by Julia Quinn
Cows. Was that a soft, mournful moo she heard?
“Tell me why you won’t marry for love.”
The duke’s wholly unexpected question did everything the imagined cows could not. Anne stepped back, searching the man’s face. “But why?” she asked, vulnerability settling upon her skin.
The duke pointed to a rosebush a little farther up the path and urged Anne on. “All will be revealed. But first, tell me.”
“Well, I suppose you’ve a right to the whole story,” Anne reasoned, eyeing him questioningly before turning her gaze back to the path. “You’ve heard half—and only half a story is never enough.”
Chapter 3
“My parents were a love match,” Anne began, her gaze fixed straight ahead. “One of Shakespearean proportions. My mother had a talent for making rash decisions. My father was one of the rashest she ever made.”
Rhys watched as she folded her arms across her chest, the simple act of relaying the story encouraging a physical response to protect herself. “I sense there was not a happy ending?”
“Oh no, Your Grace,” she replied, returning her gaze to his, her tone somber. “I mentioned Shakespeare, did I not? They loved, quarreled, and made up with equal ferocity. They died together in a carriage accident following one such epic argument shortly after I turned twelve. They left me with a distaste for love matches in general and one for myself in particular.”
It was madness, but Rhys wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and ease the ache that so clearly held her heart. He’d only made her acquaintance less than four days past, and yet . . .
That was the problem; Rhys could not answer what came after and yet . . . Or he could not bring himself to.
Anne attempted to smirk but barely managed to hide the desperation visible on her countenance. “I told you: Shakespearean proportions.”
“Well, your marriage will not end in tragedy,” Rhys firmly stated.
Anne faltered and Rhys reached out to steady her, enjoying the feel of her in his arms far too much.
“I do not understand, Your Grace,” she replied. Rhys felt her shiver beneath his touch, watched her breath catch as she fixed her eyes on his.
He fought the urge to quiet her question with a kiss. “I will help you find the right match.” If another more deserving man was to own her future, couldn’t he claim just a little of her present for himself? It was selfish of him, but he needed more time with Miss Brabourne. Craved it as a man would water when lost in the desert. Yes, it was pure selfishness, and he’d pay the price when she married and all but disappeared from his life. But it was all he had.
“There is no one more capable of finding you a husband than me,” he explained, ensuring she had found her footing once more before releasing her and continuing on toward the roses. “You may have studied Debrett’s until your eyes crossed, but I know these men—see them for who they truly are, not what they would have you believe. You cannot argue how useful I will be. And I will not watch you waste any more time only to be banished to the country. Will you have me?”
Rhys mentally cursed his last words, adding, “Will you have my help, that is?”
They’d reached the roses. Anne fingered the soft petals of a red bud, her brows knit together as she considered his words.
“It is quite a generous offer,” she answered flatly. “And I cannot see any reason to refuse you, Your Grace.”
“Excellent,” Rhys replied, breathing a sigh of relief. He had her, at least for a little while longer.
Dearest Bea,
Though I know you’ll find it hard to believe, I do have to wonder if the sixpence isn’t bringing some bit of luck. The Duke of Dorset has offered to aid in my search for a husband.
Anne paused to dip her quill in the ink pot and found she could not write the next sentence. Should she reveal to Beatrice that, in the moment, she’d thought he was going to propose? And that the very idea had quickened her heartbeat until she felt sure the drumming could be heard throughout the whole of the city. And that she did not even have to think on what her answer would be.
She laid the quill down and peered out the window to where the city settled in for the evening, robed in a black night sky. Hours had passed and Anne continued to feel ridiculous. Of course he would not offer her his hand in marriage. They hardly knew each other—even if theirs was a friendship that had deepened far more quickly than Anne had ever experienced before. He was being practical—something she normally claimed of herself.
