Say Yes to the Duke

by Kieran Kramer

  “Not that way.” Grayson’s tone was cold. “I’m not the marrying sort. But I’m not going to bed her, either. She’s of good family. You’ll behave. I won’t have you damaging my standing among the ton by acting like degenerates in front of her. I won’t tolerate her carrying tales back home. Is that clear?”

  “But why do you care what anyone thinks, Halsey?” Milo said. “You’re a duke. You can do anything you want. The King does. He’s a reprobate, and everyone knows it.”

  For a man who wasn’t even a peer, Milo never knew when to shut up.

  Grayson took a few steps, grabbed him by the lapels, and yanked him close. “Vice is never as gratifying as when it’s performed in secret,” he hissed. “And the pleasures of depravity sharpen oh, so sweetly when one also has the adoration of innocents and the approval of men of good character, as I do. You won’t endanger that.” He threw him off, and the baronet stumbled backward. “You’ll endure. And you’ll do it with aplomb. Think of it this way: a little self-denial will make your next descent into base indulgence that much more satisfying.”

  There were several beats of tense silence—Grayson was good at causing those. Only the groom seemed oblivious. He lifted the rear left hoof of the Arabian and peered at it.

  “Aren’t you done yet, groom?” The man irked Grayson, like a splinter in his finger.

  “In a moment, Your Grace,” the servant said without looking up at him. But it wasn’t out of deference. It was because he was so intent on examining that hoof.

  Another reason to fire the man. He was too insolent by half.

  “Who is this high-and-mighty female altering our plans?” Milo polished his fingernails on his jacket.

  “The Marquess of Brady’s daughter—Lady Janice,” said Yarrow.

  “Lady Janice?” The baronet’s dour face registered astonishment, which was odd.

  Grayson’s pulse quickened. “Why are you shocked? You’ve heard of her? None of us have.”

  “All we know is that she’s the middle daughter of the Marquess of Brady,” offered Yarrow.

  “I know who she is.” Milo murmured. “Most know only of her older sister, Lady Chadwick. But there’s a rumor.…” He trailed off with a chuckle.

  “Spit it out,” Grayson ordered.

  Milo scratched his temple. “The Mayfair magpies—and my mother is one of them—are well aware that Lord Chadwick’s brother, Finnian Lattimore, broke Lady Janice’s heart before he left England.”

  “I’d not heard that,” said Rowntree.

  “Nor I,” said Grayson. “I remember Lattimore well. A handsome ne’er-do-well.”

  “Most gentlemen wouldn’t know the story,” said Milo. “We don’t keep up with women’s affairs of the heart, do we? Especially women who don’t command a great deal of attention on the social scene. As his brother married her sister, who’d ever suspect anything tawdry? But”—he looked round the company with a lascivious leer—“there are others who say the story between Lattimore and Lady Janice is even uglier than most people are aware.”

  “No,” said Yarrow, his eyes alight with glee. “Uglier could only mean—”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Milo. “Some say he plucked her cherry before he sailed.”

  The men—save Grayson—burst into whoops of laughter.

  He felt a cold satisfaction. He hadn’t realized he’d put her on something of a pedestal for defying him, but he had, obviously. His relief that she wasn’t any better than he was strong.

  “The wily little vixen.” His smile was patently false. “Here she defies me at every turn—as if she were a duchess and I were nothing.”

  “That’s the brazenness of a strumpet for you.” Yarrow shook his head.

  “Hold on.” Milo raised his hand. “The general feeling is that it didn’t happen. The marquess never would have let Lattimore get away with it. Nor would he have given permission to Chadwick to marry her sister.”

  “Lady Chadwick is a paragon of virtue,” said Milo.

  “And a remarkable beauty,” added Rowntree.

  “But this little-known rumor about Lady Janice lingers”—Milo gave a sly chuckle—“as all scintillating rumors do.”

  “So there’s more to her than meets the eye.” Grayson blew a smoke ring and watched it hang lazily in the air. Beyond it, the groom led the Arabian to a nearby stall. “I like the overlooked girls. The wronged or rejected ones. They’re odd ducks, but on the whole they’re grateful for a little slap and tickle”—he broke up the ring with his finger, a crude representation of his lascivious intentions that made the other men grin—“especially if they think it might lead to marriage.”

