Dukes Prefer Bluestockings

by Bianca Blythe

  ****IF YOU ARE READING THIS, THE WRONG FILE HAS BEEN DELIVERED TO YOU. THIS IS A PREORDER PLACEHOLDER. PLEASE CONTACT KDP SUPPORT AND EMAIL biancablythebooks@gmail.com TO RECEIVE THE CORRECT FILE.***

  Don’t Tie the Knot

  Most weddings might be joyous occasions, but Hamish’s older brother Callum is marrying…a commoner. Never mind that he’s engaged to an earl’s daughter, and they’ll lose their family’s estate if he marries someone else. Hamish will just have to find a way to stop the wedding.

  Georgiana Butterworth is startled when a handsome Scot breaks into her bedroom and brandishes money. Evidently he’s mistaken her for her sister, newly engaged to a duke, and is trying to bribe her. Georgiana knows one thing: she won’t permit this man to ruin her sister’s chance for everlasting happiness.

  Hamish may be determined to stop the wedding, but Georgiana is intent to make certain the wedding happens, no matter what she has to do to distract him.

  Chapter One

  MacTavish Castle

  Scotland

  May 1816

  When the butler placed the day’s letters on the silver tray, Hamish didn’t hesitate to set aside his ruling pen and sort through the mail. He had been tardy once, and he’d spent the rest of his life making up for his onetime indulgence in laziness.

  No matter how responsible Hamish was now, he could never change the fact that he’d entered the world eight minutes too late, by which time his twin brother Callum was already comfortably swaddled and crowned heir to the dukedom.

  A scarlet seal Hamish didn’t recognize graced the outside of one of the letters, and he unfolded the paper over his drafting board. Likely one of his brother’s creditors was asking for money. Callum seemed determined to make his gaming hall the most luxurious in London, if the bills were anything to go by.

  Dear Mr. MacTavish:

  Mr. and Mrs. Butterworth of Norfolk happily invite you to share the most joyous occasion of their lives when their daughter, Charlotte Butterworth, is forever joined in matrimony to Callum MacTavish, the Duke of Vernon, at the end of the month at St. George’s Church in London.

  Hamish blinked.

  The letter’s brevity did not lessen its impact.

  The name Charlotte Butterworth appeared entirely different from Isla McIntyre, Callum’s intended.

  God in heaven.

  “He’s getting married in London,” Hamish said, conscious his voice was faint.

  “Indeed.” The butler’s carefully cultivated disinterest was normally reassuring, but Hamish frowned.

  “London, England.” Hamish stressed the last word. “Perhaps there are other Londons.”

  The butler hesitated, as if valiantly searching for another London. “There is a small settlement by that name in Upper Canada.”

  For a moment, hope bloomed in Hamish’s chest.

  Canada.

  That was certainly a better alternative to the ton replete capital. His lips twitched. Wasn’t Canada just a flatter Scotland? Not Hamish’s preference, though some people might favor the fact that a misstep in Upper Canada was unlikely to send them hurtling to the bottom of a cliff.

  A pained expression appeared on the butler’s face. “I am afraid it is unlikely His Gracce has chosen precisely that London in which to marry. St. George’s is a fashionable church for weddings. I believe it is located in Hanover Square.”

  Hamish waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. Upper Canada would be too far, even though it is more likely to be inhabited by sensible people.”

  London, England was certainly not inhabited by sensible people.

  At least not in the regions around Hyde Park that the ton delighted in frequenting, as if the artificial Serpentine might in any manner rival the brilliance of even the smallest, most unassuming loch in the Highlands.

  “Is my brother under the impression that there are no appropriate women in Scotland?” Hamish asked. “Or that he is not all but betrothed?”

  No woman could be more suitable than Isla McIntyre. She was accomplished, beautiful, and above all, a McIntyre. And Callum’s marriage with her is the only way we can keep MacTavish Castle.

  The pained look on the butler’s face appeared again. “I would not want to muse over the duke’s reasonings.”