She picked up the quill again and teased her lip with the soft feathery end. It was her fast-approaching birthday at work, she was sure. Every man was becoming much more attractive a prospect, even those who were not a prospect at all by their own admission. No man considering a woman for a wife would offer to find her a husband.
Anne fought the swell of sadness that her last thought produced. This was no time to abandon who she was and what she wanted. She would leave love and happily-ever-afters to her friends.
She set her quill to foolscap once more.
Admittedly, I had not considered such a strategy before. But in light of my failure to find a suitable match up to this point, I don’t know that I have a choice. Besides, who better to find the man I should marry than the man I could never marry?
Chapter 4
Three nights later
Lady Abingdon’s Gala
Berkeley Square, London
“And I’m telling you, Anne, he’s a bad choice.” Rhys lounged in a leather armchair, a squat tumbler of brandy dangling from one hand.
“But you’ve given me no reason!” Anne paced between the brocade settee and the fireplace where he sat, pausing to confront him. “Declaring that Henry Effingham ‘simply won’t do’ is not a sufficiently good reason to strike him from my list. I’m running out of time. My twenty-first birthday is only five weeks away. She glared at him, frustration literally vibrating through her body.
“He drinks too much,” Rhys said flatly. He privately thought the man was a bloody idiot and couldn’t fathom why Anne had set her sights on him.
Anne threw her hands in the air. “Every man I’ve met drinks too much.” She pointed at the glass in his hand. “Including, apparently, you.”
“I do not,” he said evenly through his teeth, “drink to excess.”
“Oh, very well,” she grudgingly agreed. “Overimbibing is one sin the ton gossips have not attributed to you. More to the point, I’ve not heard that particular sin laid at Lord Effingham’s door, either.”
Rhys snorted. “Only because he doesn’t drink to excess at ton gatherings. If the gossips could see him at gambling hells, they’d tell a different story.”
“Is indulging in spirits his only excess?” Anne inquired, eyeing him dubiously.
“That, and an unhealthy tendency to obey his mother’s commands.” Rhys couldn’t help himself. He knew how much that last claim would irritate Anne.
Anne dropped into the armchair opposite him. “Very well, I suppose I’ll have to eliminate Lord Effingham from my list.”
“I don’t know why you need that bloody list,” he growled at her. Pleased though he was at her abandonment of Effingham, her continued pursuit of a nameless, spineless husband was beyond frustrating.
Actually, in the dead of night, buried under his heavy coverlet, Rhys would have admitted it was the search for a husband at all that enraged him. But it was not the dead of night. And he was not abed. Therefore, he pushed the thought from his mind.
“You’re a well-dowered woman with an impeccable pedigree. Why won’t your uncle let you wait until the right man appears? Why can’t he relent and let you stop hunting a husband?”
“Every woman my age is hunting a husband,” she said dryly. “It’s why you spend so much time avoiding their mamas.”
“That’s completely different,” he argued. “They want the title and the money. You want independence.”
Anne drew in a breath, her green silk gown tightening over
the curve of her breasts.
Rhys didn’t even attempt to look away. He’d been trying to fight the pull of attraction all night and failing repeatedly. Everything about her resonated within him, drew him, demanded he claim her. But this was Anne. She wanted a suitable husband. He didn’t want a wife. When he’d offered to help her, he’d known how hard it would be to give her up, but he’d failed to factor in the difficulty of restraining himself while they were together.
Anne was speaking. He wrenched his thoughts back to their conversation and listened.
“Exactly. Which is why I must find a man willing to marry me who will also agree to my remaining independent. You do remember why you’re here, don’t you? You’re meant to be helping, not hindering.”
“Of course I remember,” he replied, taking a long sip of brandy. How could he forget?
“My uncle will not force me into a marriage I do not want, but neither will he allow me unlimited time to choose an acceptable husband.”
“I hear he’s coming to town,” Rhys commented idly, studying her. He didn’t like the downward curve of her lips. The unhappy set of her shoulders echoed her discouragement, and he felt a twinge of conscience that his description of Effingham’s unsavory character had most likely been the cause.
