It's Hard Out Here for a Duke

by Maya Rodale

  “It is such a great pleasure to meet my esteemed cousins who have journeyed from such a faraway land,” he declared.

  “Are we cousins?” Amelia inquired.

  “Actually, I consulted Debrett’s,” Bridget said and the duchess beamed. “And we are more like second cousins.”

  “Then I use the term affectionately,” Mr. Collins said grandly.

  “I think it’s fortunate that you are all not so closely related,” the duchess said. “A match between you, Mr. Collins, and one of the sisters is quite possible.”

  Three Cavendish sisters shot her looks of horror.

  It was almost funny.

  Almost. But James’s hands balled into fists as he watched Mr. Collins obviously appraise each of his sisters in turn. His watery-eyed gaze ogled Amelia, flitted over Claire, and lingered on Bridget.

  It was only the duchess’s sharp, reproving look that stopped James from an act of intimidation and possibly violence.

  “A splendid prospect,” Mr. Collins said.

  Claire paled and Amelia burst out laughing. Right in his face.

  “We would want to keep the dukedom in the family,” the duchess said in response to the girls’ looks.

  “I’m still here,” James drawled from where he sat at the head of the table. The duchess smiled like a queen.

  “Is this the good silver or the everyday silver?” Mr. Collins inquired, selecting a fork and holding it up to the light of the chandelier.

  “Only the best for the duke and his heir,” the duchess replied. She gave a tight smile.

  James wanted to stab the man with his fork. The good silver fork.

  Because he couldn’t leave the tenants of Durham Park or any of his estates, plural, at the mercy of this peon who cared about which silver they were using. He couldn’t let the duchess match one of his sisters up with this revolting man.

  But that meant he had to accept the rules and expectations of his station, which is why he was not supposed to think longingly of Meredith, somewhere in this great big house, dining alone.

  “Lady Bridget, I understand you are on a regimen of self-improvement,” Mr. Collins said.

  “Why and how have you come to understand that?” Bridget asked.

  “I have been speaking with Lady Amelia about all of your lessons. I think it’s so important for a lady to strive to better herself and to become accomplished in the ladylike arts.”

  “And which ones do you think are more important?” Bridget asked. “Needlework? The pianoforte? Simpering?”

  “Smiling demurely at idiotic comments?” Claire asked innocently.

  James’s lips twitched into something like a smile. Sisters. Sometimes their fiendishness was just the thing.

  “Well, a woman’s duty is to support a man in all things and be a respite at home for a gentleman made weary from his dealings with the greater world,” Mr. Collins replied.

  “How fortunate for you,” Claire said flatly. “And gentlemen everywhere.”

  “Indeed. It’s only fitting, as men are the stronger and more intelligent sex.”

  “Is that so?” Claire inquired coolly. She gripped her fork tightly and, if James knew his sister, she was probably contemplating violence and doing the man an injury with it.

  James couldn’t say that he would stop her.

  Mr. Collins then changed the subject to quiz James on the status of the various estates—intimating that it was very much his business to ensure that the dukedom was being managed correctly since he stood to inherit it.

  In truth, James struggled to answer many of the questions—how much wool was produced here, how much grain was grown there, the condition of the various houses, the placement of paintings and other precious family artifacts, et cetera, et cetera.

  To his credit, it was a lot for one man to have learned, in only a few short weeks largely spent learning how to survive in society. Perhaps if he hadn’t spent so much time lusting and longing after Meredith . . .

  But the more this provincial Mr. Collins questioned him, the more irritated James became. He did not have to answer to this man who quizzed him upon things that were not, in fact, his business. He did not have to answer to this man for anything.

  I am the duke.

  The thought came unbidden, from some hidden depths of his soul that he’d not yet explored. It was a shock to him to find himself so possessive over the title. It was another moment, one after another, that shocked him with his increasing sense of duty and determination to serve the title and all the people who came with it.

  Mr. Collins would think only of the things—the houses and the horses, the good silver and the servants. And in doing so, he would wreck lives, to say nothing of the estates.

  The truth was plain, if heartbreaking: he couldn’t be the man he wanted or needed to be if he up and ran off with Meredith, or if he even allowed any intimacy between them at all.

  Later that evening

  While James and Mr. Collins took brandy together in the dining room after supper, Meredith joined the ladies for tea in the drawing room. All the Cavendish sisters could discuss was how boorish and horrible they found their “cousin.”

  “You had better hope your brother weds soon,” the duchess said, pausing in lifting her teacup to her lips. “It would be dreadful if your fates should rely upon the charity of Mr. Collins. No, the only way to assure your security is to marry or for James to wed and sire an heir. Or for one of you to wed Mr. Collins.”

  Something clenched around Meredith’s heart. The pressure for James to wed would only increase—perhaps it would even come from his sisters. Soon, soon she would lose absolutely any chance with him.

  Not that she had much of one.