  Hamish nodded. “Aye. Quite right. It’s the sort of thing that would give one a headache.”

  Not for the first time, Hamish wished the title were his. He would do a far better job of acting honorably than his brother—he always had. If he chided himself for his one-time tardiness; it was not because he craved the attention and accolades that accompanied the title. Perhaps it would matter to members of the ton who adored balls and thought a title would give them an advantage when seeking out dance partners.

  Hamish had never suffered from a dearth of female interest. Apparently there was something about his broad shoulders, dark hair, and chiseled facial features that caused lassies to exclaim excitedly in his presence. His brother also did not suffer from lack of attention from women. Unfortunately, Callum did not devote attention to his duties.

  “My brother cannot be marrying an Englishwoman.” Hamish tightened his fingers around the letter, creasing the edge. “He’s supposed to marry Lady Isla. Everyone knows that. And this woman is from Norfolk.”

  Norfolk was hardly the provenance of the ton’s elite. And how could some lassie who’d grown accustomed to flat plains and banal landscapes possibly expect to feel at home in the Highlands? Likely she would have heart palpitations from viewing so much beauty.

  “I can’t allow my brother, the only one I have, to destroy his life in this manner. Are future generations of the esteemed MacTavish family supposed to be raised in England?” Hamish scowled.

  “It is possible that the duke believes himself to be in love.”

  “Love?” Hamish sputtered.

  Love was a concoction. Hamish knew it. His butler knew it. Unfortunately, Callum did not seem to be aware of it.

  God in heaven.

  Hamish wasn’t going to permit his only sibling, his brother, heir to the title, to marry some English fortune hunter who was not even in possession of a minor aristocratic title. Hamish might always have thought that viscountesses and baronesses could be pompous, but one did rather desire that one’s only sibling not marry a woman so obviously devoid of respectability.

  No.

  There was only one thing to do, and that did not entail wedding guests.

  Hamish rose. He glanced longingly for a moment at his drafting board and the carefully drawn crow-stepped gables, pointed turrets and a luxurious porte-cochère so the baron’s family would not get wet when they left their carriage to enter their home. His fingers itched to grasp his ruling pen again. This was his first commission, and it needed to be perfect. Still, the design, and all its neo-Gothic glory, would have to wait. Family was more important.

  “I am going to London,” Hamish announced. “Please inform my valet to pack my bags.”

  Hamish would have to stop the wedding.

  Chapter Two

  The floorboards creaked in a now familiar rhythm as Flora answered the door, and Georgiana nudged Charlotte. Her sister’s face tended to be reserved, and her upcoming nuptials had not changed that, but Georgiana knew she must be delighted.

  Georgiana Butterworth rose and fixed a smile on her face. The action was easy to do, since the caller was always the same.

  Their mother clasped her hands together. “It’s the duke! My darling son!”

  “You did not birth him, my dear.” Their father did not remove his gaze from his leather-bound book.

  “That makes him the very best sort of child.” Mama cast a
stern glance in the direction of Georgiana and Charlotte. “You would not believe the horrors you put me through.”

  “I am rather surprised my eardrums still function,” Papa said. “And I was sequestered in the other side of the house.”

  “You should have left,” Mama said, though Georgiana had the curious sense she was not altogether upset. But then, Georgiana had had the questionable fortune of seeing her mother display a variety of emotions. Her mother was far less distraught than when she contemplated the unfashionableness of her own attire.

  Papa’s talents did not extend to alchemy, despite his vast knowledge of the works of the obscurest philosophers and theologians, and he did not have the wealth to ensure immaculate attire.

  Vicar’s daughters were not truly supposed to have a season, no matter the loftiness of the maternal side of the family. Several debutantes had taken it upon themselves to personally inform Georgiana and Charlotte about this breach of unwritten etiquette.

  “Men are utterly impossible,” Mama said, still gazing at her husband with a smile.

