A Good Day to Marry a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  “Good Heavens, Arthur.” She swayed as she moved closer. “What has you in such a mood?”

  He turned to her with an exasperated huff. “First it was the stables, then the butterfly garden, and now the duck pond. I just noticed the roof is showing wear and the glazing on many of the windows is cracked or missing. I went around to the entry and, dang me if the front doors aren’t in a sad state, too. What’s happened to Betancourt? Everywhere I look something needs tending or mending or replacing.”

  “Well, houses do take upkeep,” she said, inserting her arm through his and urging him forward, leading him away from the view that disturbed him so. “Weather and years take a toll. And Betancourt has stood for—what?—hundreds of years? It is probably time for another round of care.”

  “I thought Betancourt was being cared for. My uncles . . .” He halted and looked into her upturned face, conflict plain in his expression. “They have been my trustees since I was a boy. I expected that they were caring for the house and estate.” His frown deepened. “And now I see so much has been neglected.” He straightened and looked away. “I must bear the blame, for ignoring my duties. I’m not a boy anymore.”

  “You’ve been occupied with your studies,” she said. “But now that you’ve taken notice, I’m sure you’ll have things righted in no time.” She turned to face him, alight with determination. “Tell you what—how about if I help you make a start. On the butterfly garden.”

  “You wouldn’t think it too boring?” he asked, looking a bit less like a scarecrow that had the stuffing knocked out of him.

  “I would love to help.” She gave an impish grin. “Society—all that tea and talk—bores me. I’d love to have something to sink my teeth into. Who decided to put your butterfly garden in a bog in the first place?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  After a fruitless search for the head gardener, who was reputed to be off fetching supplies of some kind, Daisy suggested looking for a plan or a map of the estate. That took them into the old duke’s study, where they found Uncle Bertram and Uncle Seward involved in a letter that had just arrived. At the sight of his nephew, Bertram dropped it to the desk and covered it with his arm.

  “What is that, Uncle?”

  “Nothing!” and “A letter,” Bertram and Seward answered together.

  “From whom?” Arthur leaned across the desk and caught sight of the posting. “Addressed to me?”

  “A note from the Countess of Dorchester,” Bertram said, trying to sound offhand, while Seward nodded anxiously.

  “What about?” Arthur pulled on the corner of the letter, and after a moment Bertram had to let it go. Arthur raised it into the window light and read it aloud.

  “‘. . . my heartfelt thanks for sending such a talented and remarkable soul as Dr. Edmonds to us. He has been a gift beyond price and has become almost a part of the family. Under his devoted care, the earl has rallied and is seen to improve daily. We believe he will soon be able to join us at table and to resume a healthy and fruitful life. Your Grace, we can never thank you enough for your kindness and generosity toward us. If we can ever be of service, you have only to ask. Your indebted servant, Rosalyn Lytton-Small, Countess of Dorchester.’”

  He looked at his uncles in confusion.

  “She thanks me? I’ve never heard of the woman, much less sent—”

  “We—ahem—heard of the earl’s grave illness and sent our personal physician to him,” Bertram said, his manner so oily Daisy was surprised his hairpiece didn’t slide from his head. “An act of charity that we knew you, with your generous nature, would approve.”

  “We made certain it was done in your name, Arthur.” Tall, thin Seward attempted an ingratiating smile that came off like a bad case of dyspepsia instead. “Everything we do is done to your credit.”

  “Very well.” With a troubled look, Arthur tossed the letter onto the desk and glanced about the overstuffed bins, shelves, and cabinets. “We’ve come for a map of the estate. I know I saw one in here somewhere.”

  “In my study? What were you doing in here?” Bertram stiffened slightly and glanced at Seward. Arthur was looking around and didn’t notice, but Daisy caught it well enough.

  “Not long ago. I saw—there!” Arthur headed for a wooden bin on the floor beside a stuffed leather chair. Seward reached him just as he began to look through the rolled up documents.

  “Let me,” Seward commanded, inserting himself between the bin and his nephew. “I believe I know just what you need.”

  “And plans for the garden,” Arthur added, watching his uncle fumble with document after document.

  “What garden?” Bertram came around the desk.

  “The butterfly garden. The architect’s plans. The fellow we hired to design and site the garden. You hired.”

  “Perhaps you have a plan of the garden itself?” Daisy suggested to Seward as he pawed through the maps.

  “What business is this of yours?” Bertram snapped, drawing a dark look from Arthur.

  “I just thought it might be good to consult the plan and learn why it was placed where it is,” Daisy answered, checking her rising temper.

  “I can’t recall the fellow’s name,” Bertram said in clipped tones. “I shall have to consult the ledgers.” He caught Arthur’s displeasure. “We have a great deal to do, Arthur. We can’t be chasing about after your whims day after day.”

  Arthur’s mouth was a grim line as he took the maps from Seward’s hands and escorted Daisy out.

  They settled in the library, unrolling the maps on a table and looking them over to locate the various features of the grounds. After a while, Daisy paused and straightened.

  “I don’t mean to seem critical of your family, but did it seem to you that your uncles were anxious to have you leave?”

  “It’s always like that,” Arthur said, frowning as he scanned a second diagram. “Uncle Bertram doesn’t like his things disturbed.”

  “His things?” She had to bite her tongue to keep from using language that would have shocked Arthur. “Surely all the documents concerning the estate are yours.”

  Arthur sagged, and then braced himself on the table with his fists. “I suppose they are.” He hesitated, frowning. “I should have been tending to Betancourt’s affairs instead of . . .”

