Thwarting the Duke

by Ava Stone

  “I heard you,” Emma replied, careful to keep her voice as nonchalant as she could. She tapped her skates against the ice while tugging her cap down tighter over her head, hoping the wool would muffle her sister’s voice.

  Mary set her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at Emma, just precisely as Mother always did before announcing how Emma was failing to behave as a proper lady should. It was extraordinary and disheartening how alike Mother and Mary were and how very unlike them Emma was.

  Mary narrowed her eyes. “I cannot remember why I let you persuade me to come with you on this escapade, but my senses have returned. We should leave.”

  The wool experiment was a failure, and Emma stifled an irritated sigh, her pulse ticking up with worry. She couldn’t leave! Not until she saw Nathaniel. She’d long ago taken to thinking of him by his Christian name rather than Lord Nathaniel. One did not think of one’s future husband so formally. Ever since Emma had been eight and he’d wiped away her tears at the home of his great-uncle, the Duke of Danby, after a fight she’d had with her mother, Emma had thought of him secretly as Nathaniel. He’d run his bare thumb over her cheek and told her she was perfect. She thought him perfect, as well. Her adoration of him only grew from that day forward.

  Fate, or rather his constantly being away at school, had made it impossible to spend much time with him to discern if he truly was as perfect for her as she thought. However, she had seen him here and there over the years, and twice more, he’d done things that made her heart squeeze and her breath catch. Like the time he’d threatened to plant a facer on Peter Strattford when the boy had teased her, or when Nathaniel had asked her to dance at his great-uncle’s ball last year, when no one else had asked her. She remembered the strength of his arms around her and the warm spice of his breath against her cheek.

  And now that Mother was insisting Emma secure a marriage proposal this Season and Nathaniel was home from school at last, Emma simply had to get to know him. She needed to find out whether he was truly the man for her or not.

  “Emmaline, are you ignoring me?” Mary demanded.

  She looked Mary in the eye. “No, I thought I saw Lord Nathaniel. Please, give me a few more minutes. I shall endeavor not to embarrass you.”

  Mary’s stern gaze softened. “If you’d only try to act more like a proper lady.”

  “I do try,” Emma replied distractedly as she glanced back toward the ice. “It’s not as easy as you make it seem.”

  Mary snorted. “I’d hardly call last week’s race in Hyde Park you attempting to behave as a proper lady.”

  Emma stared down at the ice and half expected to see it thawing with the heat of her rising temper. Mary simply didn’t understand. Emma was different. She didn’t like all the things she was supposed to like, and no matter how hard she tried, it was clear to everyone around her. No one understood, except perhaps Papa, and that was because he was like her or rather she was like him.

  He preferred to have his nose in a book instead of keeping a discerning eye on the state of his affairs, and like her, no matter how hard Papa tried, everyone knew he was horrid at the role of pragmatic earl. He would have been much better suited to being a quixotic inventor, yet he’d been born an earl. She inhaled a long breath. She would have been much better suited to being an independent man, yet she’d been born a woman whose fate—everyone kept telling her—was to live and die by the thousands of rules Society forced upon her.

  She curled her gloved hands into fists and tried to beat back the tide of annoyance that was rising up, but it was no use. Out came a hot, irritated breath, fluttering a loose strand of her inky hair, which had been hanging in front of her right eye. “Cousin Jeffrey practically challenged me in the park when he told everyone I was an inferior rider! What was I supposed to do?” she demanded, regretting the words and the slip of her temper the moment Mary’s eyes went from narrowed to slits.

  “Ignore him,” Mary replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “He’s foolish and you know it.”

  She did know it, but her pride had stolen her good senses as it so often did. “I am a far superior rider,” Emma muttered.

  “No one saw that, Emmaline. All they noted was your galloping across Hyde Park like a man would. All they remembered was that you once again behaved improperly. However will you find a husband if you cannot manage to comport yourself like a lady?”

  “I’m comporting myself like a lady now,” Emma retorted, keeping her voice low to prove it even though she wanted to scream. “What’s more ladylike than setting one’s sights on the gentleman one wants to marry?”

