No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  Except…Elizabeth had sunk her fingers into his hair, and begun massaging his scalp. She had a firm touch that banished woes and every sort of tension. Within minutes, Julian was fast asleep and dreaming of a ruined castle in which the only source of warmth was a great bonfire of books.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Elizabeth woke to physical bliss. Perfect warmth surrounded her, the scent of lavender rose from crisp sheets, and the security of Haverford’s embrace conspired to coax her back into dreams. Her imagination dwelled on roses that climbed to the castle parapets, and an oak tree in the courtyard that bore a crop of books among its branches.

  Instinct pushed those fantasies aside, for beyond the window, light was filling the eastern horizon.

  “Haverford, I must seek my bed.”

  He nuzzled her neck.

  “Julian, wake up. The time has come to part.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Not yet.”

  The longer Elizabeth tarried the more difficult the parting would be, and the more likely scandal would join the blot of ruin on the St. David family escutcheon.

  “I can’t do this alone,” Elizabeth said, lips grazing Haverford’s forearm. “I don’t want to do it at all.”

  He shifted, and Elizabeth at first thought he was leaving the bed. Then she was blanketed with more than six feet of naked duke.

  “One last loving, Elizabeth. We have time.”

  Julian had never asked anything of her, not that she wait up for him, not that she write to him, not that she pretend their parting would be temporary. He was asking now.

  Elizabeth slipped her arms around him and closed her eyes. He showered her with kisses—temples, brows, cheeks, chin, jaw, everywhere. She mapped his back and shoulders with caresses.

  This should not be the last time. This should be just another morning in the ducal bed, just another loving in long, long years of loving. Elizabeth’s conviction that she and Julian should have decades to share warred with the reality that she was in bed with a ruined man. He’d no more offer for her now than she’d set fire to his libraries.

  Instead, she let passion set fire to her heart. Julian was prolonging the preliminaries, but he was aroused, and Elizabeth was determined. Between one kiss and the next, she gloved him in her heat, and held him while he shuddered at the joining.

  “You ambushed me.”

  She kissed him. “We’ve ambushed each other.”

  He was inside her, and yet she yearned to be closer. Her passion took on a desperation that brooked neither patience nor self-restraint. Elizabeth wanted Julian with a ferocity bordering on rage, and clung to him with the intensity of grief.

  They should not have to part, not tomorrow, not ever. Julian should not be ruined because a fool’s greed had slipped the leash of decency. Love should not be defeated by the petty considerations of social standing and coin.

  The pleasure was exquisite, beyond anything they’d shared in their tower room. For a few instants, sensation as blindingly bright as the Welsh summer sun filled her. Elizabeth was one with her lover, and no other reality existed.

  But the brilliant light faded, and in the wake of satisfaction, sorrow seeped into her soul. Julian slipped from her body, and yet, he remained wrapped in her arms.

  “I’d stay,” Elizabeth said. “Even if you didn’t marry me, I’d stay, if you asked it of me.”

  Julian raised himself up enough to meet her gaze. “I love you for that, and for so much more, Elizabeth, but give me the consolation of knowing that my ruin was not the cause of your own.”

  Then he was gone, leaving Elizabeth alone in the bed.

  * * *

  “Turnbull, I just saw the most astonishing sight.” Sherbourne set down the tea tray a haggard scullery maid had put together for him in the kitchen.

  Turnbull continued brushing Sherbourne’s evening coat in a brisk, regular rhythm. “Sir, what have I told you about intruding into the kitchens?”

  “You sniff and make faces, but never actually forbid me from seeking sustenance when I’m in need of same. What’s a kitchen for, after all?”

  “A kitchen is for the cook to organize as he or she sees fit. If you want something from the kitchen, you ring for it, send a footman, or present yourself in the appropriate parlor at the appropriate hour. The breakfast buffet is doubtless being laid out as we speak.”

  Turnbull was clearly feeling the effects of inadequate sleep. “I was hungry and the breakfast parlor is halfway down the far wing. I just saw Haverford escorting Miss Elizabeth Windham to her chamber door. She was in evening attire, and he was barely decent. Waistcoat and jacket, but no cravat. He does have fine taste in waistcoats—and women.”

