Say Yes to the Duke

by Kieran Kramer

  “Lady Janice,” he said in serious tones, “you do yourself credit by volunteering to stay. But I must insist you go. My grandmother never should have written you. It’s all an unfortunate mistake, and you shouldn’t have to pay the price for our lapse in not better overseeing her activities. Go back to London. Enjoy the Little Season. Be frivolous. A girl your age shouldn’t be burdened with the needs of an ill old woman.”

  Janice inhaled a light breath through her nose. “No, thank you, Your Grace. Nothing shall change my mind. I’m a guest of the dowager.” Not your guest was her distinct implication. “I’ll remain the month, per her wishes.”

  She felt the weight of every eye in the room on her, all of them disapproving, save for Mrs. Friday, who still watched her as if she found her interesting and even likeable.

  “Well, then.” The duke cocked his head at her and shot her another half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You shall stay. Granny, I’m sure, will be delighted.”

  His implication? That he wouldn’t be.

  Touché.

  She would give him that paltry success.

  Little did he know that soon he’d be begging her to stay himself.

  Their gazes locked, and although there was no shift of power, she saw a glimmer of interest—real interest—in his eyes. However cool it was, it was better than his previous indifference.

  The women exchanged uneasy glances while Lord Yarrow stroked his chin and watched her. Lord Rowntree’s mouth curled in what could only be termed a light sneer.

  Move on while you’re ahead, Janice told herself. This was a game. A giant game. And she intended to win.

  “From what I saw of them this afternoon,” she told the duke, “your stables appear quite filled with prime goers.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “They are, indeed.” He had a lazy yet demanding way of speaking that made one feel in the presence of a powerful man, which he was, of course. “Speaking of the stables, is your coachman well?”

  “He had a fainting spell.” Ironically, it had happened after Janice told the fib that Oscar was ill. “But he’s doing better, thank you.” She wanted to go again to the stables to see him and the puppies—and Mr. Callahan, a wicked portion of her brain taunted her. “I think I’ll check on him later tonight to ensure that he’s back to his old self.”

  “Very good.” The duke crossed his legs nonchalantly and took a sip of something golden in his glass. “And tomorrow you’ll take a tour of the stables and choose a horse to ride when the weather improves.”

  There he went, ordering her about again.

  “Just ask the head groom to show you around,” the duke added. Because he certainly wasn’t interested in escorting her there, she knew. “I assume you’re a good rider.”

  Again, it wasn’t a question.

  Janice gave a soft shrug. “According to my brothers, I am, Your Grace, and they’re tough critics.”

  “Ah.” He took a sip of his drink. “The young men of the Brady household. I’ve seen them at Tattersalls. All excellent horsemen themselves.” His indifferent gaze wandered to a piece of lint on his boot, which he flicked off with his index finger. “When the weather improves, we’ll ride out together to the dower house. I stop by once a month. You’ll want to see the stove house where the exotic flowers are grown.”

  That sounded lovely! And then she remembered the dowager’s advice.…

  “No, thank you.” Janice was kind but firm. Her heart was going so fast, she was sure everyone could see it.

  “Really?” The duke’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  Her mind raced as she looked around at the other guests, all of whom were watching her most curiously, including Mrs. Friday. “I-I don’t mind riding out with women.” She hoped she sounded calm and collected. “But not men.”

  Oh, heavens. That sounded so peculiar.

  “Why?” asked Lord Rowntree, his brow furrowed deeply.

  She didn’t know why. But she’d had to think of something to resist the duke’s wishes. “I-I find I want to challenge men to races and quite lose my temper if I lose.” Actually, she’d done this on several occasions with her brothers, so it wasn’t really a lie. “You see, I become too hoydenish, at least according to my brothers Peter and Robert.” She chuckled, feeling more confident as she called upon amusing memories to fill out her elaborate explanation. “So I simply avoid those circumstances. Not for my sake. But for others’. I can be quite frightening, the boys tell me.”

