No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  Haverford was trying to convince her he was a lazy kisser, but he was lazy like a prowling lion, bringing infinite patience and focus to his advances. His lips moved over Elizabeth’s in gentle brushes, and she scooted closer, the better to grip him by the lapels.

  He came closer as well, spreading his knees, and sliding a hand into Elizabeth’s hair.

  His kisses were lovely. Tender, teasing, maddeningly undemanding.

  “I want—” Elizabeth muttered against his mouth.

  His tongue danced across her lips. She braced herself for an invasion, for a crude imitation of coitus, but Haverford surprised her by pausing to caress the nape of her neck.

  “If you don’t like it,” he said, “you show me what I’m doing wrong. You are gifted at chiding and correcting. Chide me.”

  Oh, my. Oh, gracious. Oh, yes. Elizabeth explored the shape and texture of his mouth, the contours of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows. His jaw was only slightly bristly—he must have shaved before dinner—while his eyebrows were soft.

  Elizabeth took a taste of him, and his every movement, from his breathing to the susurration of his clothing, to his slight shifts on the hassock, stilled.

  “Again,” he said. “Please.”

  Elizabeth liked the sound of that, liked the feel of the word please whispered against her mouth.

  And as the kiss deepened and became a frolic followed by a dare, punctuated by a challenge, she rejoiced.

  I was wrong. I was so very, wonderfully wrong. Every man wasn’t an inconsiderate lout. They weren’t all monuments to self-satisfaction. At least one bachelor could kiss and kiss and kiss.…Elizabeth took one more taste of pleasure, then drew back enough to rest her forehead on Haverford’s shoulder.

  “I need a moment, Your—Julian.”

  He stroked her hair, his cheek resting against her temple. “Take all the time you need. I’m in rather a state myself.”

  Elizabeth hugged his admission to her heart. He’d restored her faith in something—perhaps in herself. The fault had lain not with her, but with the men she’d chosen, and if she could be wrong in this, she might be wrong about the joys of marriage, about her own dreams, about anything.

  Elizabeth sat back and smoothed the duke’s cravat. “My thanks. You deliver an impressive counterexample. You’ve given me something to consider.”

  One mink-dark eyebrow quirked. “Such effusive praise will surely turn my head, Miss Windham.”

  “Elizabeth. If I’m turning your head, you may address me as Elizabeth when private.”

  They shared a smile, conspiratorial, sweet, and a bit dazed. This was how it was supposed to be between a man and a woman, both comfortable and daring, a private adventure.

  Haverford rose and tossed a square of peat onto the fire, then poked it to the back of the flames, so the fire could both breathe and consume the fresh fuel.

  “Shall I say something to Haldale regarding your sister?” he asked, giving the peat one last nudge.

  “With the subtlety common to all dukes, you should let him know that if he pursues what Charlotte offers, he must do so with utmost discretion and care. Charlotte is merely bored, not desperate, and I suspect Haldale will regret any impertinence.”

  “As you wish. A warning rather than a threat. I’m loath to leave you here alone at such a late hour. Might I escort you to your room?”

  He was back to being the polite host, and yet, Elizabeth knew better. Haverford was a superb kisser, one who had probably made a few poor choices of his own, late at night in crowded, lonely ballrooms. The knowledge warmed her from within, like the subtle spices of the pear cordial.

  “Yes, please, provide me your escort, Your Grace. I might get turned around again, and spend eternity trying to find the right tower.”

  The duke repositioned the screen in front of the fire, set his glass on the sideboard next to Elizabeth’s, and went to the door. He first peered into the corridor, then gestured for Elizabeth to join him. The chill was bracing—this was a castle, after all. And yet, Elizabeth’s heart was warmed too.

  Haverford had made sure nobody would see them leaving Lady Glenys’s parlor. He might kiss Elizabeth witless, but he’d protect her reputation from even a hint of gossip.

  What was that old saying about the third time being a charm?

  * * *

  One institution in all of England was above what Lucas Sherbourne’s father had called “persuasion by coin.” Almack’s assembly rooms were managed by a board of patronesses, a coven of well-born females who might trade in influence and favors, but never in cash.

