, earth. Feeling his heart pounding, blood pumping, lungs heaving, all shouting at him that he was alive. Hearing the horse’s hooves on the ground echoing the beat of his heart.

  Perhaps the problem wasn’t England or the dukedom, but the city . . .

  He and the horse slowed at the thicket—a cluster of trees and bushes, home to warbling birds and buzzing with insects and teeming with small little critters. Back home, he would have known the names of all of them. Learning the names, purpose, and connection between these creatures was a task he would enjoy.

  He and the horse stopped at the cold stream to drink water and rest in the shade.

  It was quiet, compared to the city.

  But it was country quiet, in that the air was loud and thick with the sound of nature: birds singing, bees buzzing, wind rustling through tree branches, water skipping over stones.

  This.

  He lay back on the earth, arm under his head, and stared up at the sky. The only way this could be better, he thought, was if Meredith were here to share it, lying on the earth beside him, her head on his shoulder, and staring up at the sky with him. He wanted to tell her about his interview with Spicer—both the moments he felt he’d blundered and the moments he felt he’d succeeded. James knew she would encourage and advise him. He knew he could ask her questions about the estate and the tenants and she would probably know all the answers.

  And then he would kiss her.

  Kissing her was why he was here. Alone.

  Kissing her was why they were separated.

  Because apparently he couldn’t do this ducal business and be with her. He would have to choose.

  Eventually he continued on his ride, up along the ridge with the “bloody good view” which gave him the sight of many of the tenants he and the duchess had visited yesterday.

  Smoke rose lazily from chimneys, revealing all the work occurring within and without the houses. Women were cooking, cleaning, and minding babies they hoped would stay on this same land. James saw men outside, chopping firewood, feeding animals, repairing things. Somewhere down there was Spicer, working on his report, if he knew what was good for him.

  All of it, right down to the horse he was sitting on, was due to their hard work—along with the clothes he wore, the roof over his head, and the dowries for his sisters, that would allow them to marry the man of their choice, and not wed for money. The fine food they ate, the wine they drank, the life they lived were all due to these people’s labors.

  Aye, James hadn’t asked for any of it. But it was all his now not just to have, but to steward. And in return, the families had only asked for help with easily fixable things: ditches and roofs, medicines and foods. Things it was within his power to give.

  Things he would be cruel to deny them, if he were to, say, leave everything to the various estate managers and return to raising horses in Maryland.

  James settled deeper into the saddle, his thoughts circling the obvious conclusion but not wanting to land on it.

  And then, a rustle in the bushes nearby spooked the mare. She darted off to the side, intent on running, but James quickly soothed her. He turned toward the bushes, where a boy emerged, his face and fingers stained from the berries he’d been snacking on.

  “Hello there,” James greeted him, recognizing Simons’s son from the previous day.

  “Your Grace.” The boy bowed.

  “Just call me James.”

  “My father says I must address you as Your Grace.”

  James did not want to be formally addressed by anyone, let alone a ten-year-old boy, eating berries fresh from the bush.

  Which was probably his.

  Which he probably shouldn’t allow.

  But which he most certainly would allow.

  “Well, I guess you better do what he says then,” James said with a shrug. Then, with a grin he added, “At least, when he’s around.”

  “Are you going to stay, Your Grace?”

  “We will return to London today.”

  They had parties to attend. This, he could not say aloud.

  “No, I mean are you going to stay? My father says you can’t escape being the duke, but my aunt read in the London papers that some people think you and your sisters will pack up and return to America. So, we’re all wondering, are you going to stay?”

  It was a good question, a fair question, and one with significance for many people, James now realized. More than just himself, and Meredith, and his sisters, or the duchess’s ambitions to see the estate secure. These people’s livelihoods depended on it.

  Another good question: How do you lie to a ten-year-old boy with berry on his face?

  Because until this moment, he’d assumed he would leave. The option to flee, just like his father before him, was always there, as an emergency escape route. It meant he had a choice in being here.

  But after seeing the land, and meeting Simons, Sprock, Spicer, and this small, nervous-yet-hopeful boy, something had changed.

  James’s heart was heavy now. He knew what he had to do. He was torn and tugged between two directions. There was the selfish desire for his own pleasure, happiness, and freedom. He wanted nothing more than to take Meredith and his sisters back to Maryland and pretend this duke business never happened.

  But there was a sense of duty that he couldn’t quite shake. It tugged him here, to this land and these people. It tugged him away from his father because now he wondered how an upright and devoted family man like his father could leave all this beh
ind. Then again, when his father had left, the duke and his new bride had been young, with every expectation of siring an heir and a spare. Things were certainly different now.

  The boy stared up at him, expecting an answer.

  James knew then it wasn’t a sense of duty, obligation, or responsibility he was feeling.

  It was compassion. It was a feeling of empathy in the face of struggle. And it was the knowledge that he alone was in a position to do something about it.

  James nodded to the boy. And as he rode away he thought once again, well played, Duchess, well played.

  Chapter 11

  A duke’s most important task is siring an heir. To do that, he needs a suitable bride—one who is similarly titled, wealthy, and preferably with assets that will enhance the duke’s own estates. Sharing mutual interests is merely a bonus.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  Upon his return to London, James paid a call upon Lady Jemma Winston, the only proper and suitable woman he’d met whom he could tolerate. The trip to Durham Park made him realize that he could not leave the dukedom. He still had no interest in the flashy, fancy, London-based aspect of being a duke. But the land and the people tugged at his sense of decency, integrity, and responsibility. He could not turn his back on them.

  Unfortunately, this meant that whatever he felt for Meredith—and he felt oceans and oceans of feelings for her—had to be pushed aside. This is what she’d been trying to tell him.

  He had a duty.

  He had to at least try.

  And so, he would call upon Lady Jemma.

  His valet, Edwards, was thrilled to dress him up for the occasion, taking extra care with every aspect of the process. The man went through four lengths of starched fabric before his cravat was deemed perfect enough to be viewed by the eyes of the potential future Duchess of Durham.

  James also reckoned flowers were in order. Women loved flowers, he’d been told.

  “Just a small token of a bouquet. Nothing serious,” he requested. He could not bring himself to care enough to pick them out himself. “And make sure they don’t communicate any secret message about feelings or intentions.”