  She smiled and shrugged. Let them think what they would. She was done with being agreeable all the time.

  “You? Frightening?” asked Lord Yarrow in astonishment.

  “I think so,” she said brightly. “Perhaps you need to be a brother of mine to believe it possible.”

  “And you enjoy losing your temper?” asked Lady Opal.

  Janice thought about it a moment. “I never realized I did until now, but yes. I believe I do. But it doesn’t happen very often. Perhaps I should lose it more.”

  She said the last part playfully, but there was another silence. The duke watched her intently, his mouth curved slightly at one corner.

  “Ladies,” Janice forged on, “when the weather improves, I’ll be happy to ride with you to the stove house, and the men can follow later. Would you consider it?”

  Mrs. Friday moved the needle through the frame with such regularity that Janice found her presence comforting. Now she looked up. “Of course,” she said, smiling.

  But winces of various degrees appeared on the faces of the other women.

  “Without the men?” said Lady Opal. “I think not.”

  “No, thank you.” Lady Rose stared at Janice as if she were mad.

  “Over my dead body,” said Miss Branson with a huff, then looked at His Grace. “And I thought we Americans were the brash ones.”

  “What a shame.” Janice took a slow sip of ratafia, astonished that she didn’t feel foolish for turning a ridiculous lie about not wanting to ride with men into the semblance of the truth. She was a bit competitive in the saddle. “Perhaps you ladies can ride out with the men then. I’ll stay behind with Mrs. Friday and the dowager.”

  What did the duke think of her outrageous speech? She wished she could tell.

  He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I’ve a solution, Lady Janice. We’ll go while there’s snow on the ground. We’ll ride in two sleighs. That way you’ll have no chance of being hoydenish around men on horseback and we can all arrive together. We’ll bring a picnic of strawberries and sparkling wine.”

  She was somewhat taken aback, but she kept a calm smile glued to her lips.

  Strawberries? Sparkling wine? Those were rather whimsical picnic items.…

  Could the dowager be right, that telling the duke no was the way to win him?

  “That sounds a lovely compromise to me,” she said. “But”—oh, dear God, how could she say this politely?—“I don’t like strawberries, nor do I like sparkling wine, Your Grace. I prefer bread and cheese, please. And lemonade.” She kept her expression politely neutral.

  Thank God her brothers had taught her how to keep a straight face while playing cards.

  The other women’s mouths hung open, all but Mrs. Friday’s. She merely paused in her stitching and watched Janice with a mildly amused expression in her eyes. Lord Yarrow stared avidly at Janice, as if she were an odd scientific experiment. Lord Rowntree watched her steadily, his expression unreadable. But she sensed that even he was unsettled by her remark. His knuckles were tight around the stem of his wineglass.

  It was a new experience for her to draw so much attention.

  “There will be no strawberries or sparkling wine, then,” the duke said in a low tone, sounding neither pleased nor unpleased.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Janice took another sip of ratafia and looked at something random—a very beautiful set of candlesticks, the tapers of which were lit and glowing. She forced herself to think of m
undane things, such as the fact that her new kid gloves had already lost a button. She was terrible at buttons and lost them constantly. Isobel, thank goodness, was excellent at finding them. Janice had never met anyone quite as good, in fact.

  After a moment, she took a peek at the duke and found him looking at her again, a furrow in his brow. As a little experiment, she forced herself to think, No, no, no.

  And his eyes flamed with something dark and hot.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. Good God, she’d had no idea how easy it was to be the object of fascination! If only she’d known how in London. Because clearly, everyone in the room was riveted by her behavior at the moment.

  Especially the duke.

  Chapter Ten

  And Janice’s success continued. When Halsey tried to escort her in to dinner, she said no, thank you. She preferred to walk in at the rear. It had something to do with …

  “With an Irish superstition my father told me once,” she lied. “It would be bad luck for me to go first when I’m not married. Lord Rowntree, I’m quite content going into dinner with you.” And without even waiting for the duke’s reply—or Lord Rowntree’s permission—she took the earl’s arm. Lady Opal was on his other side.