She glanced up at him through thick lashes and his breath caught.
Every damn time she does that, I get hard. Bloody hell.
“Yes, on business, I presume. Marguerite was rather vague.”
Behind her, the tall case clock’s chimes struck the half hour in deep tones. Anne groaned, her smile rueful.
“I must return.” She rose and shook out her skirt, smoothing a hand over a faint wrinkle in the green silk. “I’m certain Marguerite will be searching for me by now.”
“You go ahead. I’ll follow in a few moments.”
She nodded and turned away.
“Anne.”
Pausing, she glanced back.
“We’ll find you a husband. Don’t give up hope.”
“I won’t cease hoping, but I confess, I’m beginning to lose faith in my plan. I will write to my friends. That always lifts my spirits.”
He chuckled with amusement, the brooding darkness of his mood lifting. “I told you it was a ridiculous plan. You should have agreed with me. I’m sure your friends would.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. Because, being male and a duke, you’re always right.”
“Exactly.” He laughed when she shot him a mock glare. “So fierce,” he teased.
“Good night, Your Grace,” she said, then turned and disappeared out the doorway.
Rhys stared after her. The room was too quiet, too empty without her. He’d only recently faced the fact that this was how it would be in a few short weeks. Anne would either be married or removed to the country. Either way, there would be no more conversations in quiet libraries at balls, no more walks in the garden while her chaperone and his aunt drank tea.
He’d miss her insightful, wry comments on the vagaries of human nature the ton displayed in their petty rivalries and noble actions. He would miss the way she could always make him laugh when he was in a bad mood.
He’d miss her, damn it.
The situation was unacceptable. He’d have to do something to keep her in London and in his life.
Chapter 5
Anne’s maternal uncle Lord William Armbruster had been summoned to his London home via a vague and rather mysterious missive from Lady Marguerite. Uneasy with her lack of information, he’d grown increasingly concerned over the course of the trip from his country estate to his Belgrave Square mansion. The city was never enjoyable. Too many people. And far too much interaction. Lord Armbruster had earned his quiet life in the country. Lady Marguerite had been his only sister’s best friend and had known him since childhood; she was well aware of his dislike for the city. Yet she’d insisted he join her in London as soon as may be. The news could not be good.
He stepped across the threshold of 812 Belgrave Square and handed his hat, caped overcoat, and cane to the butler, Timms.
“Where is Lady Marguerite?” he asked abruptly, nodding in greeting to the man.
“She and Lady Lipscombe are having tea in the yellow salon, my lord.”
“Thank you, Timms.”
“Will you be staying long, sir?”
“That depends,” the general said grimly.
“Very well, my lord.”
William strode down the hallway of his London home to enter the cozy room overlooking Brook Street.
“Ladies.” He bowed perfunctorily, eyeing them with barely restrained concern. “I am here, as requested. Now, will you please tell me why I’ve been called halfway across England at a moment’s notice? Why the urgency? Has something happened to Anne? Is she well?”
“Goodness, William, you always assume the worst,” Marguerite hastened to reassure him, reaching up to pat him on the arm. “Please, do sit down. We can’t converse with you hovering over us.”
He glanced at Lady Lipscombe, his frown deepening.
“Marguerite is correct,” she interjected before he could speak. “Looming over us and frowning won’t intimidate us in the slightest. You should know that by now. Besides”—she smiled, a dimple flashing at the corner of her mouth—“I’m certain you must be famished from your journey and we have your favorite cakes, with tea.”
He stared at her, intent on standing his ground, realizing not for the first time that he’d never managed to do so against the two during the entirety of their friendship. The French were nothing more than irritating toddlers compared to Marguerite and Sylvia.
“Very well. You know I’ve never been able to resist you two, especially when you’re together. When you were young girls and joined with Bella, I was hopeless.”
