No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  “I look a fright,” Charlotte said, “and I feel worse than I look. A lady isn’t supposed to perspire, much less cast up her accounts, much less—dear God, have we arrived?”

  The coach had turned up a long drive shaded on both sides by towering oaks. In deference to Charlotte’s condition, progress was stately.

  Haverford Castle was—unlike many buildings referred to as castles—splendidly regal. Crenellated turrets stood at either end of a golden façade five stories tall, and the circular drive curved around a fountain that sprayed water twenty feet into the air. Potted salvia adorned a raised front terrace and circled the fountain, creating red, white, and green splashes of color against the stonework.

  “Haverford owns all this?” Charlotte asked, sitting up to peer out the window. “Moreland isn’t half so grand.”

  “Moreland is probably two centuries more modern. You’re at death’s door, so what do you care?”

  “I feel a miraculous revival coming on,” Charlotte said, straightening her skirts. “Or I might presently. Ye gods, I shall never drink another drop of ale.”

  The coach lurched forward, and Charlotte’s pallor became more marked.

  “Lie back down,” Elizabeth said. “The bushes are disobligingly sparse along this drive.”

  Charlotte subsided to the bench. “I’m to be humiliated before all of society, dragged from the coach in a state of obvious ill health. Perhaps I will die in Mama’s homeland, and out of guilt, Papa will grant you the spinsterdom you long for.”

  “Spinsterdom is not a word. If you die, may I have your mare?” Perhaps teasing might hurry along Charlotte’s miraculous recovery.

  “Cousin Devlin has prior claim on my horse. You may have my jewels.”

  “You have the same pearls and pins I do.”

  Charlotte put her wrist to her brow. “I yield my entire treasure to you. Please have the coach circle around to the back of the castle. I cannot appear before the most eligible bachelors in the realm looking like some cupshot chamber maid.”

  Vanity was a reassuring sign when a sister professed to be expiring. “I’ll get you up to a bedroom, and nobody will think you’re anything but travel weary.”

  “I must write to Mama of the foul brew served to the unsuspecting in her homeland. Rest assured the Welsh bachelors have lost ground in the race to offer for my hand. Such misery would never befall me in England.”

  As the coach lumbered along the drive, Elizabeth made out a sculpture of a rampant gryphon at the center of the fountain. Bright afternoon sunshine combined with the fountain’s mist to create a shimmering rainbow over the creature.

  Maybe Mama was right when she claimed that Wales was enchanted.

  “We’re almost there, Charlotte.” Despite the magical fountain, Elizabeth felt nearly as dyspeptic as Charlotte appeared. House parties were the consolation rounds for debutantes who’d failed to secure a marriage proposal during the season. For Elizabeth, house parties were a special purgatory.

  A woman who remained unmarried despite a decade of seasons wasn’t quite a spinster, but she was so far from a debutante as to be a different species of female altogether.

  The coach swayed to a halt, and Charlotte pressed a wrinkled handkerchief to her lips. The vehicle rocked as footmen climbed down, then the door opened and the steps were unfolded.

  “I suppose I must move,” Charlotte muttered.

  “I can have the footmen carry you,” Elizabeth replied. Charlotte was nearly gray about the mouth.

  “Oh, the ignominy. Dragged to the door like some hapless sparrow in the clutches of a tomcat—”

  “Our hostess approaches,” Elizabeth said, rising to accept a footman’s hand. “I’ll explain, and you’ll produce a ladylike swoon.”

  Technically, Lady Glenys was their host’s unmarried sister, though thank a benevolent providence, nobody had to explain Charlotte’s malady to Haverford himself. Dukes, in Elizabeth’s experience, did not deal well with life’s most unglamorous realities.

  A delicate bunch, dukes. Marquesses and earls weren’t much sturdier.

  “Miss Windham.” Lady Glenys bobbed a curtsy. “I’ve been anticipating the pleasure of your company in particular. Are Lady Pembroke and Miss Charlotte with you?”

  “Charlotte is somewhat the worse for the journey,” Elizabeth said. “Her digestion has grown tentative over these last few miles. Our aunt is traveling in the second coach.”

