No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides)

by Grace Burrowes

  Griffin led the way out of the barn, the dog trotting at his heels. He tossed the egg across the barnyard, and Henry bounded after it.

  “Did you break that egg on purpose?” Julian asked, taking a seat at the bench near the pump.

  “We have enough eggs,” Griffin said, coming down beside Julian, “and they just go bad if they’re not eaten. Henry likes them as much as I like shortbread.”

  Elizabeth loved a piece of fresh, warm shortbread. “About the mortgage?”

  “I won’t borrow any money, Julian. Never, never, never. Biddy made me promise, and a gentleman keeps his promises.”

  “That he does. I’d best be returning to my guests.” And to Elizabeth. She’d hidden for most of yesterday, while Julian had started on the enormous task of dismantling the dukedom’s finances.

  Julian wanted to linger at his brother’s side, where life’s greatest moral dilemma was whether to waste an occasional egg. He brushed his boot over the bed of clover beneath the bench while Griffin watched King Henry devour his treat.

  A four-leaf clover caught Julian’s eye. He plucked it and passed it to Griffin. “If you’re ever tempted to buy Biddy a hair ribbon, do it. If she wants a pineapple to serve on a special occasion, buy her one. The sentiment is worth whatever coin you’d have to pay for the token.”

  Griffin took the clover. “Thank you. A four-leaf clover is good luck. Hair ribbons cost money.”

  He sounded as if he were reciting one of those empty facts he tended to collect like dropped acorns—or maybe as if he were quoting his ducal brother.

  “But memories are priceless, Griffin, and forever after, Biddy would choose the ribbon you gave her as her favorite. She’d treasure that ribbon, maybe sleep with it under her pillow.”

  “Papa used to give us books,” Griffin said. “I treasure the books in my library. I gave Charity a book, and when she lives with us, I will help her read it. Papa gave you many, many, many books.”

  The dog came panting back from his feast, a spot of eggshell on his nose. Griffin produced a clean handkerchief and wiped away the eggshell, then gently tugged on Henry’s silky ear. The beast endured that consideration as patiently as an obedient child might have.

  Griffin would manage. With Biddy at his side, on a farm he understood and loved, Griffin would manage. That thought filled Julian with a peace and relief he hadn’t known for years, and Griffin was right—in addition to a mountain of debt, Papa had given Julian a multitude of books.

  Julian rose from the bench. “I’ll let you know as soon as Glenys and Radnor set a date, and I’ll be by on Tuesday to talk some more about Charity.”

  Griffin patted King Henry on the head, and the dog loped off. “I love Biddy Bowen, and I love my Charity.”

  Julian pulled his brother in for a tight hug and slapped him on the back. “I love you, Griffin St. David.”

  “Say it in English.”

  Julian did, and Griffin hugged him back, and being ruined became less of problem than Julian had thought it would be. Being heartbroken, however, was more painful by the moment.

  He walked back to the castle by way of the lake and Tudor Hill, and sat in the library over the noon hour while Radnor and Glenys presided over luncheon. These were Julian’s books, the great legacy of the St. David family, thousands and thousands of titles, each one like a silken ribbon bought for the simple pleasure of adding to the collection.

  “I wish I’d bought Elizabeth a hair ribbon.”

  Papa had been gleeful over the purchase of every title, despite mounting debt, despite one more investment gone awry, despite a bow wave of trouble and scandal building before the prow of the Haverford dukedom. He’d been helpless not to indulge in just one more volume, secure in the knowledge that while his finances floundered, the prestige of his library yet flourished.

  The previous duke’s portrait hung near the biographies, and of course, he’d been immortalized with a book in his hand—Gulliver’s Travels, which he’d read to his children times without number.

  Elizabeth’s words came to mind, about not loving books per se, but loving what a book could do—inform, comfort, entertain, enlighten, educate.

  Immortalize.

