No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  He was amused, or appalled. Elizabeth wasn’t sure which.

  “I am devoted to lending libraries, Your Grace, for they make knowledge available to everybody. Books are wonderful, but if you can’t afford them, then they are only one more privilege that God in his infinite wisdom has granted only to others. Did you know the Welsh are among the most literate people on earth?”

  “Because of the circulating schools that sprang up in the last century,” Haverford said, “thanks to dear old Griffith Jones.”

  Elizabeth was to be denied the pleasure of reciting the rest of the tale, for apparently Haverford knew it. Griffith Jones had been a shepherd turned Anglican priest, and in the 1730s, he’d got onto the notion of opening a school for a period of months, long enough to teach an entire village to read. When basic literacy had been achieved, the school moved to another village, and the brightest pupils took on the teaching of neighboring settlements.

  Over the next fifty years, half of Wales had learned to read, and very likely had also been predisposed to Methodism, for the Bible was the most reliably available printed text in any village.

  “We’re also literate because of the Welsh spirit of inquiry,” Elizabeth said. “We are a curious people, interested in taking charge of our surroundings, else we’d never have become such a center of industry.”

  Haverford removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That industry is creating some of the worst slums in Europe, Miss Windham, and our literacy has not spared us one iota of misery. The poverty and filth in the mining villages are unimaginable, and the surrounding countryside has been ruined for farming.”

  Mama often sang the same lament. “This matters to you.”

  He tucked his glasses into a pocket. “Reading is a luxury, but people must eat. We can ship steel and copper all over the world, but if we ruin our countryside in the process, will John Bull give us butter and wheat for free? I suspect not. The Irish live in penury as bad as ours, and the Scots have learned from long habit to look after their own.”

  “You are Welsh,” Elizabeth said, beaming at him. She’d considered him a duke, an aristocrat, a member of the House of Lords, and a few other things—splendiferous in evening attire, for example—but she hadn’t attributed Welshness to him.

  “I have that honor, though should any inquire, I am simply a peer of the realm with a perishing lot of books cluttering up my castle.”

  “My mother is Welsh. As a child, I visited here frequently. Mama says that’s why I’m passionate about books and reading. My father says I love books because Windhams must always go their own way, though that doesn’t explain why I am the only Windham so fond of books. You have a lovely library, Your Grace.”

  And Elizabeth was babbling—about books, of course.

  “I have an enormous library,” Haverford said, “and I do not love books, not these books. Nonetheless, the loan of a few volumes to a guest will be a gesture in the direction of their intended use. Come, I’ll give you the tour, and you may choose whatever you please.”

  He’d taken her hand again, though they weren’t on a darkened hillside. Surely his comments about the books were ducal grumbling? Uncle Percival complained about the expense of maintaining a stable, but knew every pony and pensioner in his paddocks.

  “We should open the door, Your Grace. The appearances could result in unpleasant talk.”

  Haverford looked down at their joined hands, his expression for an instant uncomprehending, then he slipped his fingers free of Elizabeth’s grasp.

  “You are absolutely correct, Miss Windham.” He opened the library door and drew back the last set of drapes. “You probably noticed that my cousin, Mrs. St. David, has a mischievous streak. She would delight in coming upon us in a compromising position.”

  Elizabeth would have said vexatious rather than mischievous. “You’re family to her. Why should she make trouble for you?”

  “Because she can. She and Hugh have no children, and that’s always worrisome in a ducal family without an abundance of spares. Do you favor poetry?”

  He gestured for Elizabeth to join him before the tall shelves marching down an interior wall.

  “I favor good poetry, and am reading Byron at present.” Elizabeth dearly, dearly wanted to linger over the volumes surrounding her, but His Grace wasn’t thinking clearly where his cousin was concerned. “Mrs. St. David doesn’t strike me as bored, so much as she is hurt.”

  The duke eyed the shelf before him as if the books were recruits unprepared for parade inspection.