  Lady Rose wound up going in with the duke.

  Mrs. Friday was on Lord Yarrow’s arm, along with Miss Branson, who made a terrible face at Janice—her eyes bulging out and her nose flaring. But Mrs. Friday winked. She knew something was going on and wasn’t fazed, obviously.

  Janice liked her even more.

  The duke registered no expression when everyone arrived in the dining room, but there was a new intensity about him that could be seriously intimidating if one was a middle daughter with two failed Seasons. But when he pulled out Janice’s chair near the head of the table—clearly a place of honor—she still refused it.

  “Another Irish superstition?” His Grace drawled.

  Janice detected an edge of pique in his tone and wondered if she might be thrown out of the house for her impertinence. But she refused to dwell on the possibility. “No, Your Grace,” she said in an easy manner. “No superstition.”

  He looked at her, obviously waiting for a reason. But in a moment of inspiration she decided that making excuses only incensed him further. It sounded so weak, in a way, to make excuses, didn’t it? Best to leave her reasons to the duke’s imagination.

  So she said nothing and simply took a seat farther down the table. Lord Rowntree rushed to be seated on her left and Lord Yarrow across from her. Mrs. Friday sat at the end of the table.

  “No, Yarrow,” His Grace said tersely. “You’re up here, on my right. Lady Opal, you’re to the right of him.” He went on to tell everyone else where they were to be seated—

  Except for Janice.

  She took that as a triumph. Either that or she’d already fallen into his bad books tonight and lost all her chances of capturing his notice. It was a risk, of course. But life had been dull in London for a good while.

  Today, however, had been outrageous but exciting ever since that kiss she’d shared with Luke Callahan.

  Ah, that kiss. And what about the way he’d looked at her as if she were up to tricks? And clever? And desirable?

  She held the memory close to her—like armor—while she continued on her campaign to win the duke by saying no. In a matter of minutes, she said no to trying out His Grace’s telescope after dinner. That was difficult, as she loved looking at the stars and here in the country no doubt they’d be extra bright. She also refused his request to tell the story of her parents’ romance, which everyone at the table seemed anxious to hear.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “It’s private. Of course you understand.”

  She looked at the duke.

  “Of course,” he said. But he didn’t sound convinced.

  She also denied His Grace’s assertion that Edinburgh ranked below Paris as a cultural mecca. “No, I believe it’s leaps and bounds ahead of Paris,” she told him when he asked if she agreed.

  That assertion wasn’t too outrageous. Many people thought Edinburgh ranked high that way. She wasn’t sure that it was leaps and bounds ahead of Paris, but she did love the Scottish city the one time she’d been.

  But the next question was more difficult. When His Grace asked her if she cared for his favorite opera, Il Barbiere di Siviglia (which was secretly her favorite, too), she was forced to reply, “No, not in the least.”

  “Why?” asked Lady Opal. “Raise your hand if it’s your favorite.” Everyone around the table raised their hands, except the duke. He rested his chin on his palm, his index finger straight and nearly poking him in the eye, his elbow on the table in a most disgraceful fashion, and stared at Janice as if she were from another world.

  “See?” Miss Brandon said, looking around at the raised hands. “How could you not like it?”

  “Easily,” said Janice, and sawed off a piece of beef on her plate. She looked straight at the duke and popped the meat in her mouth. Her stomach was in knots, and she had no appetite at all. She forced herself to swallow the bite of food with wine. She was already on her second glass of a standard selection and seriously wished she hadn’t had to turn down the special vintage the duke had recommended earlier.

  He leaned forward now. “Do you care for Shakespeare’s comedies?”

  Oh, heavens. This was going to be the most difficult one of all to deny. Janice laid down her fork. “No, I don’t.” She put her hands in her lap so no one would see her fingers tremble.