  Charlotte peeked out, gripping both sides of the coach door. A hapless sparrow would have been more attractive than the pale, bedraggled creature blinking in the bright sunlight.

  “My heavenly stars,” Lady Glenys said. “You poor dear. I am so sorry you’re feeling not quite the thing. We’ll have you up to your rooms in no time.”

  Charlotte tottered from the coach, a footman assisting on one side, Elizabeth on the other. “I’d curtsy, but I’ve no desire to end up face down on your cobbles.”

  “Hush, dear,” Elizabeth murmured, as Lady Glenys took a step back. “We’ll simply follow her ladyship into the castle, and find you a nice, soft, private place to settle yourself.”

  The footmen stepped away, hands behind their backs. Lady Glenys looked torn between distress and sympathy, and Charlotte hung heavily on Elizabeth’s arm.

  “Can you walk to the door?” Elizabeth asked.

  Charlotte glanced up at the crenellated façade, her expression grim. “If I must.”

  Why would nobody offer aid? Grooms held teams for two coaches and a landau behind the Windham coach, while Lady Glenys wrung her hands.

  “Come along,” Elizabeth said, tucking an arm around Charlotte’s waist. “It’s not far, and you’re a Windham.”

  Bootsteps crunched to Elizabeth’s left, and then Charlotte’s weight was plucked away.

  “Allow me to aid the lady,” said a tall gentleman in riding attire. “I apologize for presuming, but I’m guessing a bad batch of Merlin Jones’s summer ale is to blame. Lady Glenys, which bedroom?”

  He smelled of horses and hayfields, his boots were dusty, and his dark hair was less than tidy. Charlotte’s rescuer had the steady gaze of a man who solved problems with common sense and hard work. He held her as if striding about with a full grown woman in his arms was part of his daily routine.

  “Take her to the east tower,” Lady Glenys replied. “Both Miss Windham and Miss Charlotte are in the Dovecote.”

  Charlotte looked to be enjoying her first convincing ladylike swoon.

  “Miss Windham,” the man said. “If you’ll join us?”

  He had green eyes framed with dramatic dark brows, and his expression held no flirtation, no suggestion of humor at Charlotte’s expense. Sober and steady when sober and steady were desperately needed.

  “My thanks,” Elizabeth said, falling in step beside him. “Who is this Merlin Jones?” And who are you?

  “He’s the innkeeper at the nearest coaching inn, and known to occasionally mix up a bad batch of summer ale. Because he serves the suspect brew only to those traveling on, he’s not held accountable for his mistakes.”

  Charlotte’s rescuer spoke with the lilting diction of the educated Welshman, and even carrying Charlotte up a grand curved staircase, his strength was not taxed. Something about the angle of the gentleman’s jaw suggested Mr. Jones would be held accountable this time.

  “The Dovecote is one of the tower suites,” he said. “The views are lovely, and you’re close to both the family wing and the guest wing. If the apartment is not to your liking, I’m sure Lady Glenys can see to other arrangements.”

  He was local, then, a neighbor, cousin, or close friend of the family. Was he a guest at the house party?

  “I’m sure the accommodations will be fine. Charlotte, how are you feeling?”

  “A little better,” she said, lashes fluttering. “What a lovely castle.”

  “Haverford Castle can be cold as the devil’s root cellar in winter,” the gentleman replied. “This is your suite.”

 
; He carried Charlotte straight into a circular chamber graced with three windows. The walls were more than two feet thick, the plaster a mellow cream. A lone red rose stood in a crystal vase on the sideboard.

  The gentleman set Charlotte on a tufted sofa and regarded her, his hands on his hips. In his dusty boots and with a streak of dirt on one sleeve of his riding jacket, he might have been a steward assessing a heifer gone off her feed.

  “Fresh air, I think,” he said, wrestling two of the windows open. The latches screeched in protest, but the breeze was heavenly. He knelt before the sideboard and opened a cupboard. “At the risk of being indelicate, you might also need this.”

  He rose, holding a porcelain basin painted with daffodils.

  “At the risk of being pathetic,” Elizabeth replied, taking the basin, “we thank you. You are very kind, sir.”