  “Humph,” said Yarrow. “Lady Janice has an unusual way of showing she’s looking for a wedding ring. She was an outright bitch last night, turning down your offer of strawberries and sparkling wine. And then saying no to looking at your telescope.”

  Milo chuckled. “Perhaps she had another sort of ducal telescope in mind?”

  Grayson curled his lip at the guffaws that ensued. He never liked being upstaged, especially at the expense of his own dignity. His telescope would put theirs to shame, he was sure. “You seemed mesmerized by her last night, Yarrow.”

  “Weren’t we all, to some extent?” Rowntree said. “I’d like to know why no one has told the marquess or his sons of this vile rumor. Surely, they’d have sent her to a convent by now.”

  “Lattimore’s long gone,” Milo said. “Why bring it up and risk a bullet to the heart? Her brothers and father are all magnificent shots.”

  “She’s here to see my grandmother.” Grayson took a long draw on his cheroot. “Or so she says.”

  “She must be,” said Yarrow. “She doesn’t like you, Halsey. That’s all there is to it.”

  Grayson stared at him without speaking for a few seconds. “You’re like a clucking hen. Let’s put you in a gown and a turban and send you to a ball to natter on with all the matrons.”

  Yarrow clamped his mouth shut.

  “I must agree with Yarrow that Lady Janice isn’t fond of you,” said Rowntree with a shrug. “Sorry, old boy.”

  Grayson scoffed. “Do you think I care whether this castoff likes me?”

  “When was the last time you had a female who didn’t have designs on you, Halsey?” asked Milo.

  “Never.” Grayson shrugged.

  “Good God, I would marry you if I were a woman,” Yarrow said. He always recovered easily from Grayson’s insults.

  Their laughter rattled the nearby horses enough that several of them whinnied. The groom reappeared and busied himself with some tack while Grayson’s hounds sniffed his breeches for horse dung, their favorite scent.

  “Whether the rumor is true or not”—Grayson looked round at them all—“I’ll have her. I must have an answer. It will make good sport.”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” said Rowntree. “Even good girls have ambition.”

  “A hundred pounds that the story’s valid,” said Milo.

  The mood became quite spirited.

  “I’ll take that bet,” answered Yarrow.

  In the end, it was two against two: Grayson and Milo would bet that Lady Janice was already a fallen woman, and Yarrow and Rowntree wagered she’d still be virgin when Halsey bedded her.

  There was another round of smug laughter.

  “Heaven help you if you get caught,” Yarrow told Grayson. “Brady won’t care that you outrank him. He’ll kill you.”

  “I haven’t been caught yet, have I?” With the tip of his shiny black Hessian boot, Grayson pushed away a cat stupid enough to come to greet him amid the hounds.

  “You haven’t,” said Rowntree, “and even if she did squeal, who’s going to believe a young girl over a duke, especially as she’s already followed by a whisper of serious scandal?”

  “No one,” said Milo. “A girl nearly on the shelf is a pitiful creature. She’ll go to any length, even telling stories, to gain attention.” He gave a dramatic sigh.

 
More chuckles.

  “If you get her with child, you can blame”—Yarrow looked around—“one of these Lotharios, eh?”

  He pointed to the junior grooms now filling up a stall with hay. Both of them looked severely embarrassed as the four gentlemen laughed.

  “When are you going to marry, Halsey?” Yarrow asked.

  “That little niece of yours is how old?” Grayson replied testily.

  “Fifteen.” Yarrow sounded eager. “Only a few more years until her debut.”

  The fool. He couldn’t even sense the scorn in Grayson’s voice. “I’d as soon have your blood mingle with mine through marriage as I’d ask for the smallpox, Yarrow.” He allowed his usually elegant tone to contain a savage edge. “Don’t ever speak to me about the cursed connubial state again. None of you. I’ll marry if and when it suits me.”

  “Is that so?” said Milo. “I just saw that fribble Henry Gordon at Court, and he asked after your health, as he always does.”