  Mary scoffed. “Emmaline, your silly girlhood infatuation must come to an end today. Just because his lordship once told you that you were perfect does not mean he believed it. He was simply being nice.” Mary raised an eyebrow.

  Emma’s stomach roiled. She swallowed hard. Mary had struck Emma’s biggest fear with an invisible hammer: that Nathaniel had simply taken pity on her that day.

  “Just a half hour more, I beg you,” Emma pleaded. “If I don’t see him—”

  “He’s to your left,” Mary blurted, her eyes widening with obvious surprise. “But don’t look!”

  Emma immediately glanced to her left, and as her gaze found Nathaniel, her stomach knotted. He looked perfect, as always. The dark blue coat he wore nicely displayed his broad shoulders while superbly contrasting all that was golden about him, from his light hair to his brown, gold-flecked eyes. He stood facing his older brother, the always-serious Duke of Blackbourne. His Grace was speaking rapidly, as if he was lecturing, or at least it appeared that way to Emma. When her mother lectured, she always spoke in a rush.

  Emma’s heart squeezed for Nathaniel. She’d heard the gossipmongers twitter about some scandal attached to him recently—something about being thrown out of Oxford—but Emma refused to believe he would compromise a lady. He was an honorable man. Well, her heart told her he was, anyway.

  “I’m going to skate by him and drop my handkerchief,” Emma said hurriedly, her excitement exploding in her chest.

  Mary gasped. “No, Emmaline! A true lady would never—”

  Emma turned her skates sharply away from her sister and shoved off, blessedly not hearing the rest of whatever Mary said. She knew very well what she was supposed to do. She didn’t need Mary to tell her that a proper lady would simply stand there and wait and pray that Nathaniel noticed her and came to speak to her. A proper lady might even skate very slowly and primly by him in hopes that he would take note and say hello.

  Emma had tried to be proper around him ever since years before when Mother had said that the only thing Nathaniel likely remembered about her was that she had climbed a tree at his great-uncle’s home when she was a child, fallen out, and received a much-deserved scolding. Yet the handful of times she’d seen him through the years, he only seemed to notice her when she was being her improper self, which only served to prove that they belonged together. He liked her as she truly was.

  Emma glided over the thick, gleaming ice toward the edge of the Serpentine where Nathaniel stood with his brother near a mead tent someone had pitched. The cold, crisp air whistled in her ears as it washed over her face and made her cheeks burn. She slowed as she got closer, took out her handkerchief, and dropped it right in front of Nathaniel. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed.

  His eyebrows shot up, then slowly lowered along with his gaze, which slid down her body to her handkerchief before returning to her face.

  He grinned. “Lady Emmaline?”

  She barely resisted frowning. “You say my name as if you’re unsure it’s me.”

  Nathaniel chuckled. “You’ve changed greatly since last I saw you.”

  “Well, it has been a year,” she blurted, before she thought better of revealing that she knew exactly how much time had passed since she’d last seen him.

  Nathaniel threw his head back and laughed, but the duke frowned. Emma struggled not to scowl at the man. The few times she had run across His
Grace, he had offered the necessary greetings, yet his words held no warmth, much like his cool gray eyes. Nathaniel, on the other hand, had warm eyes and an even warmer smile. She felt positively heated by his appreciative gaze.

  He bent down, retrieved her handkerchief, and handed it to her. “The last year has been well to you,” he said in a voice that made her belly flutter.

  “Nathaniel,” His Grace said in a warning tone that reminded Emma of her mother.

  Nathaniel cut his gaze to his brother then back to her. He let out a sigh, and she tensed. He was going to bid her good day, and all because of his brother! She could feel it! She openly scowled at the Duke of Blackbourne now, who appeared not to notice, but when she looked at Nathaniel from under her lashes, she noted his lips twitching upward into an amused smile.

  Nathaniel met her eyes. “Perhaps, I will see you in a bit? I must finish discussing some business with my brother.”

