No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  He loved her, for letting a tired man sleep, for looking after a possession he treasured, for wearing his shirt.

  The previous evening at cards, Elizabeth had discreetly distracted Haldale from leering down Miss Trelawny’s bodice. Julian would have planted the varlet a facer, thus embarrassing the young lady, the guests, the servants, and himself.

  And just now, when Julian had been on the point of remonstrating with his brother before the ladies, Elizabeth had taken the situation—and Julian—in hand, and saved the fraternal relationship from a very bad moment.

  She’d accomplished all of this with nothing more than pleasantries and good manners.

  “The qualities you think make you uninteresting to others,” he said, “are why I love you.”

  Two plump red hens were perched on the top of the stile, Princess and Louise, a pair of feathered dowagers. The scent of the barnyard wafted on the breeze, and King Henry was trotting down the lane, tongue lolling.

  Could there be a less auspicious setting for a romantic declaration?

  Elizabeth peered up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I love you, Elizabeth Windham, and if saying so makes me a scoundrel, when I’ve little material security to offer you, I’m sorry. Nonetheless, without some indication from Moreland that our match would be acceptable, I must insist that on Monday, you get into your carriage and return to England. I didn’t want to send you home without expressing my sentiments to you.”

  “You love me, so you’re sending me packing?”

  His sincere, heartfelt admission was meeting with less than warm approval. “I do love you. You have a quiet competence, a pragmatism that balances a kind heart with common sense. You don’t expect cosseting, and thus cosseting you is that much more a privilege. You never call attention to yourself, and yet, you fascinate me. You’re protective of your family, and with Griffin…I am in your debt, Elizabeth. All other matters between us aside, I am in your debt for this visit with Griffin.”

  “You are an idiot, but we’ll get to that in a moment. You needn’t worry so about Griffin. Others love him nearly as much as you do.”

  Julian looped his arms over her shoulders and held her loosely. The impulse wasn’t sexual, wasn’t even particularly affectionate. He felt calmer holding her, and being held by her.

  “I did not foresee this development,” he said. “Marriage was not in my plans for Griffin, much less marriage to his housekeeper. My first thought was that if my brother marries, there will be a dozen more mouths to feed.”

  “You are ashamed of yourself for thinking that?”

  “I am. Biddy cares for him. I should have seen that long ago. She loves him as he is, not because he’s a duke’s son. He names his hens, helps in the kitchen, and looks after Abner when the old boy has been at the ale. I assumed my brother’s progeny will be my responsibility, when, without my noticing it, Griffin has found a life that works without my meddling.”

  “You will meddle some. He’s family, after all.”

  If you were my duchess…“I will meddle as little as possible, but I’ll worry a great deal. I will worry about you as well, Elizabeth.”

  “And worry you should.” She wiggled free and marched off down the path. “My family will dispatch me to some other house party, where—one supposes—the dukes will have more coin. I have enough money that my dotage will not be impoverished, you foolish man. Why must you be so proud?”

  Julian followed more slowly, in no hurry to return to his castle. “Not proud, Elizabeth, honorable. That is your money, and I daresay you will need every penny of it should your husband predecease you.” Arguing with Elizabeth was a waste of their dwindling supply of minutes, but she needed to know the facts. “I owe more than twenty thousand pounds to Sherbourne alone, and my best efforts barely keep up with the interest. A bad harvest, a soft market for wool, foot rot in the herds…I’m hanging on by a few threads, Elizabeth.”

  She came to a halt. “Twenty…twenty thousand, to Sherbourne alone? How did that happen?”

  The same question Julian had asked the first time the family solicitors had reviewed the ledgers with him.

  Now, he knew the answer. One illuminated manuscript, one auction, one Shakespeare folio at a time, the edifice that had been the wealthy Haverford dukedom had crumbled, leaving nothing but a pauper’s extravagant library in its place.