  The words of The London Weekly’s gossip column from a few days earlier were burned into her memory and, even worse, had made a probably permanent, painful impression on her heart.

  Lady Winston is telling anyone who will listen that the Duke of Durham has taken a particular interest in her otherwise on-the-shelf daughter, Lady Jemma. It seems like these two horse-mad people might have found their perfect match.

  Meredith was no fool; she knew what was happening. James was finally embracing the dukedom, and was finally stepping up to do his duty. It meant leaving her behind in favor of a suitable match. And he’d found someone!

  It wasn’t just the item in the newspaper, either, now that she thought about it. He had changed since he returned from his brief trip to Durham Park. She noticed the difference the minute he had alighted from the carriage. His bearing was different: his gaze more focused, his shoulders more square.

  “Ah, and here is His Grace and Mr. Collins now,” the duchess said as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies.

  “What have we missed?” James asked.

  “We were just discussing our dear ‘cousin,’” Amelia said with a grim smile.

  “All good things, I hope!” Mr. Collins said nervously.

  Three Cavendish sisters merely sipped their tea and smiled tightly.

  “Of course, Mr. Collins,” the duchess murmured.

  Meredith stole a glance at James. His mouth was pressed in a firm line.

  She touched her fingers to her own lips, remembering the taste of him, the weight of his body against hers, the sound of his breath catching, the way he looked in the shadows. Most of all she remembered how they felt so right together.

  Connections like that didn’t just come along every day—or night. Meredith’s brain spun, considering all the things that had to transpire for them to find one another, to find that connection: his father fleeing England and raising his son in America so that he might be brought up without such a strict view of class that would allow him to actually notice her. The miracle of the duchess taking in a common girl and raising her in the ducal household. The journeys they had taken that led them to that one night in Southampton.

  And then, and only then, all it took was a glance across a room and a smile for that something between them to spar
k to life.

  She glanced at him now, expecting to find him looking at her and expecting to catch his eye. But his attentions were elsewhere.

  As the family chattered away, the hour grew late, and Meredith’s heart grew heavy because suddenly something had changed in James.

  He would not look at her.

  There were no secret smiles or smoldering glances to let her know that he still felt something for her. She felt cold in their absence.

  The minutes ticked by, and still, he would not look at her.

  She didn’t realize how much she’d come to expect and savor those smoldering glances.

  Meredith knew what was happening: the dukedom was getting to him. Soon he would wed, he would have a wife and children and an estate to manage. In time she would be nothing more than just a girl he’d shared a bed with one night.

  Her heart rebelled at the thought of being so inconsequential to him.

  If she had a chance at real love with him, she would have to seize it soon. Was she just going to let it go, or was she going to do something?

  As the family conversed about parties she hadn’t attended, comments she had missed from dinner, or things that generally did not concern a woman of her position, Meredith sipped her tea and nursed feelings of acute loneliness.

  It made her heart ache.

  It made her desperate.

  Finally, Mr. Collins took his leave and the family members drifted off to their bedchambers. Meredith was too restless to sleep, especially when she noticed a light in the duke’s study.

  She should not go to him.

  Under no circumstances should she seek him out. Not when the sky was dark, the hour late, and her heart in turmoil.

  But . . . They had found each other after a series of incredible events, and then he had kissed her with all the heat and longing she felt, too. That something between them hadn’t gone away, no matter how they had tried.

  She wouldn’t let it go away.

  Meredith knocked on the door and stepped into the study.

  When James looked up and saw her, he said her name. “Meredith.”

  She couldn’t quite read his expression. Was he shocked to see her, or nervous? Whatever it was, she didn’t see that slow, seductive smile or the sparkle in his eye that she had come to expect. Her pulse started to race, with panic, not passion. “What brings you here?”

  “I saw the light . . .”

  He lifted one brow as if to say, and?

  And then she didn’t know what to say.

  This was a mistake. She should not have come here, like a lovesick girl. She should never have kissed him or even spoken to him that night in Southampton.

  But she had done all those things, and somehow her heart had become involved. Now it was bursting with fears and feelings. So here she was, speechless in his study, after midnight, trying to decide where to begin. She needed to explain herself.

  “I don’t know anything about horses,” Meredith blurted out.

  “Do you need to?”

  “Lady Jemma does.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Comprehension dawned. The man had three sisters. Of course he understood that she was in the throes of jealousy, and in a comparison between herself and another woman, she came up wanting.

  “I don’t have the connections, or birthright, and I don’t know anything about horses or America. But I know you. I know what it feels like when we kiss. When we are together. I haven’t forgotten that night, James. I think about it all the time.”

  “Meredith . . .” His voice was sad. Or was that pity? She couldn’t stand if it were pity. Or sadness. Neither of those boded well for her. For them.

  “I know, I shouldn’t speak of this. But I cannot help myself. My self-restraint is failing me.”

  “Why are you saying this? Why are you saying this now?”

  Because I am losing you.