“We know.” Both ladies’ faces reflected the sadness that always accompanied the mere mention of Anne’s mother. Bella had been an integral member of their circle of three when they were schoolgirls and later, as young married women. Her death had reduced them to a duo. Marguerite’s current widowed state and close connection to Bella were factors that had prompted William’s plea that she sponsor Anne’s debut into society.
Besides, he fancied the idea of the two helping to bring Anne into the society that would become her world. He’d never admit it to the two women, but they meant as much to him as his own sister.
Marguerite poured tea, and conversation was light until William had taken the edge from his hunger. At last, he set aside his cup and plate.
“Very well, I have eaten and consumed two cups of tea. Now, tell me, why did you summon me from the country?”
Marguerite exchanged a loaded glance with Sylvia before turning to William. “We believe Anne and Rhys are becoming close.”
“Anne and Rhys?” William thought for a moment before repeating his question. “Anne and Rhys?”
“The Duke of Dorset,” Marguerite offered helpfully.
Which it was not. At all. “Dorset?” William asked, picturing his niece and . . .
He lifted one eyebrow and shifted his attention to Sylvia. “Your nephew Rhys?”
He shoved his chair back and stood abruptly, though he couldn’t say what he planned to do next.
“William,” both women said as if calming a wild animal.
The general realized he still held his serviette. Tossing the slip of fabric to the table, he pinned Marguerite with an angry gaze. “How could you let this happen?”
“I understand your skepticism, William,” Marguerite started, slowly standing. “But I assure you, this is happy news.”
“I cannot imagine a scenario where this development could be seen as welcome in any way,” he bit out.
Marguerite eyed him warily. “William, take a moment.”
“I trusted you, Marguerite—and you, Sylvia!” he said accusingly, spinning to confront the woman.
“Yes, William, you trusted me. To find a suitable match for Anne. And I have,” Marguerite in
terjected.
His anger flared anew. “I haven’t seen Anne since before the season began. Although she agreed to my request, I was by no means convinced she intended to apply herself to finding a suitable husband.”
“I believe she has been perfectly honest about searching for a husband that is acceptable to her,” Marguerite told him. “I am less convinced she agrees that your definition of an acceptable husband matches her own list of requirements.”
“What do you mean?” William’s gaze sharpened and his eyebrows lowered.
“Only that you have made it abundantly clear you want her to marry a man who will manage her affairs—and her person—with discretion and ease.”
“And isn’t that what every guardian wishes for their ward?” he demanded, affronted.
“Of course, William,” Sylvia soothed. She exchanged a telling glance with Marguerite before leaning forward to capture him with an intent gaze. “But that is clearly not what Anne wants.”
He huffed and shook his head in disgust. “I suppose she’s looking for true love,” he growled. “Well, I’ll not have it.” He glared at Sylvia, his hands tightening into fists. “I’ll not have her leg-shackled to some wild young rake. I’ll not lose her like I did my sister.”
“Anne is nothing like her mother,” Sylvia said, exasperated. “Truth be told, she’s much more like you.”
He gaped at her, taken aback.
“It’s true,” Marguerite agreed. “Anne is very pragmatic. In fact, I fear her opinion of a love match echoes your own. She’s searching for a husband who is malleable, a man who will allow her to keep and manage her own funds, a man who is staid, stolid, and unremarkable in every way.”
“Then what makes you think she’s interested in your nephew?” he asked Sylvia. “His father and I were at Eton together and I knew him well. ‘Staid’ and ‘unremarkable’ are not words I would use to describe him. And friends tell me Rhys is very much his father’s son.”
“It’s true,” Sylvia said with pride. “Rhys is very like my late brother-in-law. But you must agree, William, this is a good thing. Like his father, Rhys is a gentleman; he manages his estates and investments with responsibility and a flare of brilliant intelligence. Additionally, his position in society is above reproach. Any young woman would be overjoyed to gain the interest of a duke.”