  “My father made poor investments, and Sherbourne’s father lent money. I suspect that Sherbourne senior also handed out bad investment advice on purpose, but I can’t blame him for the fact that my parents never once practiced economies.”

  “Oh, Julian.”

  They stood on the path, two yards and twenty thousand pounds separating them.

  “If I don’t pay regular wages, Elizabeth, my staff will leave and the castle will fall to ruins. If I can’t make improvements, I won’t have tenants for my farms. I refuse to shackle the people I’m supposed to care about—my wife, my siblings, my offspring, my tenants, and employees—with my failure to bring the finances right.”

  “And you refuse to give up.”

  “I also refuse to take your money when it’s the only security you have.”

  “But with trusts, and my family to oversee my portion, that money would be secure.”

  He closed the distance between them. “Sherbourne is determined, and if he chose to accelerate my debts, he could bring lawsuits that entangled your funds in my problems.”

  Elizabeth began walking, more slowly, her head down as if a strong wind thwarted her progress. “We have laws. He can’t just snap his fingers and call in an entire sum, can he?”

  “In this case, he can. My father signed promissory notes, then failed to pay installments when due, and that means I’m making payments at Sherbourne’s sufferance.”

  The day was so achingly pretty that to discuss debts and duties was a form of blasphemy, but at least Elizabeth wouldn’t return to England thinking Julian had rejected her out of pride.

  “So why doesn’t Sherbourne ruin you?” she asked. “He can destroy you, and yet he doesn’t. Why not?”

  A question that had been robbing Julian of much sleep lately. “Do you understand the concept of interest?”

  “The longer the principle is unpaid, the more expensive the debt becomes for the borrower. Sherbourne enjoys watching you struggle.”

  “Or he thinks I’ll approve a match between him and Glenys if he stays his hand financially.”

  They came to a rill that separated two hay fields. Julian stepped across, then swung Elizabeth over the water. She stayed where she landed, watching the water trickle over the rocks.

  “You’re not about to approve a match between Lady Glenys and Sherbourne,” she said. “She and Radnor are trying to be discreet, but I saw them in the orangery earlier this week. I suspect you’ll have a brother-in-law very soon, and become an uncle by this time next year.”

  “Which means nothing will stop Sherbourne from toppling me into ruin once Glenys and Radnor announce their engagement.”

  “I could give you every penny of my settlements and it wouldn’t make a difference, would it?”

  “No difference at all.”

  Elizabeth slipped her arms around him. The water burbled merrily on toward the sea and a harrier circled lazily overhead, while Julian asked himself again: Was there anything Sherbourne could possibly want as much as Julian wanted to spend the rest of his life with Elizabeth Windham?

  * * *

  “Can you ladies spare me a moment?” Haverford asked, overtaking Elizabeth and Charlotte in the corridor. “The household is at sixes and sevens in preparation for the ball, and I need trustworthy assistance.”

  His Grace was not yet in evening attire, and Elizabeth was to blame. He’d tarried with her in the tower that afternoon, saying silent, passionate good-byes that had heaped heartache on top of pleasure in an excruciatingly precious intimacy.

  “I’m always available to lend trustworthy assistance to my favorite Wels
h duke.” For the rest of her life, Elizabeth would like to be available to Haverford, to lend assistance, affection, laughter, friendship, and so much more.

  “I can help too,” Charlotte added. “Though if you need me to carry you to your quarters because of a bilious stomach, I might enlist several footmen as well.”

  Charlotte could not wait to leave on Monday, while Elizabeth dreaded the trip down the drive. She’d promised Griffin a farewell visit before their departure, and he had promised to write to her.

  Elizabeth had promised Haverford nothing, and he’d returned the courtesy.

  “Where are you taking us?” Elizabeth asked.

  “To the strong room,” Haverford said, opening yet another paneled door. “This being a proper castle, all the interesting parts—the siege well, the kitchens, the wine cellars, for example—are belowstairs.”

  This stairwell wasn’t as dusty as some Elizabeth had traversed at Haverford, but neither did it have an air of frequent use.