  Because I am losing my surest chance at love and happiness.

  “I read the newspapers about you and Lady Jemma,” she said. He frowned. “I noticed that you’ve changed since your trip to Durham Park. This—all this—is changing you. I see it happening. I see you slipping away. And tonight . . . tonight you wouldn’t look at me. You’re the only one who has ever really seen me, James, and tonight you wouldn’t even look at me.”

  “Meredith, don’t.” He looked away.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “You told me to try to fulfill the duties of my position. To do my duty.”

  “I know.”

  He stood abruptly, and in one stride he stood before her, making her feel petite and vulnerable, which made her want to throw herself into his arms even more.

  “You told me we could never be together,” he growled, gripping her shoulders. “Not in any real way. Not in the honorable, dignified way that I want to be with you every day and every night.”

  “I know,” she cried, anguished. But she had more to say, driven by the panic that she was losing him. “That’s still true. But, James, don’t we feel so right together? Don’t answer, I know you know it, too. What I feel for you, James, it consumes me. It makes me break the rules, throw caution to the wind, risk everything. Because the reward—your love—is worth it. I guess what I am trying to say is pick me, James. Be true to you, and to us, and to hell with what anyone says. We can run away together. We can be happy. If you just pick me.”

  There was a long, aching silence in which she had laid herself bare, and he released his grip on her and said nothing.

  Nothing.

  And she knew.

  He didn’t have to say a word for her heart to break. Because she knew duty, or the duchess, or the dukedom had gotten to him. One or all of them had wormed their way into his head and his heart and there was no more space for her.

  If he would only just look at her, she might see the sadness and desire for her still in his eyes. Maybe. But he couldn’t or wouldn’t look at her.

  And so, she knew.

  This was ending now and it was not going to end well.

  James took another small step close to her, close enough to kiss her. But instead of his mouth claiming hers, he spoke in a low voice right into her ear. These were words for her alone to hear.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Meredith. Believe me when I say it is the last thing I want to do. If I were being selfish and thinking only of myself I would be kissing you now instead of saying these words. These impossible, sad words that hurt me as much as they hurt you. But I can’t be selfish anymore. I cannot think only of myself. Please, believe me when I say my heart is breaking. Because Meredith, we can’t be together.”

  He was close enough to kiss.

  He was so close that she could feel the warmth from his body.

  He was so close and he murmured these devastating things.

  And then he took one step back, then another. The cold rushed in, and the distance between them grew.

  James looked at her then. His blue eyes bright with tears that she knew would never fall.

  “I’m so sorry, Meredith.”

  And he did sound so very sorry. Somehow this failed to console her.

  “I was wrong,” she said, her voice small and broken. “So wrong. One kiss can hurt.”

  He just nodded—in agreement. At another time this might have outraged her. In this moment, it was the last little tap of the hammer that sent her heart shattering.

  James took another step back and then, with one last look over his shoulder at her, quit the room.

  Meredith stood there, shaking, as she listened to his footsteps cross the foyer and up the stairs to the master bedroom.

  It was over. Whatever it was, it was over.

  She blew out the lone candle on the desk, and darkness enveloped her, a girl who had finally been seen and noticed but still left behind.

  Chapter 13

  Just as a duke must remember his place, so should everyone else in His Grace’s household.

  —The Rules for Duk
es

  The house was quiet that evening as Meredith stayed home while the family went to Almack’s.

  She’d never been so aware of her place before—not quite a servant and not quite a lady. The gratitude she’d previously felt for the advantages of her position had recently given way to a feeling of being nothing more than an ornamental knickknack on the mantelpiece. These days, she felt like one that continually needed to be put back in its place after the maid moved it for dusting.

  Meredith wasn’t sure she wanted to be put back, just so. Perhaps she wanted to jump off the mantel, off the shelf, and venture out into the world. Perhaps she wanted more than occupying this middle space, to serve her own ambitions rather than the duchess’s.

  All this pressure to wed put on the Cavendish siblings was starting to get under her skin. It made her aware that a wedding of her own was unlikely to be in her future—not to James, not to anyone. Her duty was to the duchess.

  Now. Forever. Always.

  In spite of recent attempts otherwise. Meredith couldn’t explain why, but there was no denying that at certain moments it became too much to bear, and James was . . . there. Ready to catch her as she flung herself off the shelf and into the world.

  But then she would recover her composure and purpose and endeavor to carry on. It had been mortifying to have to face James after she had thrown herself at him, like a lovesick and desperate girl. It was the pity in his eyes that really burned.

  Devastation, heartbreak, and embarrassment set in, leaving her hot and irritable from morning through the night. She could not bear to face him, but avoiding him was a challenge.

  He was there at the breakfast table.

  She was aware of him, busy in his study as he tackled the business of being a duke—there were account books to manage, correspondence to tend to, meetings with estate managers and other peers of the realm about matters of parliament. This so-called simple horse farmer tackled it all.