  The Duke of Blackbourne inclined his head to her, and she couldn’t help noticing how lovely and thick his black hair was…and how perfectly it suited his dark personality. A nervous laugh escaped her with the errant thought, and she quickly slapped a gloved hand over her mouth. She positively hated when she did that.

  She took a deep breath and spoke. “Good day, Your Grace. And Lord Nathaniel, perhaps we will see each other again soon.” Emma forced herself to turn and skate away through the throng of people. Her heart pounded as she headed toward a less crowded section of the ice where hopefully Nathaniel would see her and join her.

  To her right, she saw a flash of purple, and she knew immediately that her sister, always too proper to actually skate, had followed Emma’s progress along the edge of the Serpentine.

  When Emma stole a glance, her sister’s scowl was plain enough even from the distance that separated them. Emma frowned. From Mary’s irritated expression, she had no doubt her sister’s patience for this outing was almost expired. She spun around and glanced toward Nathaniel, who was still talking to his brother. She had to do something drastic to get him on the ice with her or Mary would drag her home.

  Mother would likely blister her ears tonight for seeking out Nathaniel’s attention, but Emma didn’t care. If Mother had her way, she’d marry Emma off to a dull gentleman who wouldn’t let her race horses, skate too fast, laugh too loud, or dance with too much enthusiasm. Emma shuddered. Such a life would kill her.

  She sucked a breath of cool air into her lungs. Her limbs tingled in anticipation as she took off around the wide-open space. She made a circle as she glided around, picking up speed as she went. Her cap flew off and her hair blew behind her. The distant noise of people talking faded as the swish of her skates against the ice and the hiss of the air from her pace filled her ears.

  She skated around once, twice, three times—so exhilarated that she whooped with joy—and then she did something her mother would surely scold her for later, saying it was the most unpardonable, unladylike faux paus ever: she threw her arms wide and she spun until she was laughing so hard that tears leaked from her eyes. If Nathaniel didn’t join her now, then so be it.

  Lucian pulled his gaze away from Lady Emmaline’s lithe, graceful form as she skated away. He rarely thought Nathaniel was correct about much, but his brother was perfectly right that Lady Emmaline had greatly changed. The last time Lucian had seen her—had it truly been a year since his great-uncle Danby’s Christmas party?— she’d been all gangly limbs, and he could clearly recall her standing alone in a corner staring at the dancers. He’d asked Nathaniel to partner with her and then ordered him when he’d refused. Lucian would have partnered with her himself, but by the way she always stared at Nathaniel, Lucian knew that she liked his brother.

  Nathaniel hiccupped and Lucian frowned. “You’ve drunk too much mead,” he growled under his breath just as his brother seemed to sway with the wind. Nathaniel tipped precariously to the right, and Lucian grabbed his elbow and steadied him.

  “Thank you, Lucian,” Nathaniel slurred, then offered a mock salute before turning his attention back to the ice where hundreds of people were skating. The lot of them seemed unencumbered with responsibility. He, however, had so much responsibility that he had a constant ache coiling across the breadth of his shoulders.

  He tried to force his mouth into a smile, but his skin felt like it would crack under the foreign movement, so he let the effort go. Dukes didn’t smile anyway. It was a known and accepted fact. Dukes made decisions that would increase the family money. Dukes solved problems, offered advice, and commanded when necessary. Lucian took a deep breath and prepared to do the last three directly.

  He tugged a hand through his hair as he looked at his brother. Nathaniel was younger by seven years, yet at times, Lucian felt as if he were easily twenty years older than his brother. He was tired of feeling so old and burdened, but what choice was there? He was the duke and had been since his father’s death fourteen years ago. “Nathaniel, we need to discuss your problems.”

  “I don’t have any.” Nathaniel’s expression grew hard and resentful.

  “I’d say you do,” Lucian countered, careful to keep his tone neutral to avoid a quarrel.

  “And I’d say”—Nathaniel’s voice was distinctly bitter—“that you need me to have problems so you will continue to feel like the better son.”