  Elizabeth would have no silken ribbon to remind her of her summer idyll, because Julian’s plan had not included a budget for falling in love. No budget for Glenys’s pineapples and ice sculptures, no budget for Griffin taking a wife.

  Plans failed. Doubtless Papa had seen one plan after another fail—why had Julian never acknowledged this?—and yet Papa’s joy and faith in his books hadn’t faltered. Julian had regarded the books as his legacy—a burden to be maintained and housed—when in fact, the joy and faith were far more precious.

  “Thank you, Papa.” Nobody heard those quiet words, and they came with a complicated ache. Papa had tried, in his way, though his plan hadn’t been one Julian had grasped. “Thank you for the books too.”

  Plans failed, unforeseen events arose, and love happened—thank God and Elizabeth Windham.

  Julian sat among his treasury of books and considered one more thought: Plans could be revised too.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Now is your chance,” Arabella said, as the guests sorted themselves into groups for the final stroll about the lake. “Please, Benny. Make the daft boy see reason.”

  To Benedict Andover, one of the pleasures of being old was being ignored. Arabella could make her plea—or issue her orders—without any fear of being overheard.

  And Benedict could kiss her cheek without any risk of being chastised for it, even by her. The novelty of that, of having secured permission to court a woman he’d admired for decades, put a spring in his step.

  “I’ll give it a go, Bella, but you said it yourself. Young people are foolish.”

  She patted his cheek. “Why should we have all the fun? Be off with you, and I’ll expect a complete report when we reach the garden.”

  Andover quickened his pace and caught up with the only duke in the realm nobody sought to walk with.

  “Do you mind keeping an old man company, Haverford? I’ve been informed my escort is unneeded by the lady I’d most like to share the journey with.”

  Haverford’s gaze as he considered the lake was too peaceful for a duke in the midst of ruin. “I’m glad for the company.”

  And that seemed to amuse him.

  “For three weeks, you’ve wished the lot of us to perdition, and now you’re glad for company? Odd, isn’t it, how life serves us these turns. Your father often said life was stranger than any tale ever published in a book.”

  Haverford’s pace was just above a saunter, and exactly matched that of Elizabeth Windham, who’d chosen a place closer to the head of the group.

  “I can’t believe my father noticed much beyond his books, and Mama, of course.”

  Benedict’s objective was to wheedle permission from the duke to sell off a few of the treasures gathering dust in the castle, which meant he had less than an hour to change the mind of a St. David duke. That Arabella believed he could rather invigorated an old man’s blood.

  “Why would you think your father noticed only his books?”

  “Because that is where he spent his time and our coin—almost all of both.”

  Two swans glided by several yards from shore, one honking raucously at the other, who ignored the noise. A mated pair, would be Benedict’s guess, out having their own Sunday constitutional.

  “I’ve always wondered why such a lovely bird was given such an unattractive voice,” Benedict said. “But it’s the only voice they have, and they manage with it. Your father was the same way.”

  “He read a fine fairy tale, regardless of his voice.”

  That was the reply of a man only half-present to the conversation. Was Haverford musing on his impending ruin, or on the sway of Elizabeth Windham’s skirts?

  “I refer not to the late duke’s voice, Haverford. I refer to his penchant for books. Things were different in our day.
A duke did not own commercial ventures, not if he was a Duke of Haverford. The heathen to the north and east might abandon the land, but the Welsh duke had greater respect for tradition.”

  Haverford gestured to a bench situated to provide a magnificent view of the castle across the lake.

  Benedict felt better than he had in years, but perhaps Haverford was tired. Young people had so little stamina for what mattered.

  “A respite to enjoy the view would be welcome,” Benedict said, taking a seat. “Your father had no head for business. He had no shipping interests, and he abhorred the mines, mostly because his father abhorred the mines. Alcestus St. David invested in books.”

  Haverford settled on the bench as other guests strolled by. Rather than try to catch the duke’s notice, they spared him furtive glances that ranged from pitying to gloating. Both Haldale and Windstruther offered slight bows, to their credit, and they’d all but cut Sherbourne.