  Georgiana resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Her parents were maddeningly fond of each other, despite the fact that most other married couples seemed to deem it in fashion to fling insults at each other. Many society matrons recited the list of their husbands’ faults with the same vigor with which they enthused over this year’s colors and dress cuts.

  The door opened, and the duke ducked his head and entered the room. Homes from the last century might have their charms, but they were scarcely prepared to accommodate tall, broad-shouldered dukes. The furniture seemed rather barer when contrasted against the sumptuous material and rich colors of the duke’s attire, and Georgiana wished the spindles between the chairs’ legs were not quite as bulky, as if the carpenter had not been confident on the ability of the chairs to stand upright.

  “Did I hear you say men are impossible?” The duke’s blue eyes glimmered.

  “With the word ‘utterly’ as emphasis,” Papa said casually, raising his head from his book.

  Mama’s confident smile transformed to horror, and she clutched her hand to her fichu with such vigor it seemed in danger of falling out. Her white cap, laden with frills and flounces in an architecturally instable manner, did slide down, and she grasped it valiantly. “I wasn’t referring to you, my dear duke. You are most assuredly not horrible. You are—”

  “The antonym of it,” Papa suggested, smoothing his sideburns.

  Mama nodded eagerly. “Indeed, the very antonym of horrible! Even though you do not lack manly characteristics.”

  From the manner in which her mother’s eyes sparkled, Georgiana suspected that might have been a rare understatement.

  “You are too kind,” the duke said.

  Georgiana remembered to dip into a curtsy, and Charlotte and Mama followed while Papa and the duke busied themselves with bows.

  Mama rang for the housekeeper to bring tea, just as she did every time the duke visited. The Butterworth family had never been so alert.

  Despite the frequency of the duke’s visits, they were always strained and short. It must be terrible for him to be surrounded by chaperones when he visited his fiancée. None of the heroes in Loretta Van Lochen’s thrilling romances had to put up with lengthy small talk with their beloved’s relatives while biting into sweets and balancing saucers filled with hot tea on their knees.

  Georgiana glanced back at Charlotte, who had resumed her needlepoint, evidently eager to occupy her fingers when in his presence.

  Somehow, her younger sister Charlotte, despite the fact this was her first season and she’d been dismissed as a permanent wallflower by the ton’s matrons at Almack’s, had managed to land not just a fiancé, but one of the rare ducal variety.

  “I wonder when your brother will arrive,” Mama said politely.

  “My brother?” The duke’s normally handsome face reddened.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” He seemed to recover himself. “I am afraid he cannot come. The man considers even the Border Counties to be too English.”

  “But you are his only sibling,” Georgiana blurted.

  “Indeed.” The Duke of Vernon bestowed a bland smile.

  Mama fluttered her fan with greater force, as if overtaken by his charm.

  Well.

  She probably had been overcome by it.

  His Grace’s handsomeness was something that even Matchmaking for Wallflowers, the gossip sheets most known for criticisms, raved about with regularity.

  His blond hair curled in a manner Georgiana was most accustomed to seeing in Venetian depictions of cherubs, though no one seemed to think that an issue. Perhaps it was because his figure managed to be both trim and muscular, and he was reported to wear breeches with a seldom-found grace at Almack’s. No doubt the man did not even stuff his stockings to give them an appearance of added muscularity as so many men were forced to do, daunted by the prospect of displaying their lower legs for judgment.

  The duke crossed his legs, though Georgiana was certain it was out of discomfort, and not out of an urge to flaunt the robust results of his horse rides through Hyde Park like some athletically inclined peacock.

  “Tell me, what is your brother like?” Mama asked. “He is most mysterious. No one in London knows anything about him. Does he have any preferred breakfast foods? I want to make sure he enjoys the wedding breakfast.”

  “He is really of no concern,” the duke said.

  Why did the duke not like to discuss his brother?

  There were many things Georgiana did not care to discuss, but her sister was not one of them. Charlotte was always a source of great joy, a paragon of virtue to which Georgiana might aspire.