  Sherbourne’s father had tried to bribe his way to vouchers and been unsuccessful. The only worse social disaster would have been a voucher granted and subsequently revoked.

  “Perhaps next season, I’ll hold my annual ball on some evening other than Wednesday,” Sherbourne informed his grandmama’s portrait. Almack’s held its gatherings on Wednesdays. If Sherbourne couldn’t attend, the least revenge he could take was to ensure half of polite society was in absentia with him.

  The half who owed him or his bank money.

  “Next year will be different,” he assured his powdered, smiling granddame.

  He rose from the table where he’d dined in lordly solitude. One did not become an aristocrat by swilling ale from pewter tankards or setting the table with Sheffield plate instead of silver.

  When Sherbourne acquired a wife, she’d find herself in a household worthy of a duchess.

  His path took him back to his estate office, where he kept the best Armagnac. The guest list from Haverford’s house party sat in the center of the morocco blotter on his desk. The family names marching down the page had all been admitted to Almack’s for at least the past quarter-century. Those people knew one another, they socialized with one another, they married one another.

  “They are the aristocratic equivalent of an English infantry square, unrelentingly loyal to the regiment, closing ranks against all threats.”

  Battles took a toll on those squares, though, and new recruits were necessary to keep Britain’s aristocracy funded. Sherbourne controlled fourteen seats in the House of Commons, and depending on market conditions, at least that many in the House of Lords.

  “Still not enough,” he said, passing a glass of fine French brandy beneath his nose. “But more than many an earl can command.”

  Haverford didn’t control seats in the House of Lords, he voted his seat. Ever the conscientious nobleman, was Julian, Duke of Indebtedness.

  Sherbourne settled into the chair behind his desk, studying the list. Lady Glenys was the only ducal daughter amid the females, and she was, of course, his marital objective. Approaching her would be easier if he knew how much she comprehended about Haverford’s financial situation.

  Only a fool antagonized the woman who might bear his children.

  The list was incomplete, because it hadn’t been stolen from Haverford Castle. Such larceny would have been unsporting, given how little attention the St. Davids paid to the security of their domicile.

  Sherbourne’s list was a compilation of servants’ gossip reported by Sherbourne’s housekeeper, observations offered by Squire Canford, rumors gleaned by Sherbourne’s land steward from forays into the local tavern, and a final few items from Sherbourne’s vast correspondence.

  Never had so many single, wealthy, aristocratic bachelors gathered in one place, excepting perhaps Ascot during the race meets. Haverford was determined to parade his sister before every eligible of note.

  That would not do. Lady Glenys was the highest-ranking female for several counties in any direction, and Sherbourne had all but decided she’d become his wife. He’d been patient long enough, and in the manner of good families down through the centuries, theirs would be an advantageous match for all concerned.

  Sherbourne wasn’t a barbarian, and the St. Davids couldn’t afford to be choosy.

  “A proposal from me would flatter any young lady of sense,” Sherbourne muttered,
giving the list a final perusal.

  A name near the bottom caught his eye: Windham, Miss Elizabeth and Miss Charlotte, accompanied by their elderly aunt, Lady Pembroke. The Windhams held a ducal title. In fact, they were the only other ducal family represented at the gathering besides the St. Davids.

  Interesting.

  Sherbourne consulted Debrett’s as he finished his drink, and then took himself off to bed. As his valet got him changed into a nightshirt and dressing gown, Sherbourne considered Haverford’s house party.

  Lady Glenys remained the most desirable objective, though she’d never been anything more than cordial to Sherbourne. Ladies were like that, though. They could hide rage, affection, resentment, and attraction with equal skill.

  “Her ladyship is no great beauty either.” Sherbourne knew who the great beauties were, because their papas needed great fortunes to clothe and dower them.

  Sherbourne’s valet paused on his way to the door, a day’s worth of wrinkled linen in his arms. “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing of any moment. Has my trunk been packed for tomorrow?”