  Lucian felt a tick start in his jaw. He’d expected resistance, but this nastiness was new. “That’s not true, and you know it. I have never thought I was better than you. This talk today is not about me. Your love of gambling and innocent debutantes, whom you somehow persuade to do unwise things, is a problem.”

  “I’ve stolen no innocence.” Nathaniel offered a cheeky grin. “Only kisses.”

  “This damnable attitude is what keeps getting you into trouble,” Lucian growled.

  Nathaniel clamped Lucian on the shoulder. “I do believe you’re simply jealous because I have fun and you never have any,” he finished, blowing his mead-drenched breath at Lucian.

  Lucian shrugged his brother off. “When the devil are you going to grow up?”

  Hostility flared in Nathaniel’s eyes, and stark relief filled Lucian. Lately, with all the messes Nathaniel had created, Lucian had been wondering if his brother cared about anything. But if he was angry, he must care.

  “Why do I need to grow up?” Nathaniel demanded. “You’re mature enough for both of us.”

  “Nathaniel—”

  “For God’s sake,” he snapped. “You’d think after years of me telling you to call me Nathan you’d damn well do it.”

  Lucian clenched his jaw. He couldn’t call his brother Nathan, and he could never explain why. To embrace that casualness again meant he thought he could be anything other than the duke who sorted out the complications his family created, and he knew well he could not. He could never be carefree again as he’d been before Father died. He wasn’t Luc anymore, as his brother had finally quit calling him, and Nathaniel could never be Nathan again. Their mother had seen to that when her actions had inadvertently led to their father’s death. He forced himself to loosen his jaw. Dukes got angry, but they never showed it.

  He’d agreed to come here today only because he’d that hoped talking to Nathaniel in a more relaxed setting, would keep him from becoming angry and then maybe he’d listen. Lucian refocused on the matter at hand. He softened his voice, trying to sound casual rather than critical. “What are you going to do now that you’ve been kicked out of Oxford?”

  “I’ve not given it much thought,” Nathaniel snapped as he turned and gazed out at the ice. Lucian stared in the direction his brother was looking and tried to determine what had caught his eye. It only took a moment to discern what—or rather who—had Nathaniel’s rapt attention. In the distance, Lady Emmaline spun in fast circles, her arms splayed wide, her face turned up to the gleaming sun, and her long black hair—a stark contrast to the snowy cape she wore—billowed around her.

  “You’d do well to leave the enchanting snow fairy alone,
” Lucian said.

  Nathaniel snorted as he took a step toward the ice. “How surprisingly poetic of you, Lucian,” Nathaniel said as he took another step.

  Lucian clutched his arm. “Didn’t getting booted from Oxford for dallying with the chancellor’s daughter teach you anything about the complications that enticing innocent debutants can create?”

  “The man is a stuffy prig,” Nathaniel retorted without so much as a glance back.

  Lucian ground his teeth. The promise he’d made his father to help Nathaniel become a good, honorable man seemed almost impossible to keep at times. “I hardly think being angry at finding his daughter in your arms in his library makes him a stuffy prig.”

  Nathaniel finally faced Lucian with the lazy, devil-may-care smile he so often wore. “As I explained, I merely caught her when she fell from the book ladder.”

  Lucian cocked his eyebrows. “That was quite some fall to have made her hair come unpinned and her lips swollen.”

  Nathaniel raised his hand as if studying his nails in boredom. “Her lips are naturally big. Her poor father refuses to admit she has a flaw, and the ladder was high.”

  “Hmm…I was told it was three steps.”

  Nathaniel smirked. “Three steps is quite the height for uncoordinated people.”

  This was getting them nowhere, and Lucian needed to return home. He had ledgers to go over. “Let’s dispense with this farce, shall we? In the last two years, you’ve managed to get yourself kicked out of Oxford and Cambridge, and all over dallying with women with whom you have no damn right to dally. These girls have reputations, Nathaniel. You risked their futures.” And Lucian could not seem to stop his brother from doing things to purposely bring trouble to himself. It was maddening.