No Dukes Allowed

by Grace Burrowes, Kelly Bowen, Anna Harrington

  Tonight’s ball was mercifully free from trailing ivy or dead tigers or wilting foliage, and Oliver sipped his punch as Miss Burton danced with a blond man he didn’t recognize. Her eyes were sparkling, and her cheeks were flushed. Possibly from the heat, but perhaps her present company had her glowing. She was wearing a pretty green dress that complemented her pretty red hair and pretty green eyes, and Oliver felt… nothing. Only a heightened sense of determination that he needed to do the right thing. For all of them.

  He put his empty glass on the tray of a passing footman as the music wound down. Miss Burton and her partner bowed to each other, and the man made to lead her off the floor. Oliver stepped smoothly into their path.

  “Miss Burton,” he said. “Perhaps you would do me the honor of the next dance?”

  He watched as Miss Burton’s face went the color of bleached linen. Her eyes darted around the room, and her entire demeanor put him in mind of a rabbit cornered by a fox. The man beside her shifted so that he stood almost between them.

  Oliver bowed, mostly to give the lady time to recover her wits. Or possibly bolt.

  Her dance partner cleared his throat. “Miss Burton? Are you all right?”

  Her eyes flew from Oliver to the man at her side, and she seemed to collect herself somewhat. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy. For the dance.”

  The blond man hesitated. “I can stay.”

  “I need a brief moment with Mr. Graham.” Her gaiety sounded forced.

  The man bowed and nodded and moved away, glancing over his shoulder numerous times.

  “Mr. Graham,” Miss Burton squeaked. “I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you were out of town.”

  “I was. I’m back.”

  “I see. How did you find me?”

  Oliver’s frown deepened. “I spoke to a stable lad at your aunt’s house who told me this is where I would find your carriage. And you.”

  “I see.” She was rotating the gold bangle on her wrist, around and around.

  A phalanx of couples moved into position for a quadrille. To his left, a gaggle of dowagers were staring in Oliver’s direction, their painted fans covering whatever gossip was coming out of their mouths. Given Miss Burton’s reaction, he was beginning to think that it was best that they did not have an audience.

  “Perhaps, Miss Burton, instead of a dance, there might be someplace we can go where we can have a conversation?”

  Miss Burton swallowed hard before she nodded. He offered her his arm, and she took it after a brief hesitation. He could barely feel her hand, but she followed him willingly enough out through the polished halls. Her face was even paler if that was possible, and now her eyes were swimming. She looked like he was leading her to her execution.

  Outside of the ballroom, Oliver ducked into the nearest doorway, Miss Burton still at his side. He found himself in a drawing room of some sort, a collection of ornate couches interspersed with several carved tables scattered around the room. On the nearest wall, a wide hearth loomed, the coals that had been lit against the evening chill still glowing. Oliver pulled the door closed behind them.

  “It’s lovely to see you again, Miss Burton,” he started, trying to put her at ease, but Miss Burton had already pulled away from him and was pacing the room like a caged animal looking for a way out. Which, he supposed, was better than a frightened rabbit, but it certainly didn’t encourage small talk.

  Perhaps this had been a mistake. Perhaps he should have sent a message ahead to her aunt’s house. But sending a message would have meant that he’d be required to speak to her aunt, and any other family members who might be in Brighton. It would have meant he wouldn’t be able to have the brutal, forthright conversation that he needed to have with Hannah, and Hannah alone. And this was the only way he’d thought he could do that.

  “Miss Burton,” he said again, with more force. She was clearly distressed, and there was no point in drawing this out. “I’m sorry to catch you unaware like this,” he began, reaching for the words he had so very carefully rehearsed in his mind. “I know it’s been a long time.”

  Miss Burton didn’t even turn to look at him, just kept pacing at the far end of the room.

  “I think you know why I’m here. And I will get straight to the point. Our families made an agreement on our behalves many years ago.” He took a deep breath. There was no easy way to say it. “But we can no longer get married.”

  She looked like she was about to cast up her accounts. “No,” she croaked.

  Oliver tried to soften his voice. “Miss Burton, I—”

  “Stop,” she cried, putting her hands over her face. “Just stop.”

  Oliver winced. He knew in his heart that this was the right thing to do, but that didn’t make it any less awful. He didn’t want to hurt this woman.

  Miss Burton sank onto one of the couches, her hands still over her face. “Diana was right. You are a good man, Mr. Graham.” The last was said on a sob that came out more like a hiccup.

  That made him feel even worse.

  “You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of this.”

  He blinked. That made no sense. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Miss Burton, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He wasn’t sure if she heard him over her sniffling. He raised his voice. “It is I who owes you an apol—”

  “You owe me nothing.” Miss Burton’s hands dropped to her lap, and she stared down at them, her eyes puffy and her face splotchy red. “Nothing at all.”

  Oliver approached the miserable woman with the care he usually reserved for wild, unpredictable creatures. “I’ve come back to England a wealthy man,” he said carefully. “If you need—”

  “You think I wouldn’t marry you unless you were rich?” she cried. “You think that’s what I care about?”