  “Books were not an investment for Papa,” Haverford said when the last guest had strolled by. “They were a passion, an obsession. They made him blind and deaf to all else, and yet, what can one do with a pile of books? Read them or use them to keep the fires going in winter when one can no longer afford bedamned coal. Fortunately, there’s an old peat field on Griffin’s farm. The books are safe as long as we can cut peat.”

  Oh, dear. Oh, damn. Arabella had been right. Benedict suspected she would frequently be right.

  “Have you considered selling any of the tinder cluttering up your library shelves?”

  Haverford closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. “The solicitors were very clear that selling the books will unravel all that’s remaining of my finances, and besides, who’d want them? Most of the nabobs and cits who buy books by the box dwell closer to Town, and books are heavy. Shipping them costs money. Papa never sold a single volume—not one.”

  The swans were quiet, tooling about on the lake as if doing their bit to enhance the scenery for the guests on shore.

  “Besides,” Haverford went on more quietly, “they are all I have of my father and grandfather. When I was tempted to sell off another farm, when I faced yet another season in Town arguing politics that would endear me to no one, I’d go into the library and the books would mock me out of my self-pity. Perhaps ruin is turning me daft.”

  Good God, what a tangle, equal parts love and disappointment, loyalty and bad advice.

  “Being the damned duke has turned you daft, Haverford. I’m sure the solicitors were giving you the best guidance they could, but lawyers and book lovers are two very different species. Fortunately for you, I—a rarity among men—qualify as both. Of the two, you’re better off listening to a book lover now.”

  Haverford checked his watch and muttered something about “twelve hundred minutes.”

  The first group of hikers were halfway around the lake, and Benedict still hadn’t made his point. Arabella would tolerate nothing less than a decisive victory, so he tried again.

  “What difference will unraveling your finances make at this point, Haverford? Sherbourne is like your papa. The late duke understood rare and antique books, and thus he invested his time and means in books. Sherbourne understands commerce, and he will have his mine, over your ruined reputation if need be. We can’t fault either of them any more than we can fault the swans for their voices.”

  Haverford hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, a weary, almost defeated pose.

  “Andover, how can a man—any man, much less a duke—not understand that the trades must be paid? The cottages repaired? Glenys must be dowered?”

  “Your father understood all of that, and he’d be grateful to you for having taken on the very challenges that bested him. Do you expect Sherbourne to know how to be charitable? Of course not. Nobody’s taught him how to go about it, though I suspect he’s teachable. You have done an excellent job under very trying circumstances, and your father would be proud of you.”

  Haverford stared at the castle, at the red dragon pennant flapping from the parapets. The sun had struck the angle that caused the rainbow to blossom over the fountain, and from across the lake, the gryphon appeared to be smiling.

  Such a lovely castle, and such a bewildered duke.

  “How could my father be proud of a bankrupt?” Haverford asked.

  Being old gave one insight and the courage to use it. “More to the point, how can a son be proud of the father who wasted the family’s resources?”

  The swans got into another spat, honking and flapping, then returning to their serene gliding amid the ripples they’d caused. Definitely a married pair.

  “How to respect the late duke has been something of a puzzle,” Haverford said.

  A conundrum that could ruin a man’s life more surely than debtor’s prison. “The answer to that puzzle is buried in your library, Julian. Your father had no grasp of farming and his stewards were a lazy bunch. His title meant the military, church, and diplomacy were beyond his reach. His own father was dead set against mining. Alcestus had few options and fewer allies. When I say he invested in the books, I use the word advisedly.”

  Haverford withdrew a small cloth bag from a pocket and tossed some of the contents upon the water. The swans about-faced and paddled at speed toward the bread crusts floating on the lake’s surface.