  “I would love to make a map of this castle,” Charlotte said. “It’s like a pocket watch, but on a grand scale.”

  “A very old pocket watch.” Haverford held open a door of thick planks secured with iron bands. “After you, ladies.”

  The air was redolent with cooking scents. Onions, garlic, meat, fresh bread and subtler hints—oregano, thyme, and basil.

  “It’s warm,” Charlotte said. “I wasn’t expecting warmth one floor above the cellars.”

  “The kitchens are on the opposite side of this wall, which is part of the reason the strong room is here. Doesn’t do for the family treasures to be ruined by the damp. You are sworn to secrecy, of course.”

  He wasn’t joking. “Of course,” Elizabeth said, elbowing Charlotte into concurring.

  The duke produced a key very like the one that opened the tower room, and another heavy door creaked open on substantial iron hinges. He lifted a lamp from a sconce and held it high before hanging it from a hook on a rafter.

  “Behold, the St. David family vault, such as it is. An eternal resting place for a lot of musty old words.”

  The room was small, square, and had the utter quiet of a space enclosed in very thick walls. A clothespress, or something like it, sat along one wall, and oak cabinets fitted with stout locks stood on the facing side of the chamber.

  “This feels like a confessional,” Charlotte said. “I wouldn’t like to be locked in here.”

  “I’d find you,” Haverford replied. “I stop by here at least once a day, and when I’m in London, my butler has that office.”

  “The day would be very long, dark, and quiet until you happened along,” Charlotte said. “What’s this?”

  Haverford didn’t answer immediately. He was sorting through a ring of keys taken from a drawer in the clothespress.

  Elizabeth crossed the room to join Charlotte before a framed glass nearly a yard square.

  In the dim light, she could see only that the frame held a single large document, one covered in dense, black script, with a dark reddish blob of something that might once have been wax suspended from the bottom.

  “That is a 1297 version of the Magna Carta Libertatum,” Haverford said, opening one of the cabinets. “The text is abbreviated medieval law Latin, which was a crushing disappointment to me when I first saw it as a boy. I expected something legibly Shakespearean. I mastered the law Latin eventually, because there’s a deal of it to study on the premises.”

  He withdrew a velvet pouch from the cabinet, took a flat wooden box from within, and opened it. “Haven’t seen these for quite a while.”

  The little box held a parure, diamonds and emeralds, but Elizabeth could barely spare the jewels a glance.

  “You have a five-hundred-year-old copy of one of the world’s most significant documents, and you were disappointed in it?”

  “These are very pretty,” Charlotte said, peering more closely at the jewels. “Don’t you agree, Elizabeth?”

  “Julian? The Magna Carta?”

  “One of the later versions,” he said, passing Charlotte the jewelry box. “That chest is full of such documents. In more tumultuous times, both the Crown and its detractors used Haverford as a document repository, and the St. Davids were happy to oblige because that responsibility reinforced our position as statesmen. The times are no longer so fraught, and we thus have a lot of parchment and vellum nobody cares about anymore.”

  “Did you intend for these jewels to go to Lady Glenys?” Charlotte asked.

  “I did. If you wouldn’t mind delivering them, I’d appreciate it. I don’t dare go near my sister with the ball beginning in less than three hours.”

  Charlotte took one more peek at the jewels, shut the box with a firm snap, and scurried from the room.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Haverford said as Charlotte’s footsteps faded. “I am a barbarian for not venerating a lot of old documents. I respect what they symbolize, Elizabeth, but they’ve become one more responsibility. I’d give them to you, except they do require some care and transporting them would incur significant cost.”

  Elizabeth wrapped her arms around him. “You would give me your family’s legacy?”

  “There’s a catalogue in one of those drawers,” he said, gathering her close. “It explains which document is a treaty, which is a charter, which is a royal letter. A royal pardon or two hides among the lot, some marriage lines. Not as exciting as your Milton, whom you should take with you. Take any of the books that catch your fancy with you.”