  “That isn’t at all what I was about to suggest.” Somehow, this conversation had got away from him. “But in all honesty, Miss Burton, I don’t know what you care about. I barely know you.”

  She slumped. “Which is just as well. Hating me will be easier.”

  Oliver sat gingerly on the couch opposite her. “I don’t hate you.”

  “You will.”

  “Why would I ever hate you?”

  She swiped at her tears and stared at him. “Because I can’t marry you.”

  “Yes, I believe we’ve covered that.” He passed her the kerchief from his pocket.

  She took it and glanced down at the small G embroidered on the corner of the fine linen. “I assume it was Diana.”

  “It was,” he said quietly. “It is.” That was a truth that she deserved.

  Hannah kept her red-rimmed eyes fixed on the kerchief, her lips quivering. “I’ve betrayed you in the most grievous of ways. And I’ve been a horrible, selfish friend to Diana. How did she find out?”

  “What?”

  “You just said Diana told you that we can’t wed.” She looked askance at him.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then how did you know I can’t marry you?”

  “You’ve got this all wrong, Miss Burton. It is I who cannot honorably marry you, no matter what past arrangements our families made. I am in love with another. With Diana.”

  She was blinking at him furiously, utter confusion stamped on her petite features. “You’re in love with—” She stopped abruptly. “You’re in love with Diana.”

  “Yes.”

  A strangled sound escaped from her lips. “Oh God. She didn’t tell you anything. Because she still doesn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  Hannah put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes.

  Oliver cursed silently. This was ridiculous. “Miss Burton,” he said firmly, seizing control of the muddled, bizarre shreds of this conversation. “I take full responsibility for this decision, even if it means sacrificing my honor for love and happiness. I hope with all my heart that you are able to find the same one day. But for as long as you need, y
ou will have my protection and support and whatever resources you require. I don’t know what it is that you think you did or said that would make me hate you or ever prevent you from marrying me—”

  “I’m already married.”

  Oliver blanched. “You’re what?”

  Miss Burton’s chin rose a notch. “I’m already married.”

  Somewhere deep inside of him, something turbulent and exultant rose in his chest. And it kept rising, making further speech impossible, until it burst like the froth released from a corked champagne bottle, fizzing and flooding everywhere. And he laughed. Not just chuckled, but great, heaving gasps of laughter that had tears running down his cheeks. He bent double, his head in his hands, and by the time he got himself under control, Miss Burton was staring at him, her eyes dry.

  Wordlessly, she passed his kerchief back to him, and he wiped his own face.

  “Congratulations,” he said when he was able. “What should I call you now?” She wasn’t Miss Burton any longer.

  “Hannah,” she said. “Hannah Fitzroy.” She twisted her fingers in her lap.

  He watched her, the fragmented pieces of their conversation falling together to make sense. “I must assume that there were no banns or flowers or wedding breakfast.”

  “There was a breakfast.” She blushed but did not look away. “A breakfast for two. In Scotland.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ve only been married a month. No one knows.”

  “Except me.”

  “Except you,” she agreed. “I’m sorry. I should have written to you long ago. Ended our betrothal properly, when I knew that I couldn’t possibly marry you.”

  “When you fell in love.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Oliver said. “I admire your courage.”

  “My courage?” She gaped at him. “I’m not courageous. I got married in secret because I knew I would never be allowed to marry the man I love. I knew what sort of scandal it would bring down on my family. And yours. I’ve booked our passages to New York, leaving in a fortnight, and I’ve begged my husband not to tell anyone. I thought that once we were gone from here, my entire existence could merely be forgotten.” She looked like she was going to cry again. “When I saw you here, in Brighton, I panicked. Hid behind ballroom décor so that I didn’t have to face you. Fled through morning room windows. Those are not the actions of a courageous person.”

  “Hannah—”

  “I’ve treated you horribly. Didn’t even consider what it would be like when you were left here, fielding all the gossip and speculation about why the woman you were supposed to marry ran away.”

  Oliver put a reassuring hand on her arm. “Hannah, I’m fine. Given everything I’ve survived these last years, I think I can weather a little gossip without too much trouble. Whatever you decide, know that I’ll support you.”

  She sniffled. “Thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  “My family is going to be furious. I’m going to disappoint a lot of people.”

  “But not me. And more importantly, not yourself.”

  Hannah sniffed again and smiled. “Not myself.”

  “You chose love, not because it was easy, but because it was right. A very smart person recently told me that that takes courage.”

  Hannah laughed weakly. “Perhaps.” She looked at him. “Do you forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “I hope Diana will too.”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand.”

  Hannah gazed at him, her eyes clear. “She loves you too, doesn’t she?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “She’s never said anything to me.”

  “The two of you make a fine pair, then,” Oliver said lightly.

  “Will you tell her that I’ll come see her tomorrow?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She tipped her head. “I’m not sure what you’re still doing here with me, Mr. Graham,” she said. “I think that there is somewhere else you need to be right now.”

  Oliver swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

  Hannah got to her feet, and Oliver rose with her. “Good luck, Mr. Graham.”

  Oliver caught her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. “Good luck, Mrs. Fitzroy.”