  “You will think me ungentlemanly when I tell you that Delphine St. David’s sentiments revolve around her next pleasure and the inadequacies of her last pleasure. Let’s find you a book, shall we?”

  “Three books, at least, and how would you feel if your spouse thought of nothing but rocks, fossils, ancient mud, and long-dead sea creatures?”

  Or if your lot in life were to be regularly overlooked—or worse, pitied—and invited to social functions only to make up the numbers when your cousins weren’t available?

  The duke drew a volume down from the shelves. “I might be relieved to be left to my own devices, provided my duchess otherwise attended to her responsibilities. Do you read French?”

  “Of course. You must not reply so bluntly should another of your guests raise a similar question, Your Grace. You’ll crush the ambitions of nearly every young lady in the castle.”

  He peered at her over the top of the book. “Miss Windham, some of these women will not be deterred by Greek fire or lunatic St. David uncles wandering out of dungeons. Nothing short of true scandal would render me ineligible in their eyes, and most of them met me only yesterday.”

  Elizabeth plucked the poetry from his grasp. “Your cousin apparently neglects his wife shamefully. As head of the family, it’s your place to take him to task. He has, by his actions, let all and sundry know his wife’s behavior matters to him not at all, and a day getting sunburned and ruining his boots holds more appeal than a meal by her side.”

  Haverford held his ground, so he and Elizabeth stood very close. Elizabeth was torn between an urge to shake her finger in the duke’s face—Mrs. St. David’s situation was not of her own making—and the compulsion to scamper off with the book he’d chosen for her.

  He stared over Elizabeth’s right shoulder. “Your hypothesis is that Delphine strays in an effort to gain her husband’s notice?”

  “And to shame him, as he shames her with his indifference.”

  “You’ve deduced this over a single plate of eggs?”

  Elizabeth resolutely ignored the French verse she’d likely never have another opportunity to read. “‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart/’Tis Woman’s whole existence…,’” Elizabeth quoted. “One could deduce Mrs. St. David’s discontent over a single cup of tea, did one pay attention.”

  Chapter Five

  HAVERFORD TURNED BACK TO the shelves, giving Elizabeth an opportunity to note the breadth of his shoulders. He truly was a splendid specimen, and he was listening.

  “I am coming to enjoy your scolds, madam. They have about them the ring of common sense. I will consider your theory and perhaps have a word with Hugh.”

  Consider and perhaps would do Mrs. St. David no good. “Do better than that. Move Hugh into his wife’s room because the chimney must be cleaned in his. Ask them to lead a team for the scavenger hunt. Invite them to visit when an entire house party isn’t underfoot.”

  His Grace passed her a second book. “You are a font of ingenuity, or matchmaking, depending on one’s perspective. I hadn’t realized Lady Glenys was inflicting a scavenger hunt on us. You will insinuate yourself onto my team, Miss Windham.”

  A third book joined the two in Elizabeth’s grasp. “You will not tell me what to do, Your Grace.”

  His lips twitched. “Do forgive my imperiousness, Miss Windham. If you would condescend to join my team for the scavenger hunt, I would be eternally in your debt.”

 
Haverford’s word choice brought to mind all the expenses marching down the ledger page, entry after entry. He was a duke. He need not tarry with her in the library, much less choose books for her, much less compliment her scolds.

  Or tolerate her imperiousness. Elizabeth might not owe him an outright apology for her meddling where Mrs. St. David was concerned, but she owed him an explanation.

  “Griffith Jones had a wealthy sponsor,” Elizabeth said. “All his dreams, his great plans, would have had little impact, but for Madam Bevans. She financed his schools, took Jones in when he was an aged widower, continued his work after his death, and left a substantial grant in her will for the support of the circulating schools.”

  His Grace braced a shoulder against the shelves and crossed his arms. He was a good-sized man, along the lines of Elizabeth’s male cousins. He wasn’t a great hulking brute; by her standards he was simply man-sized.

  Perfectly man-sized.