  “He’s a swine,” said Grayson. “And I told you—”

  “I didn’t mention marriage, Your Grace,” said Milo lightly. “But if you stick your spoon in the wall, believe it or not, there are those who believe your third cousin will make a fine Duke of Halsey with his lace cuffs and preponderance of rings.”

  “Over my dead body.” Grayson shuddered.

  “Exactly.” Milo bowed. “Good-bye, gentlemen. I’m not staying. No point.”

  “You can’t be leaving.” Grayson disliked the baronet, but it secretly pained him when anyone believed his company wasn’t sufficient.

  “Indeed, I am,” said Milo. “There’s that barmaid in Bramblewood.”

  “But it’s starting to snow again,” Rowntree said.

  “I’m aware of that.” Milo sniffed. “I’d rather be stuck with her for a few days than in this dreary place, even with His Grace’s good whiskey. Groom!” he called the man over. “Saddle up Ormond again.”

  “He’s into a bag of oats, sir,” the groom replied.

  Grayson eyed the man’s strong jaw and noble brow and thought it a waste of good looks.

  Milo sighed. “I’ll wait a few minutes.” He turned to Grayson. “Can you spare me a valet?”

  “Absolutely not. If you want one, you’ll stay here.” Grayson could be sulky when he wanted to be, which was often.

  “Fine,” Milo told him. “I’ll take this groom.” He indicated Luke. “You won’t be needing him.”

  “I can’t be spared, sir,” the servant said right away.

  “Oh, yes, you can.” Grayson waved him on. “It’s not as if we’ll be taking any horses out.”

  “But, Your Grace, I’ve been administering the daily poultice to Plutarch’s lame leg.” The groom’s tone was cool.

  Who the devil did he think he was, defying him? “Someone else can do that.” Grayson didn’t bother looking at him.

  “And I’ve been overseeing the new mare’s feeding schedule,” the groom insisted. “She’s only just beginning to cooperate.”

  Grayson reluctantly swiveled his gaze to his. “I can replace you in a bloody minute,” he bit out. “Now get going.”

  “You’re a good man, Halsey.” Milo slapped him on the back.

  And Grayson believed he truly was.

  “When will we come back?” the damned groom had the temerity to ask Milo.

  “You’re asking me?” Milo gave a short laugh. “What do you care? You do as you’re told.”

  “I only want to take care of the horses properly.” The groom put his fists on his hips. “I know them best.”

  Good God, he was bold—Grayson wanted to explain his defiance by calling him a dolt, too, but he obviously wasn’t. “You’re not coming back,” Grayson told him. “You’re done.”

  The groom’s eyes registered a flicker of surprise. “You’re firing me, Your Grace?”

  “Yes.” Grayson was shocked to see that the man was still calm and unflappable. “What do you not understand about the word done?”

  The groom was quiet a moment. “I don’t recommend you do that,” he said quietly.

  Grayson waited for him to add Your Grace.

  But with a dawning sense of incredulity, he saw he’d have to wait for a very long time.

  “You’re vastly entertaining,” he lied. Truth be told, he found this encounter highly stressful. “I’ve never heard of a groom refusing to be fired. Tell me why I shouldn’t. I want to share it with my friends at White’s next time I’m in Town.”

  He waited for his friends to laugh, which they did. But it was forced. No doubt it was because this groom was behaving in a way no groom they’d met ever had. “Do you think you’re that good with horses?”

  The man’s mouth became a thin line. “I am that good with horses. But I’m also that good with maintaining security here, Your Grace.”

  “You and security.” Grayson gave a short laugh. “You mentioned that yesterday. I don’t need a lowly stable hand looking after my estate. I’ve got an overseer. I have my tenant farmers. I have my stable master.”

  “He obviously has delusions of grandeur,” said Lord Rowntree dryly.

  “Not delusions,” said the groom, looking round at them all. “The estate needs protection, and no one can shield it better than I.”

  “From what?” Grayson asked him.

  “From threats, of course,” the servant said plainly.