  The duke’s eyes blazed with intensity. “His tragedies, then?”

  “No,” Janice said. Her fingers were laced so tightly, they almost hurt.

  There was utter silence in the room.

  “Do you like anything about Shakespeare?” asked His Grace.

  “No, Your Grace.” Janice felt her cheeks heat. This saying no—besides making her look extremely foolish—was quite fatiguing. But it seemed to be having some sort of an effect. The duke drained his entire glass of wine while not taking his eyes off her.

  Lord Yarrow groaned into his hands. “Lady Janice,” he said, “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of your quirky conversational style in London. How could anyone meet you and walk away unaffected?”

  She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, so she simply smiled like the Mona Lisa and wished for an end to the dinner.

  “You promised us earlier,” the duke reminded her when his two footmen brought out cheese and fruit, “that you would sing for us tonight. And play the pianoforte.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind,” she said right away.

  The duke was about to eat a piece of cheese, but he put it down.

  Miss Branson tossed a grape onto her plate. “That’s enough of your obstinacy, Lady Janice. Why are you here if you’re not going to be pleasing to the company?”

  Janice tapped her linen serviette to her mouth. “I assure you, my declining to sing and play will please you more than your being forced to listen to my performance.”

  “Is that so?” said Miss Branson.

  “Yes.” Janice truly believed it to be so. She was a lovely performer in private, yet she might falter among strangers. She might cry. She might faint. She had no idea, and she wouldn’t attempt to find out.

  “Doesn’t your sister Marcia sing like a bird?” asked Lord Yarrow.

  “Yes, she does,” Janice replied quietly.

  It was good to be able to say yes occasionally—to anyone but the duke, of course.

  “Most young ladies would never admit to being ill suited to playing the pianoforte and singing,” said Lady Rose. “I commend you for your honesty, Lady Janice.”

  She felt terribly grateful for Lady Rose’s understanding, although Janice was being the opposite of honest.

  Another huff of disgust came from Miss Branson.

  “I know that you’ll understand that to change one’s mind isn’t a sign of weakness.” Janice kept her gaze on the d
uke. “It signals one’s desire to follow one’s own heart rather than abide by others’ whims, however highly ranked those persons may be.”

  “Brava,” said Lord Rowntree.

  The duke stared at her with that penetrating yet inscrutable expression and said nothing.

  Janice felt so prickly and hot returning his gaze that for a ghastly ten seconds she sincerely regretted listening to the dowager’s advice. The woman thought she was the Queen, after all. What did she really know about what it would take to captivate her grandson?

  But what did Janice have to lose by experimenting?

  Nothing. Nothing at all.

  Ladies Opal and Rose were correct. It wasn’t as if Janice would go back to a successful life when she left Halsey House to return to London.

  A few moments later, the men rose to adjourn to the library for brandy.

  “Oh, Lady Janice,” His Grace said.

  “Yes?” His hair, she noticed, had been arranged in a more civilized manner.

  “You mentioned returning to the stables tonight. We’ll send a footman out to get a report on your driver and bring it back to you instead. “

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I’d prefer to go myself.”

  “But there’s no need for you to endure the elements again this evening.” His eyes gleamed in the candlelight, but even now she had no idea what he was thinking.

  “I like a bit of fresh air at night, truly.” She smiled politely. “I’ll walk with the footman. Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “No, Lady Janice. You’re staying.” His words weren’t clipped. Nor did he speak coldly.

  Nevertheless, a chill permeated the room in an instant, so fast that Janice felt goose bumps rise on her arms. She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

  Luke Callahan’s warning came back to her.

  Beware.

  She knew that she wouldn’t defy His Grace this time. Seeing the puppies, Oscar, and the groom she couldn’t forget—all of it would have to wait until the morning. She wished she could be angry at being thwarted, but she was still a tad … afraid. And everyone else in the room appeared as stunned into submission as she.