  “You are about to make a point,” he said. “I would like to hear it.”

  “I have only modest settlements,” Elizabeth said. “But I am a Windham, and well connected. Between what funds I can command and what donations I could inspire, I can make a difference. Few women have that privilege. I cannot imagine the depth of Mrs. David’s frustration, to be invisible to the one person who ought always to see her.”

  The duke regarded her, nothing casual or coy in his gaze. He not only listened, he saw.

  “Lending libraries are worth supporting,” Elizabeth went on, lest she lose her nerve. “They bring the wider world, the most learned prose, the most exciting ages, within reach of any village curate, any milkmaid who’s been to the local dame school.” Any young woman facing yet another lonely London season. “I want to support lending libraries.”

  “A worthy cause.”

  Haverford turned, so he stood in profile to Elizabeth. Regret washed through her, for she liked looking at him, and hoped her maunderings hadn’t created awkwardness.

  Though how could they not?

  His Grace used the lip of the shelf to scratch his back, which was extraordinarily informal behavior. Elizabeth was about to reprove him for it, when she recalled the duke telling her that nobody scolded him.

  Nobody scratched his back either.

  “For gracious sake, let me.” Elizabeth set her books aside and pushed Haverford around to face away from her. She used her nails and gave him a solid scratching, for he wore a coat, waistcoat, and shirt.

  He stood still for a moment, then braced himself against the shelves.

  She finished with a pat to the middle of his back. “Better?” she asked, picking up the books.

  “Has anybody told you that you have tendency to manage whoever and whatever is at hand?”

  Elizabeth had not been merely told she had managing tendencies, she’d been admonished at length on the topic, and yet, the duke’s assessment was inaccurate.

  “I did not manage Lord Allermain.” Elizabeth’s admission surprised even her. “I’m ruralizing in Wales because I attracted his less than respectful notice.”

  Though of all people, Haverford would know how it felt to be pursued as a prize rather than as a person, and he’d respect a lady’s confidences.

  The duke wandered away from the bookshelves. “I don’t care for him, but then, I’m considered pernickety in the company I keep. I assume he bungled badly.”

  Elizabeth’s parents had implied that she was the bungler, frittering away season after season without choosing a husband, while every last ducal cousin pelted up the church aisle.

  “Allermain put a soporific in my wine and nearly waltzed me into his waiting coach. My cousins intervened, and his lordship is now kicking his heels on the Continent. At my parents’ insistence, I am kicking my heels among the largest concentration of titled bachelors in the realm. I am also being somewhat…managing. I apologize for that.”

  Elizabeth was also kicking her heels amid all these lovely books, which she would inspect when she’d finished burdening Haverford with her woes—assuming he didn’t have her escorted from the property first.

  The duke stood before the open French doors. Having turned his back to Elizabeth once—at her insistence—he was apparently willing to do so again.

  “Your cousins allowed this varlet to decamp for parts unknown?”

  “They did. Scandal must never be linked to a woman’s name and so forth, but now my parents demand that I marry. Allermain sought to ally himself with a large, influential ducal family, and there I was, all unmarried and female, tempting him to rash measures.”

  Haverford stalked toward her, his boots thumping so hard against the floor Elizabeth felt the impact where she stood.

  “That is utter balderdash, madam. That is the rankest tripe, do you hear me? A gentleman owes his protection to all who are weaker than he—children, the elderly, the infirm, and women especially. No matter the advantages a woman’s family connections or fortune might offer, or the invitation in her smile, or the effects of drink—no matter anything—Allermain’s behavior was inexcusable.”

  Haverford’s indignation washed across Elizabeth like a scouring wind, though rather than upsetting all in its path, this gale set a few things to rights.

  “You are correct, of course.” And Papa was wrong. Haverford had no doubt about who had bungled, and who should have been held accountable.

  “Now you turn up agreeable. I am not deceived, Miss Windham. When I commit the least transgression, you will correct me. But I am in your debt, and I came in here to find a book for you.”