  Turnbull had been wooed away from the household of a Scottish marquess who’d served in the Caribbean. Not by a twitch of an eyebrow did he betray surprise.

  “All is in readiness for tomorrow, sir. Good night.” Turnbull’s voice bore the lyrical cadence of the islands, a counterpoint to the brisk dignity with which he went about his duties.

  He withdrew silently, and Sherbourne settled into bed with a report from his London solicitors on the progress of various bills to regulate child labor. The aristocracy made polite noises about ensuring no children younger than nine were apprenticed in the textile factories and that such children never spent more than twelve hours a day at their work.

  Of course, the same tender-hearted lords did nothing to make the laws enforceable, and most children in the factories weren’t apprenticed. Many were younger than nine, and they worked as much as sixteen hours a day for perhaps one-sixth the wages paid their fathers.

  Sherbourne spent thirty minutes skimming the report, finding nothing more than the usual posturing by the usual titled nincompoops. Great lords giving great orations that ignored the great profits reaped by the same aristocrats using the very child labor they decried.

  Parasitical hypocrites, the lot of them. Sherbourne blew out the bedside candles, and a thought occurred to him in the darkness.

  No competent general went into battle without a contingency plan, and a mature, un-married niece of a duke, a woman of advancing years and no particular beauty, was probably a sensible creature.

  Miss Elizabeth Windham would see the wisdom in an advantageous alliance, if Haverford and his sister proved difficult. The more Sherbourne considered his contingency plan, the more he liked it.

  Having Haverford for a brother-in-law when Sherbourne was poised to ruin His Grace of Inherited Disaster would be awkward, after all.

  Chapter Eight

  Confiding in a handsome duke, late at night, behind a closed door, was not wise. Elizabeth longed to repeat the experience soon and often.

  Haverford’s kisses followed her into slumber and provoked restless dreams that had her rising early. She made her way to the breakfast parlor while the servants were still arranging the buffet on the sideboard. Elizabeth slathered butter and jam on three scones, cut herself a slice of cheddar, grabbed a small orange, and wrapped the lot in a linen serviette.

  She was new at confiding, and to best savor the folly of the previous evening—if folly it had been—she wanted fresh air and solitude. Charlotte, by contrast, had demanded to be left in peace amid her pillows.

  Haverford Castle sat on a rise, and beyond the back terrace, the formal gardens merged with a park that gave way to wilderness and countryside. Tudor Hill rose to the east, and a river bisected the park. Elizabeth struck out for the river, which she intended to follow along the base of the hill.

  The scythed grass sparkled with dew, the air was brisk, and the sunshine benevolent. No wonder Mama was often homesick, and no wonder she and Papa journeyed to Wales frequently. Something about the light put Elizabeth in mind of fairy tales and legends, magic caves, and.…

  Midnight kisses.

  The river was a swath of silvery brilliance in the morning sun, at variance with the geometric gardens closer to the house. A river, unlike an almost-spinster, had some say in its direction.

  Elizabeth’s objective was to find a place to settle with a sketch pad. While admiring the view, she’d enjoy a solitary picnic, pretend to draw, and consider developments with Haverford. He’d kissed her of his own free will, no flirting or prodding on her part required, and that…that gratified some undignified girlish fancy Elizabeth had denied for years.

  “Good gracious!”

  One moment, the path before her had been empty, the next it was filled with the most gorgeous young man Elizabeth had ever beheld. A rustling of the oak branches overhead was her only clue that the fellow hadn’t sprung up from some fairy mound.

  “Good morning.” His greeting was in careful English, and his smile both bashful and merry.

  “Good morning,” Elizabeth replied in Welsh.

  This exquisite creature was dark-haired, neatly attired, and possessed of the finest brown eyes ever bestowed on an adult male. His countenance conveyed no guile, arrogance, or caution. Angels gazed on the world with this much benevolence, though what angel had the St. David eyebrows?

  He was attired not as a farm lad or yeoman, but as a country gentleman out for a morning constitutional. Everything, from his field boots, to his shooting jacket, to his neckcloth, was clean and well made.