  Was Julian ruling in hell, managing debts and responsibilities he’d done nothing to create, or serving in heaven by protecting a legacy he couldn’t value personally?

  “Are there illuminated manuscripts in this room?”

  “Seven, which enjoy the top drawers. As a boy, I liked those because of the artwork, and the glosses. The monks were a humorous lot, writing poetry to their cats and their alewives.”

  He was making small talk about long-dead monks, offering Elizabeth his treasures, and saying good-bye. Elizabeth wiped a tear from her cheek, which had nothing to do with being in the presence of great documents.

  “I thought I could dally, Julian. I’ll never dally again. I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t—Elizabeth, please don’t cry.” His thumb brushing across her cheek could not have been more gentle.

  “Have you heard from Moreland?”

  The slight pause in his breathing, the shift in his posture answered Elizabeth’s question.

  “What did he say? Uncle Percy can be quite colorful.”

  Uncle Percy could be utterly pigheaded too. Aunt Esther referred to him as a man of principle. Mama called Uncle Percy set in his ways. Papa referred to his brother as stubborn.

  Julian withdrew a note from an inner pocket of his coat. “You should read it. I’m not sure what to make of it, though his disapproval of my request is clear.”

  Elizabeth took the note over to the light.

  Haverford,

  While I commend your taste in prospective duchesses, I must remind you: Woman does not live by books alone. I would disapprove a match for Elizabeth with any man facing insolvency. Attend to your finances before presuming to woo the fair maid.

  Moreland

  PS: My duchess will ruin you utterly, et cetera and so forth.

  PPS: Best of luck.

  “This is a maybe, Julian, not a no. He doesn’t mention dueling pistols.”

  “It’s a polite no,” Haverford said, taking the note back and tucking it away. “If you were my niece, I’d have written the same note to a bachelor without means who risked dragging you into penury. Of all people, a duke knows how truly useless a title is.”

  “But it’s a maybe,” Elizabeth insisted. “It’s a conditional yes.”

  They argued the point by virtue of a kiss, with Haverford offering gentle parting in every caress, and Elizabeth countering with fierce, stubborn, pigheaded determination.

  “Will you sa
ve me a dance?” he asked when Elizabeth left off lecturing him lip-to-lip.

  “I will save you all my dances.”

  “I’d like the good-night waltz,” he said. “Thank God the moon is setting at three, and the ball will break up early as a result. I’m announcing Glenys and Radnor’s engagement at the supper break.”

  Announcing his own doom, then, if his theories about Sherbourne were accurate. “I’ll toast their happiness.”

  Elizabeth stayed in Haverford’s arms for long moments, fortifying herself against the ordeal of the next three days. By this time on Monday, she’d be many miles away, trapped in a coach with Aunt Arabella and Charlotte, facing disappointment at home, and more house parties before winter set in.

  The document on the wall glinted at her through the glass, a legacy and a millstone. As best she could recall, the whole Runnymede business would have faded into obscurity had not the divine right of kings become an issue with the Stuart line.

  Kings did not rule by virtue of a grant from above, that document said, but by a grant from the governed. The notion had a radical air still, suggesting the bargain struck between the crown and the barons was very much a work in progress.

  “What would Sherbourne pay for that document?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Not a penny,” Haverford replied. “He professes himself a student of progress, rather than a slave to the past.”

  Well, damn. “He’s a heathen. It’s unfair that he prospers while you face ruin.”

  Haverford locked the jewel cabinet and opened the door to the corridor. When Elizabeth exited the little room, he retrieved the lamp and locked the vault.

  “I face ruin,” he said, “but not dishonor. I doubt Sherbourne understands the difference, while to me, it means everything.”

  Elizabeth loved that about Haverford, loved his fundamental dignity and decency. She would have loved just as much to have found twenty thousand pounds in his vault in place of a lot of dusty old documents and noble sentiments.

  Chapter Twenty