  The brushing stopped. “Sir, you saw no such thing.”

  “Did too.” Sherbourne poured himself a cup of hot, strong tea, added milk and sugar, and strolled to the window. “The lady was less than tidy and looked quite well pleasured. I declare, my sensibilities were sorely tried.”

  “Your only concern should have been to ensure the lady’s sensibilities were not offended.”

  The castle gardens would soon be visible below, all geometric and tidy save for the occasional topiary dragon or gargoyle.

  “The first thing I’ll do when I take over this mausoleum is add some color to those gardens. Green and red; red, white, and green…Some people can’t see colors. Perhaps Haverford is one of them.”

  “The castle and grounds are entailed sir, and part of the dukedom. You cannot buy this castle.”

  “When you’re done with that jacket, take yourself belowstairs and find a place to nap, Turnbull. You are positively gloomy. I’ll lease the castle for a pittance.”

  Grandmama would have loved that notion. Sherbourne wasn’t so keen on living someplace he needed a map to navigate, but no matter. The castle would soon be his in all but name.

  “My thanks for your solicitude, sir, but when I have finished tending to your evening clothes, I will gather my effects and take my leave of you.”

  “We’re not returning to Sherbourne Hall until Monday. Wouldn’t want to miss a moment of this farce, particularly not with Haverford and the fair Miss Windham—”

  The wardrobe door closed so firmly as to nearly be slammed.

  “One does not bandy a lady’s name about, sir. Not ever.”

  “Haverford didn’t see me, and the lady saw only her duke.” Would Charlotte Windham ever regard a man with the same devotion? Would she risk her reputation stealing a few hours with him in private?

  “Then might I say, I have appreciated the opportunity to work for you, Mr. Sherbourne, and I wish you continued good fortune. I regret that I cannot recommend another to fulfill my position, but His Grace’s staff will doubtless be desperate enough to accept any offers you care to make them.”

  Sherbourne turned slowly, for the disdain in Turnbull’s voice was all the more surprising for being laced with disappointment.

  “I beg your pardon, Turnbull. What the deuce are you saying?”

  “Best of luck, sir.” He bowed and, in no hurry whatsoever, walked toward the door.

  “Just a damned minute. You work for me, and I have not dismissed you.”

  “I have resigned my position. I’ll tender that resignation in writing by post. Good day.”

  “Turnbull, what the hell are you going on about? Is this how you ask for an increase in wages?”

  “The wages you’ve paid me are embarrassingly generous.”

  Sherbourne set his teacup on the windowsill. “Why do I have the sense that the embarrassment should be mine?”

  Turnbull’s gaze went from the teacup to the tray, a familiar reminder that leaving delicate porcelain all over the premises was not the done thing.

  “I have endured this blighted house party in an effort to associate with good company,” Sherbourne said, pacing the length of the room. “I have comported myself like a gentleman while Haverford is disporting with a woman he can’t afford to marry. I’ve wished Lady Gle
nys and her prancing marquess well and nearly meant it, and I’ve kept my hands and my opinions to myself. And yet, you mutiny. Why now?”

  Why now, when Sherbourne had been telling himself that victory was at hand, and the pleasure of finally winning simply hadn’t sunk in yet?

  For it hadn’t. He’d left the ballroom at the first opportunity, and sat in the garden watching the moon drift down to the horizon. His mood had sunk with it, but he’d gone back inside in time to watch Charlotte Windham dance the good-night waltz with a fawning, half-drunk baronet.

  “You were overheard early in the evening,” Turnbull said, “informing the Duke of Haverford that you intend to call in debts amassed over at least three generations. You did this in His Grace’s own ballroom, within the hearing of a footman named Thomas Prior. The Priors have served the St. Davids for time out of mind, gone to war with them, gone to London with them, and stood at their bedsides as they lay at death’s door. Prior was in tears before he left the ballroom.”

  “So I’ll give the man a job.”