  “Threats?” Grayson laughed out loud, and his friends joined in. “You really are deluded, aren’t you? Like Granny. Perhaps it’s something in the water. Next thing I know, you might think you’re His Majesty and declare war on my nearest neighbor.”

  But there was something in the groom’s face … something that caused the hair on the back of Grayson’s neck to rise.

  The man with the hero’s face tossed the rope in his hand to the ground. “It’s your choice, Your Grace. I’m a former boxer. I had to learn to anticipate strikes before they came. And I’m telling you now … you can choose to ignore possible danger, or you can guard yourself against it. I’m willing to stay here and watch over things for you. Or I can go.”

  They locked gazes, and somehow … somehow Grayson sensed a connection between them—an equality that made no sense, that offended his sensibilities yet also felt genuine.

  It was so rare that he felt any authentic link with another person.

  “His zeal to defend Halsey House is almost endearing, Your Grace,” said Milo. “You should keep him on. I’ll return him when I feel like it, and no sooner. Do you hear that, young man?”

  “I do,” said the groom, his eyes still on Grayson.

  “You can stay,” Grayson told him. “But you’re hanging on by the skin of your teeth. And don’t forget it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  And when the man moved away, Grayson felt it like a stab in the heart: he was the one actually hanging on by the skin of his teeth.

  Pity he’d no one he trusted enough to tell.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Life wasn’t fair.

  Mama and Daddy had always told Janice so.

  Long ago, she’d truly grasped the concept and accepted it. She’d been poor. Yet she was now rich. Marcia was beautiful, like a work of art, while Janice was merely pretty, like a child’s drawing. Cynthia was an excellent poet, but Janice was the better singer. And people didn’t always get what they deserved—good or bad. Sometimes, fate seemed fickle.

  So what was the point in attempting anything?

  But Janice had learned a valuable lesson from watching Mama and Daddy: A member of the House of Brady always tried one’s best and had hope. One never gave up.

  Which was why when she awoke that morning she wasn’t happy. She lay in bed for ages looking at the silk canopy draped over her bed.

  What was she to do?

  For a few years now, she’d tried hard to win a husband because that was what wealthy young ladies of the ton did if they weren’t anxious to enter the convent, serve as governesses or compa
nions, or be maiden aunts. And she was still trying. The duke was eligible. She saw firsthand that he needed a wife. He must produce an heir, and Halsey House required a mistress to smooth out its rough edges. Even his grandmother wanted her to marry him.

  Not only that, if Janice did marry him that wretched rumor about her and Finn would die a quick death. No one in the Beau Monde would dare repeat gossip about a powerful duchess for fear of being found out and left off invitations as a result. If anyone risked discussing the rumor, they’d say, Of course it’s silly. No duke would marry a ruined woman.

  So Janice knew she was doing the right thing. She wasn’t giving up on marrying, and she was hopeful that she had a chance with the Duke of Halsey.

  But …

  She pulled the covers over her head.

  She didn’t want the Duke of Halsey. Blinking into the darkness, she knew there was only one man she wanted—

  Luke Callahan.

  She was obsessed with him.

  But he was a groom.

  She blinked back angry tears. She’d been a poor girl once. And she’d been glad to leave that life behind.

  “But I didn’t know what I’d be giving up,” she said out loud. “I didn’t know!”

  She’d be giving up him. She wasn’t sure how he felt about her, but she liked him. Very much. Even though he was silent sometimes, rude other times, and generally bossy. Last night, when he’d cradled her face in her palm, she’d seen that he was more.

  More.

  And she wanted him desperately.

  Dear God, she prayed with her palms together. Please make the lantern be in the window tonight and every night that I’m here.

  “My lady?” It was Isobel. “Are you all right? How can you breathe in there? Look out the window. It’s starting to snow again.”

  Slowly, Janice lowered the covers. The bright snow light reminded her that nighttime was a long way off. A well of disappointment formed in her stomach. But then she remembered she could go see the puppies—Mr. Callahan would surely be there.

  “I’m fine.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed and pretended to yawn. But the truth was, she was wide awake—her heart was already beginning to beat faster at the thought of seeing the groom. “I was talking to myself, is all.”