  Though not exactly proper. Why didn’t the fellow introduce himself?

  “Haverford is known for its hospitality as well as its library,” he said. “Shall I send the housekeeper to have a look at you, Miss Charlotte? I must warn you that some of her remedies bear results that make Merlin’s bad ale look like meadow tea.”

  “I’ve brought a few tisanes,” Elizabeth said. “Charlotte will come right with time, quiet, and rest.”

  Charlotte’s ailment also provided the perfect excuse for missing the first night’s buffet, a cheering thought when Childe Harold was the alternative.

  The gentleman bowed. “I’ll leave you then, ladies. A footman is on duty at all times at the top of the main staircase, and will alert the kitchen should you need anything. Welcome to Haverford.”

  Elizabeth dipped a curtsy, and then took the place beside Charlotte when the gentleman had quietly closed the door on his way out. He was a handsome specimen, in a mature, un-fancy way.

  A bit short on charm though. “Shall you live, Charl?”

  “I’ve been carried to my boudoir in the arms of a duke,” Charlotte said, flopping against the back of the sofa. “I’m not sure I can bear the strain such an honor has put on my maidenly nerves.”

  “That was His Grace of Haverford?”

  Charlotte began unbuttoning her cuffs. “I stood up with him for a minuet three years ago. Doubtless, he’d be pining for me still if he’d bother to recall the occasion.”

  Elizabeth set the basin on the low table. “I am certain you’ve been his elusive dream all this time. What sort of duke fails to introduce himself?”

  “One focused on aiding a damsel in distress. I was truly having a bad moment. Did you bring any peppermint tea with you?”

  Alas for His Grace, if Charlotte was more interested in peppermint tea than the duke’s manly attributes.

  “Mama sent along practically everything but henbane and eye of newt. I’ll find a footman to fetch us hot water and a tray. Do you suppose the bedroom is up those stairs?”

  Steps curved along the portion of the wall that lacked a window. Like the furniture, chandelier, sconces, and upholstery, the bannister was in the elegant, refined style of the last century.

  “I’ll have a look,” Charlotte said, “but unhook me and unlace me before you go, lest I expire for want of air.”

  Elizabeth obliged, then went in search of a footman. Upon inspection, Haverford Castle was all of a piece, its decorative scheme reminiscent of the grander styles and more elaborate flourishes of a bygone era.

  Plaster cherubs smiled down from intricate molding, old-fashioned Sèvres vases held single blooms in the occasional windowsill. The floors were polished wood, which was fine for keeping down the dust, but doubtless contributed to the castle’s winter chill.

  All very orderly and understated, of which Elizabeth approved. She was orderly and understated herself, on her good days. Though when she considered what she’d seen of the castle and what she’d seen of its owner, she admitted that this house party hadn’t started off like any of the others she’d endured.

  No bowing, fortune-hunting bachelors, no effusive greetings from women who secretly wished Elizabeth to the Antipodes merely because Papa was titled.

  But one handsome, healthy duke with green eyes and a practical streak. What a pity Elizabeth hadn’t met him ten years earlier, when she’d still believed fairy tales could come true somewhere other than the pages of a storybook.

  Chapter Two

  “THE WOMEN ARE MULTIPLYING like spring lambs in Dorset,” Julian said, scowling down at the guests assembled in the courtyard. “I vow Glenys showed me only half the guest list.”

  Radnor sauntered over to the window. “Ladies bring their maids, chaperones, sisters, and companions, so one lady turns into three, like the loaves and the fishes. To some fellows, that’s one of the nicer aspects of these gatherings.”

  “This has become a refrain with you. We both know that I will not be marrying any of these women.”

  Julian was in the ducal sitting room, enjoying the last few moments of privacy before joining the crowd on the back terrace. The terrace and the central court connected through an arch in the castle’s southern wall, and guests were strolling about like so many sheep waiting for somebody to bring them fresh fodder.

  A shriek went up as two young women charged each other, arms flung wide. This display was followed by synchronized air kisses and more public effusions.