  “Prior was in tears for his duke. For the way of life that has held this valley together for centuries, for his children and grandchildren who will have no duke to serve, no duke to protect them.”

  “Protect them from what? All I want to do is open one coal mine, Turnbull. Half the Lords owes its solvency to coal mines, and there are coal mines all over Wales.”

  “There are coal mines all over Wales, but precious few dukes, and you’re ruining the best of them. We won’t hold your coal mine in contempt—mining is honest work, and blessed hard—we will hold you in contempt.”

  That was the outside of too much. “Because I want to collect the sums owed me? Because I want to offer men jobs?”

  Turnbull studied the cherubs cavorting about in the molding twelve feet overhead. “You’ll offer them jobs at starvation wages, while you pay the women and children even less than the men. The farms will go to ruin, the housing you put up will be disgraceful, the merchants will go out of business trying to extend credit to families on the brink of starvation, while you grow richer than you already are.”

  Turnbull put a hand on the door latch, as if he needed the support. “Haverford,” he went on, “kept these people fed at his own expense when the harvest was ruined. He maintains the village and the tenant properties without being dunned for simple repairs. He trusts his neighbors and staff to keep an eye on Lord Griffin. Haverford’s integrity is all that has prevented you from turning this valley into a glorified coal yard. His farmers, by contrast, are all putting a bit by, year by year because Haverford brought the best breeding stock he could find into their herds.”

  “He’s a ruddy saint,” Sherbourne said, stalking back to the window, “when anybody else would have been thrown in jail for their debt, and I’m the devil incarnate for having financed all his largesse. Be off with you. Leave an address at the posting inn and I’ll have the balance of your wages sent to you.”

  “Thank you, sir, but that won’t be necessary. You may donate any wages you owe me to the parish poor box.”

  Turnbull closed the door softly, and Sherbourne fisted both hands rather than snatch up the teacup and hurl it against the wall.

  He’d miscalculated, somehow, somewhere, and badly. Ruining Haverford had seemed necessary to bring even one modest coal mine into a valley stuck in the Dark Ages, but if Turnbull was right, the local people would move to bloody Boston before they accepted work at a Sherbourne mine.

  Which was beyond stupid. Haverford had been generous with his staff, tenants, and neighbors. He’d made sound decisions with regard to commercial ventures other than mining, but he’d had the freedom to do so because Sherbourne hadn’t accelerated the St. David family debts.

  Why should Haverford get the credit, when the coin involved had been, indirectly, from the Shebourne coffers?

  “It’s the outside of too much,” Sherbourne muttered. “Beyond the pale.”

  And yet, he was certain that if he could only discuss the whole business with Charlotte Windham, she could explain it in terms he’d grasp, and possibly even show him how to salvage one properly managed, modest coal mine out of the mess his ambitions had become.

  * * *

  Saturday was a tired blur for Elizabeth, much of it spent writing letters to every God’s blessed Windham, in-law, and close associate Elizabeth could think of. She stayed in her rooms in part to rest, in part to avoid laying eyes on Sherbourne, lest she treat him to a public recitation of her opinion of him.

  Sunday morning was taken up with attending services.

  “I cannot tell if you are upset to be leaving Haverford,” Charlotte said, as the coach horses plodded back to the castle, “upset at the rumors flying about His Grace’s finances, or upset that we must wait until tomorrow to leave for home.”

  Because yesterday had been rainy and the lanes had yet to dry, all of the guests were in their coaches, and thus progress was slow.

  “I am not upset, Charlotte. I am furious.”

  “With Sherbourne? Miss Trelawny shared a hymnal with him. Perhaps she hasn’t yet heard the talk.”

  The rest of the guests were politely snubbing Sherbourne, which was exactly what he deserved. To a person, they would agree that debts ought to be paid when due, but they would also agree that ruining a duke who was honorably servicing his debts was inexcusable.

  The gravest sin of all, however, was to have made that ruin public the same evening Lady Glenys’s engagement had been announced. The term sour grapes was being muttered almost as frequently as presuming toad.