  She smiled at him and moved toward the door, pausing as she lifted the latch. “Perhaps I might send you a letter from New York sometime,” she said, almost shyly.

  “I’d like that,” he replied. “I’d like that very much.”

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  The candle sputtered in the breeze coming through the window but didn’t extinguish.

  She should get up and blow the flame out, Diana thought idly, but she couldn’t seem to move. Instead, she stared up at the ceiling, her eyes tracing the same crack in the plaster in the way she’d been doing for the last three hours. The crack started at the very edge of the west wall, fine and delicate, but by the time it got to the center, the edges were rough and wide.

  Not so different than how her heart had cracked. Cracked and then shattered beyond repair. Perhaps she would leave Brighton tomorrow. Maybe travel north, back to her family’s country house. At least until she knew that Oliver had left for Hertfordshire. Leaving was cowardly, she knew, but the idea of staying here where she might run into him over and over was unbearable. It was different between them now. They couldn’t pretend anymore. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She loved him too much.

  A soft tap at the door had her sitting up. Worried, she slipped from the bed and went to the door, her hand on the latch.

  “Genie? Belinda?”

  “Dee.” Her name was muffled and barely audible.

  Diana froze for a heartbeat before her fingers fumbled with the latch, and she yanked the door open. “What—”

  It was all she managed to say before his mouth was on hers, his hands tangled in her hair.

  “Oliver,” she gasped, and he released her just long enough to close the door behind him with exquisite care, sliding the latch back into place.

  “What are you doing here?” Every part of her instantly, inescapably ached for him.

  His eyes were hungry, devouring her where she stood, and she realized that she wore only her chemise. Though, that seemed unimportant in the face of the precipice that they were standing on.

  “I’m here to tell you that I’m not letting you go. That I refuse. No matter what.”

  She was fevered and chilled all at once.

  “I belong to you, Dee. I’ve belonged to you since we hunted dragons in the dales. Since I couldn’t wait to come home from school at Christmastide, knowing that I would get to see you. Since the night I drank myself into oblivion when you’d written to tell me that you’d married Laurence. Since I saw you in that ballroom, talking to a fern.”

  “It wasn’t a fern I was talking to.” Her thoughts and emotions churned wildly.

  “I know. You were speaking to Hannah Fitzroy, who was trying to avoid having to tell me—and you, for that matter—that she up and married the man of her dreams.”

  Diana put a hand out against the wall to steady herself. “What?”

  “I went to see Hannah tonight. To tell her that I couldn’t marry her because I am already in love with someone else. As it turns out, she’s already beaten me to it.”

  “Hannah’s married?”

  “Happily. Secretly also, in the event that wasn’t obvious.”

  A sound Diana didn’t recognize emerged from her throat, something between a sob and a laugh.

  “I should have waited until morning to see you, I know,” he said. “But I couldn’t. I’m so tired of waiting, Dee.”

  “So you broke in?” She was terrified that this was a dream. That any second now, she would wake up and find herself alone.

  “I didn’t break in,” he said, moving toward her. “The kitchen door was open. Hannah told me which room was yours.”

&nb
sp; She stared up at him in the soft light, his beautiful brown eyes holding hers captive.

  “Marry me,” he said, and his voice was ragged.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  She wasn’t sure who moved first, but in the next second, she was in his arms, his mouth on hers, this kiss just as desperate as the one on the beach. She lost track of time, lost track of how long they kissed, aware only that she couldn’t seem to get enough. She was pressed against him, his heat bleeding through the layers of his clothes as his hands stroked her back, her hips, her shoulders. She groaned, needing, wanting more. Wanting everything.

  “Tell me to stop,” he gasped. “Tell me you want to wait until after we’re married. No matter what I said, I can wait.”

  Diana nipped at his lower lip, her hand sliding beneath the lapels of his coat. “I can’t.”

  Beneath her hands, Oliver shuddered, and she shoved his coat from his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. He bent his head and kissed her again, this time slowly and deliberately, as she unknotted his cravat and then worked the buttons of his waistcoat. Those too fell to the floor, and she made a noise of frustration because he was still wearing too many damn clothes.

  She yanked the bottom of his shirt from his trousers, and he ducked his head long enough for her to pull it off. And then he stood in front of her wearing nothing but his trousers, his chest rising and falling, every ridge of hard muscle beneath all that glorious skin displayed to perfection. A scattering of dark hair across his chest narrowed and trailed off into the waistband of his trousers. She would get there soon enough.

  But right now, she would savor what was in front of her. Explore his magnificent body the way she had fantasized about doing too many times. Her hands went to his shoulders, her fingertips running along the edges of his collarbones and then down over the slopes of muscle. She circled his dark nipples, feeling him shudder again, and bent her head to let her lips trace where her fingers had already gone.

  Her hands roamed lower, her fingers splayed over the sides of his rib cage and around to his lower back. His own hands were still at his sides, allowing her this freedom, but she could feel him nearly vibrating under her touch. She lifted her head, pressing kisses along the underside of his jaw as her fingers moved to the fall of his trousers. He made a tortured sound, his hips arching into her touch, his erection straining at the fabric.