  “Do you know what matters to me now?” Haverford said. “Not the budgets and market forecasts, not the estimates or promissory notes. Not my father’s mistakes or his father’s wrong turns. They did the best they could. I’ve done the best I could. I don’t even care if Sherbourne is made whole because he’s earned so much interest off the St. Davids, that he ought to be first in line to prevent my ruin. What matters…”

  Haverford’s gaze was on Elizabeth Windham, who’d gone far enough along the path to be circling back toward the gardens.

  “If she is what matters to you, Haverford, if her good opinion is the first and last chapter of your story, then you need to listen to what I have to say. Despite what a clutch of cork-brained lawyers told you, your father did not leave you penniless.”

  Haverford threw the rest of the bread to the swans. “She is what matters. She is all that matters, and for that reason, I will listen to whatever insight you care to share.”

  Bella would be so proud of the boy, and of her intended too. “Let’s leave this infernal bench. When you get old, you lose what padding the good Lord imbued you with as a younger man. Benches are the very devil.”

  Haverford laughed and rose. “When you’re young, you lack the sense to enjoy a beautiful view with a lovely woman. Benches are never on hand when you need one.”

  “Just so,” Andover said, springing to his feet, and taking the duke’s arm. “Just so. Now about your books. If you give me leave, I’d like to contact a few people I know and make a handful of discreet inquiries…”

  Haverford listened, the swans glided, the gardens came closer, and Benedict called upon all of his persuasive powers—both the lawyer’s and the book lover’s—to convince the duke that the time had come to part with a few treasures.

  Among which, Benedict might find a morning gift for his darling bride.

  * * *

  The walking excursion, a procession around the lake to be followed by tea and cakes in the garden, was progressing at the pace of a dowager with bad knees. Elizabeth daundered along with her aunt, while ahead of them, Radnor walked with Glenys.

  Benedict Andover had made the entire journey around the lake at Haverford’s side. Was nobody else willing to walk with the duke now that Sherbourne had decided to ruin him?

  Elizabeth was unhappy with the other guests; she was furious with Haverford.

  She had finally, finally found a man she could esteem, desire, and enjoy, a man she respected deeply, and he was tossing her aside out of some misguided surfeit of honor.

  “Shall we share a table?” Charlotte asked, coming up on Elizabeth’s right.

  “Thank you, Charl, but I don’t need a pit
y escort.”

  “Perhaps I need a pity escort. You tried to warn me about Sherbourne. He’s likely to offer me pleasantries and then I’d have to kill him. For the sake of my self-restraint, you are stuck with me. S-t-u-c-k.”

  “It isn’t necessary to spell, Charlotte. We can restrain each other from doing Mr. Sherbourne an injury.”

  “At least the house party is over. There’s some consolation.”

  God save me from well-intended sisters. “If that’s your idea of consolation, then you might find yourself walking back to Kent tomorrow.”

  The party had finished its circuit of the lake and was dispersing into the gardens at a tired meander. Aunt Arabella took a bench near the rose trellis, and Mr. Andover gestured in the direction of the buffet.

  “You should elope,” Charlotte said. “Disappear in the dead of night with the handsome duke, and Lady Glenys’s house party will become famous.”

  “And have our private army of cousins come after the would-be bride, sabers drawn? Thank you, no.” The guests were choosing tables, and Elizabeth’s belly rebelled at the thought of one more glass of punch, one more slice of cake. “Charlotte, I can’t do this.”

  “You are a Windham in love, Bethan. You are within your rights to ignore both common sense and overwhelming odds. What I don’t understand is why you plan to get into the coach tomorrow. So Haverford is ruined. You won’t have to throw house parties, bother with the season, or put up with a ceremony at St. George’s in Hanover Square. Ruined does not look so very awful to me, if you can share it with the only man to distract you from your infernal books.”

  “He doesn’t see it like that.” Elizabeth had spent most of the previous night arguing herself out of another trip to Julian’s bedroom. She would not beg, plead, or exhort him to change his blasted plan.

  The Deity himself was probably incapable of inspiring Haverford to abandon his plans.

  “His Grace is coming this way,” Charlotte said, “and he looks determined.”