  “In all of Papa’s lectures and exhortations,” Julian said, “he never once warned me about the ladies of polite society. I received endless admonitions about drink, gambling, the crown, the church, the tenants, and even our dear neighbors, the Sherbournes, but never did he instruct me regarding the ladies.”

  Julian spoke in Welsh, which he’d not do with even Radnor if other titles were within earshot.

  Radnor turned him by the shoulders and fluffed his cravat. “And how does the abundance of feminine pulchritude below challenge a man of your consequence?” he asked in the same language.

  “I haven’t sufficient charm,” Julian said. “Not enough for the demands of that entire platoon of females.”

  Radnor held up a gold cravat pin tipped with an emerald. The gem was not of the first quality, but nobody would notice unless they were examining Julian’s attire from very close range and in good light.

  “Hold still lest I stab you through the heart before Cupid has a chance.” Radnor situated the emerald near the center of Julian’s lacy cravat.

  “Cupid had best aim his arrows elsewhere.” Julian examined Radnor’s efforts in the vanity mirror. “You always get it off center.”

  “And you always fix it,” Radnor replied, as Julian moved the pin a quarter inch to the right. “So you aren’t charming. You’re a duke. Being a duke beats being charming any day or night. Even I have trouble being charming to Delphine St. David, though. How on earth did she get onto the guest list?”

  Julian gave himself a final inspection. His sartorial tastes were considered old-fashioned, tending toward heavily embroidered waistcoats, and cravats and cuffs on the lacey side. Tonight’s waistcoat had begun life as one of Grandpapa’s formal court coats, back before the late king had lost his wits. At Julian’s instruction, the castle seamstress had salvaged the exquisite embroidery, thus saving money while providing a touch of financial revenge on a profligate ancestor.

  “Delphine is family,” Julian said, returning to the window, “and she’s dangerously bored. I could no more keep her away from a gathering like this than I could…I forgot to introduce myself.”

  “Have you been at the brandy already?”

  In the courtyard below, Miss Elizabeth Windham and an older lady had joined the guests enjoying the walkways.

  “I cannot afford to be at the brandy,” Julian said. “I forgot to introduce myself to the Misses Windham earlier today.”

  He’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be around a lady who didn’t simper and flutter at everything in breeches. Elizabeth Windham wasn’t a classic English beauty—red hair prevented that cliché from befalling her—but in her quiet composure, she was at
tractive.

  “It’s not like you to forget who you are,” Radnor observed. “Which one is she?”

  “Miss Elizabeth Windham is the redhead near the dragon.” The redhead with the tidy figure and calm blue eyes.

  “You’ll have the next three weeks to remedy your oversight. She’s not a debutante.”

  Miss Windham hadn’t been a debutante for some time, another point in her favor. She’d also been genuinely concerned for her sister, which was impressive considering the behavior of many young women when making the acquaintance of a bachelor duke.

  “She and Glenys might be of an age,” Julian said. “And there’s a younger sibling along, Miss Charlotte Windham, also red-haired and beyond the silliest years.”

  “Lady Glenys was never silly.” Radnor produced a silver flask. “Care for a nip?”

  “I’ll be meeting most of my guests for the first time, bowing over countless hands, and running the gauntlet of chaperones and companions, and yet you suggest I have strong spirits on my breath.”

  “You never know,” Radnor said, tipping the flask to his lips. “If you display a fondness for drink, you might have fewer debutantes popping out of linen closets at you.”

  Julian swiped the flask and took a sip. Excellent brandy produced a quiet warmth that would fade all too quickly. “My thanks. What do you know of the Windham ladies?”

  “The two young women are Moreland’s nieces.” Radnor pushed the curtain aside and peered down at the courtyard. “Lord Anthony Windham, the duke’s brother, has four daughters. One daughter recently married a Scottish duke, another daughter married the duke’s heir. Miss Elizabeth and Miss Charlotte are the older two and nearly on the shelf.”

  “If Elizabeth Windham is on the shelf, why will my window bear the imprint of your nose when you quit this room, Radnor?”

  “Because Sir Windy is standing too close to her,” Radnor said. “One must not turn one’s back on Nigel Windstruther when a pretty lady is about.”