  “Miss Trelawny’s mother has heard the talk,” Elizabeth replied. “She doubtless wanted to make certain Haverford knew he was no longer welcome to offer for her daughter.”

  Not that Julian would.

  “The whispers are awful,” Charlotte said as the coach hit a rut. “Ruin for me would be people gossiping because I’d had too much punch. My penance would consist of peace and quiet in rural comfort while an endless procession of family looked in on me. A couple years of that, and I’d be allowed to slink back to Town. If the talk is true, Haverford will be a charity case by the end of the year and his exile from polite society absolute.”

  Charlotte was incapable of cheering anybody up, bless her. “I thought you liked Sherbourne.”

  “He’s interesting. He reminds me of myself.”

  “If you ever, ever ruin a good man simply for the sake of amassing more coin that you do not need, I will cut you, Charlotte.”

  That promise hung in the air, honest, but unfortunate. Charlotte liked so few people, and few people liked Charlotte.

  “Then if Sherbourne were to offer for me, I’d have to choose between having a sister and having a husband. Good to know.”

  “That’s not what I said.” The coach turned up the drive, and Elizabeth felt as rotten as Charlotte had three weeks earlier. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that. The situation between Sherbourne and Haverford is complicated, and I’m not at my best.”

  “No more house parties,” Charlotte said. “We tried, Bethan. We did our best, but even among the realm’s most eligible bachelors, I could not be tempted.”

  “All we need do is endure this afternoon’s walking excursion, and then tomorrow we leave.”

  “I’m counting the hours,” Charlotte muttered.

  So was Elizabeth, for entirely different reasons.

  This being the Sabbath, the party was consigned to taking the air for entertainment. A few young ladies might play quiet melodies in the drawing room before dinner, but the dancing and card playing were over.

  Thank God.

  Though so, apparently was the loving, and when Elizabeth considered that, she had all she could do not to cry. Again.

  * * *

  A ruined man was a free man.

  This realization was coming over Julian gradually, hour by hour, and yet, his ruin was not fait accompli. He had to endure the afternoon’s excursion with his guests, and see them a
ll on their way tomorrow morning.

  And say his farewells to Elizabeth. All the ruin in creation wasn’t half so painful to bear as that thought. Even this discussion with Griffin wasn’t as awkward as Julian had feared.

  “We won’t lose the castle,” Julian said, as Griffin neatly lifted an egg from under a roosting Princess, “but I might have to rent it out.”

  “You can live with us,” Griffin said, petting the hen. “Biddy and Abner and I talked about it. We have lots of room. We aren’t cold in the winter like you are at the castle, and we don’t have footmen and maids crowding us. When can I marry Biddy?”

  God bless an honest brother. “Glenys and Radnor should be allowed to set a date first, Griffin. Glenys has been waiting to be married longer than Biddy has.”

  Living with Griffin had an odd appeal. He was a cheerful soul, his farm was well run, and his household lately had borne a constant fragrance of shortbread. If not for the equally pervasive miasma of gleeful romance about the premises, Julian might have considered Griffin’s offer.

  “I like Radnor,” Griffin said. “I told him I want Charity to live here with me and Biddy, but Radnor could always visit her.”

  Radnor had dropped that issue in Julian’s lap on the way to church, along with awkward assurances that any help Julian needed would be forthcoming on the instant.

  “I’m sure there will be much visiting back and forth all round, Griffin. I also wanted to discuss this business of a mortgage with you.”

  Griffin whistled for King Henry, who came bounding into the barn, tongue and tail flapping.

  “Biddy says mortgages are bad. Abner agreed. We don’t need a mortgage. I have lots of money.”

  “How much do you have, Griffin?”

  He named a surprisingly respectable sum.

  “Good for you. I’m proud of you. Don’t lend it, and don’t borrow from anybody without talking to Biddy and Abner first.”

  “‘Neither a borrower nor lender be,’” Griffin recited—in English. “Biddy says that. I know what it means.”

  “You’re the first St. David in three generations to figure it out.” Which was sweet and ironic. “You never did say who raised the topic of a mortgage with you.”