  “You’ve found three.” The titles of which Elizabeth hadn’t bothered to glance at.

  “I meant a book to give you. You rendered assistance last night when it was much needed. A book struck me as a suitable token of my appreciation. You must choose one for yourself.”

  He looked both determined and uncomfortable, as if giving away even one volume of his precious collection pitted generosity against the ire of the St. David ancestors who’d amassed this treasure. Elizabeth approved of both sentiments—the magnanimity of bestowing a book on her, and the reluctance to reduce his family’s library by even a single title.

  The room was lined on three sides with shelves, and those shelves ringed a second story. His Grace had also mentioned a second library, and a document collection in the bowels of the castle.

  “I’m to choose one book, from all of these?”

  “Choose wisely and take your time. This room holds more than thirty thousand titles. The bawdy tales are up there,” he said, gesturing across the room. “That corner is all French and Italian. There are a few Bibles, the usual medical treatises. Take whichever one you please.” He fixed his gaze in the direction of the bawdy tales. “The last time Griffin wandered, I found him mere yards from a precipice.”

  “That had to be upsetting.”

  “I raised my voice to the boy for the first time in years. That upset him. Years ago, he fell into an abandoned mine shaft, and when we found him the next day, he was already suffering fevers and a badly sprained wrist. If I make haste, I’ll have time to discuss last night with the prodigal himself. I bid you good day, and again, you have my thanks. For everything. And Lord Allermain is ruined. Your cousins have likely already put matters in train, but I’ll add my discreet efforts, and you won’t see him in a proper ballroom again. That much remains within my power.”

  He kissed Elizabeth’s cheek, a soft brush of cedary warmth, and then he strode off.

  The room contained more literature than Elizabeth had ever beheld in a private home, and three weeks wouldn’t be enough for even a cursory perusal. As the duke’s steps faded down the corridor, Elizabeth couldn’t give a tinker’s curse for the books.

  The Duke of Haverford had listened to her, taken the situation with Allermain in hand, thanked her for everything, and kissed her. What was everything, and when might she kiss him back?

  * * *

  “You’re disappointed in me.” Griffin sk
ipped a rock across the river, flicking the stone so hard that it bounced six times before sinking.

  “I am.” Julian was also worried as hell. Griffin had not come bounding from the cottage, spouting apologies and looking chagrinned.

  “You didn’t send a card,” Griffin said, striding along the bank. “When a gentleman comes calling, he’s supposed to send a card. If you send your card, I can ask Biddy to make tea, but you didn’t send your card.”

  “We’d look a bit silly taking our tea along the river here.”

  “We could have a picnic. I wasn’t lost, Julian. Last night, I wasn’t lost at all.”

  Julian wanted to change the subject, to ask the names of the plants growing on the path, to listen for the bird calls Griffin knew by heart. Papa had taught him those bird calls, and taught them to Julian too.

  The lad remembered everything, except his older brother’s lectures.

  “I don’t get lost,” Griffin said, rounding on Julian. “Never, never, never. I have never been lost. Why do you keep thinking I’m lost when I’m only having a ramble on our land? The sheep and horses and cows sleep outside all the time, and you never worry about them. Am I more stupid than a sheep?”

  What the hell? “You’re far more intelligent than a sheep.”

  “So why did you and Radnor and Abner and that lady come looking for me? I would have awoken when I was rested and come straight home like I always do.”

  God save me. Griffin could fixate on details—Why did clouds have the shapes they did? Why did Monday follow Sunday every week? Why hadn’t Marged Pryce’s breasts been exactly the same shape?—and worry over them for days.

  Griffin had apparently seen Elizabeth Windham on the path below the oak and would doubtless remark her presence at the worst possible time in the worst possible company.

  “We came looking for you because we were worried about you.”

  Griffin resumed walking. “Because you think I’m stupid. I am stupid, but I don’t get lost. If you let me go to London, I might get lost, because London is very, very, very far away. You never let me go to London.”