  Whoever he was, he came from means.

  “Griffin St. David, at your service.” His bow was punctilious, despite the rustic surrounds, and he’d spoken in cheerful Welsh. “You’re supposed to curtsy now, and you should tell me your name. If we were at church, somebody would introduce us, but if we were at church, we’d be neighbors. I know all of my neighbors, and I’ve never been introduced to you. Did you know there are forty-two coaches behind the castle’s coach house?”

  His earnestness was childlike, though he looked in every way whole and adult. This was very likely the “Griffin” who’d gone missing two nights ago, and no wonder his disappearance had caused the duke worry.

  “I had not counted the coaches,” Elizabeth said. “Are you related to Haverford and Lady Glenys, Mr. St. David?” He had to be, given those eyebrows, the dark hair, the height, and his complete ease on Haverford land.

  “I have my own household,” he said, obviously quite pleased about this. “You’re supposed to curtsy.”

  Elizabeth remedied the oversight, because Mr. St. David was absolutely correct, though by rights a mutual acquaintance really should have introduced them.

  “I’ve come outside to sketch,” Elizabeth said. “I suspect the views from the hill are spectacular.”

  “I can show you the way. I’m a gentleman. I won’t let you stumble or get lost.” Mr. St. David spoke in all seriousness, and if he was a St. David cousin or by-blow, he probably did know every path and pasture on the estate.

  “I would appreciate your escort, but you mustn’t expect too fast a pace. I want to enjoy the scenery.”

  “I won’t run,” he said, setting off along the river path. “Do I take your arm or not? I could hold your hand. Biddy says I’m to take her arm, but sometimes we hold hands too. Biddy makes the best shortbread.”

  If only all men were so willing to inquire about a lady’s preferences. “I can manage on my own, provided you’ll show me the way. Perhaps you’d be willing to carry my haversack?” Elizabeth passed him the leather bag holding her breakfast picnic and her sketching supplies.

  Griffin looped the sack over a sturdy shoulder. “You didn’t tell me your name. I won’t forget if you tell me, but I must not presume-an-acquaintance until we’ve been introduced, even if you are a friend to Lady Glenys or Biddy or Julian.”

 
Elizabeth chose the least formal and most Welsh version of her name. “I’m Bethan. Do you live nearby?”

  “At my own house, with Biddy and Abner. Oscar comes to help sometimes, and Emry Davis helps Biddy on laundry days. Are you tired yet? If you’re tired, we can rest.”

  He was very dear. “I’m managing.”

  Griffin shot her a furtive, puzzled look, and Elizabeth realized she’d spoken in English.

  “My apologies,” she said, switching back to Welsh. “I’m fine for now, though I doubt I’d be able to keep up if you weren’t making allowances for my shorter legs. You have a dog, don’t you?”

  Griffin waxed enthusiastic about King Henry, who was talented at flushing hares and named for the Welsh-born sovereign. Next came a monologue on the flora and fauna of the area, about which Elizabeth’s escort was astonishingly knowledgeable.

  “We can see the coaches from here,” he said when they were about halfway up the hill. “Yesterday everybody shot arrows. Radnor and Glenys argued, but they always argue. You mustn’t think anything of it.”

  Where had Griffin been, that he’d overheard the marquess and Lady Glenys having a tiff?

  “House parties can be demanding for the hostess,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure Lord Radnor was only trying to help.”

  “Glenys makes his tallywags ache. I like to sit on that rock there. King Henry does too.”

  Tallywags? The term was English, more or less, and it had no place in a lady’s conversation in any language. Though…poor Radnor. Poor Lady Glenys, if she provoked such a response from her neighbor and didn’t realize it. Aching tallywags went well beyond a genteel tendresse.

  “Let’s rest our feet,” Elizabeth suggested. “This would be a lovely place to start sketching.”

  The countryside unfolded across the valley in a patchwork of pastures, hayfields, cultivated land, and woods. Far off to the west, mist drifted from the underside of a rain cloud, but in every other direction, the landscape was drenched in sun.