  “Ah, he’s your twin, is he not?” Papa lifted his head from perusal of his Plato. “Perhaps you have a special connection. There are many famous twins. Apollo and Artemis. Romulus and Remus.”

  “But unlike Romulus, the duke’s brother will hardly go about murdering anyone when he arrives for the wedding,” Georgiana said with a laugh.

  The room stilled and every gaze scrutinized her. She shifted her position on the sofa. Every movement seemed to draw additional dubiousness, as if they were pondering the possibility that she might do something equally inappropriate.

  “Not even worth contemplating,” Mama said finally.

  “Yes,” Georgiana said, rather more meekly than when she’d brought up “duke” and “twin” and “Murder” with apparently too much casualness.

  It was no use stressing that she really had meant that she had considered the duke to be quite safe. Now was perhaps a time to be quiet. Nothing could get in the way of her sister’s everlasting happiness.

  She sighed. Perhaps she was indeed too quick to speak, not willing to limit her opinion to which colors were becoming. Perhaps once Charlotte married, her parents would relax their expectations on her. Perhaps she might continue to design gardens. Other ladies in the gentry had expressed interest after seeing the results of her work for her father’s vicarage.

  “Why do you say that my brother will be arriving soon?” The duke’s pensive expression had not shifted ever since Mama had first mentioned his brother’s impending visit.

  “He wrote me,” Mama declared.

  The duke blinked. “Wrote you?”

  “I had to invite him,” Mama said. “And he replied.”

  “How splendid,” the duke said faintly.

  “Well, I really mustn’t get all the credit,” Mama said. “You must have invited him first.”

  “Er—yes.”

  Charlotte smoothed her muslin gown, though Georgiana wondered whether it was more to mask the trembling of her fingers. “You really shouldn’t have done that, Mama. You could have consulted with the duke.”

  “Oh, nonsense. I didn’t even use vellum. Just paper. Though it is good that you are concerned with the expense.” Mama beamed at the duke. “My daughters are both very economica
l. Quite a good quality in a future wife.”

  “Ah, he’s already been convinced,” Papa said, and the duke seemed to flush.

  Georgiana cringed, conscious that he must be assessing the shabbiness of their surroundings. Probably he did not want Georgiana’s parents to speculate that he was only marrying Charlotte for her ability to scrimp and save. The quality was unlikely to be one he needed.

  The duke shifted his legs over the faded Persian carpet.

  “You do appear ill,” Mama said. “Let me fetch Flora. She always knows what to do. Perhaps some tea will revive you. Tea always revives everyone. Who knew pouring hot water over leaves would be so splendid?”

  “Apparently lots of people knew,” Georgiana said. “In Asia.”

  “Does Asia count, dear?” Mama gave a triumphant smile, as if Georgiana could not possibly counter it.

  Georgiana frowned and was about to reply, but the duke interrupted her. “I-I should return home.”

  “Naturally. You must desire to prepare for your brother’s arrival. The wedding’s in two days. He’s bound to arrive today.”

  “Er—yes.” The duke headed for the door and then stopped abruptly, remembering to bow.

  Georgiana’s family descended once again into bows and curtsies, and Georgiana was relieved when he’d left.

  Charlotte frowned. “I really wish you hadn’t written him, Mama.”

  “Nonsense. You don’t mean that,” their mother replied, though an uncertain note had entered her voice.

  Chapter Three

  The sun might be setting, casting pink and orange light over the excessively ornate buildings, but thankfully the coachman did not succumb to any sentimental urgings and slow his speed. The hired post chaise moved briskly through Smithfield Market and entered Mayfair. Finally, it halted, and Hamish leaped onto the pavement, not waiting for the coachman to assist him.

  His brother’s townhouse loomed before him, wedged into a row of neatly maintained homes on Grosvenor Square. The man didn’t even have a garden, and the stretch of lawn on the square seemed an imperfect substitute. Why did Callum insist on living here, when he might have an entire castle at his disposal perched on a craggy mountaintop that trounced any Palladian design in magnificence?