  He didn’t have to finish it; the look on his face said it all. He was suddenly feeling the weight of his title. Ashton’s words in the Bodleian Library came back to her.

  A duke’s home wasn’t his own. His time wasn’t his own. And someday his children wouldn’t be his own.

  Such was the life she would choose by marrying Arthur.

  It had to be worth it. Arthur had to be worth it.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she stepped around the table and gave Arthur a kiss on the cheek.

  He straightened with a look of surprise. And when she stayed close, he took the hint and lowered his lips to hers. It was soft and exploratory this time. More leisurely and vaguely pleasant. But in her mind and heart, there was an ocean of difference between her current response and the feelings she experienced when Ashton kissed her.

  When the kiss ended, she lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see the disappointment in them, and forced a smile that she prayed would pass for the pleasure she hadn’t felt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dinner that night was short and ill attended. A few of the oldest guests had elected to take a tray in their rooms instead of endure the formality of the dining room. A mere four courses were served, and plain fare it was: watery soup, overcooked turbot, bland beef with mushy vegetables, and a custard that had separated before it was served.

  Ashton wasn’t present, nor was Reynard Boulton or Arthur’s aunt, Lady Sylvia Graham Upshaw. Uncle Bertram sat rigidly at the head of the table and didn’t bother to try to foster good conversation or good appetite. Wine was poured short, and when Daisy asked for additional, the footman looked at her as if she’d asked for the head of John the Bapt
ist. He only complied after he looked to Uncle Bertram, who was busy whispering to Seward, then realized the duke himself was tapping his goblet, demanding more.

  Through it all, Arthur toyed with his food and turned his cutlery over and over, studying the tarnish that lay on the silver. But when he looked Daisy’s way, his face brightened and he managed a bit of conversation with the guests seated nearest him.

  The highlight of dinner came when a punctilious guest called into question Red’s tales of cowboys’ skills. Old Baron Kettering declared that cattle roping from horseback was impossible and Red’s claims about cowboy acumen had to be pure braggadocio.

  Ever one for a challenge, Red declared he would demonstrate the truth of his claims after dinner. Daisy groaned softly as Red hauled out his flask and generously dosed his empty wineglass with whiskey. Arthur, seeming truly interested, sent for old Edgar and ordered torches be set around the perimeter of the main paddock to light the area for the demonstration.

  “Uncle Red!” Daisy grabbed his sleeve as he headed outside ahead of the migration of guests buzzing about the challenge. “You haven’t roped cattle in years.”

  “Like ridin’ a horse, Daize.” He grinned wickedly. “Once ye learn, ye never forget.”

  “But you need a real rope,” she said, keeping up with him.

  “I got rope.” He leaned close. “I never go anywhere without a good cattle rope, girl. Thought you knew that.”

  He laughed roundly as he headed for the stable, peeling off his fancy tailcoat and tossing it to a stable hand. Sure enough, he exited the stable moments later with a suitable lariat that he had apparently brought across a continent and an ocean with Renegade’s tack and western saddle.

  “Can he really rope a running calf?” Arthur asked quietly as he settled by the paddock fence beside Daisy.

  “I hope so,” she said, shamed by her doubts about Red’s skill. “He used to be a wonder at rope tricks, but it’s been a while. . . .”

  She watched with mounting tension as he produced his flask and took a couple of belts of whiskey before handing it off to another stable hand. He cut quite a figure in the torchlight, with his black trousers and tailored vest, and white shirt open at the collar. Every eye was on him as he unwound his rope, inspected its honda knot, and then addressed the odd mixture of blue bloods, stable hands, and house servants who ringed the paddock fence.

  “A cowboy’s workin’ rope has to be stiff—made special for lassoin’ cattle.” Red played to his audience. “I never go anywhere without one!”

  Daisy groaned. “He’s three sheets to the wind.”

  “He does his best work when snozzeled,” the countess responded.

  Daisy gave her a surprised look and found her staring intently at Red, who was rolling his shoulders and limbering up.

  “Might be a bit rusty.” He made a puzzled face as if trying to remember. “Oh, yeah. This here’s how it goes.”

  The rope whooshed up into the air and a second later it was spreading into a broad, swirling circle above him, sending a rustle of interest through the onlookers. There were some, however, who were less than impressed.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” old Kettering called. “You said you could rope a calf.”

  “Get me a calf and I’ll rope it!” Red called back, looking pleased. A second later he moved the spinning loop up and down like a piston, down around his shoulders, then his knees, then back up over his head again. There were oooh’s from the crowd. He spun the rope over his head for a moment, then dropped the loop in front of him and let it enlarge as he chuckled. “Gotta make this one big enough to dance in.”

  A second later he was jumping in and out of the loop while still spinning it, and applause broke out all around. Daisy applauded the loudest, though not by much; the countess was vehement in her appreciation. When Daisy looked up, the duke was grinning like a schoolboy.

  “Oh, then there’s this little bit.” Red started vertical circles and bounced them back and forth to oooh’s and ah’s. He walked around the fence, giving the onlookers a close view of the process and teasing them with his western drawl and swagger.

  When he came within a few yards of Daisy, he paused and issued a “Yip-yip-yippieo-kyaaa!” and snapped the rope forward, sent it sailing past his niece to drop neatly around the countess. Lady Evelyn gasped as the lasso tightened around her and looked around as people laughed. She sputtered and blinked, uncertain what she should do as Red approached.

  “That’s no calf!” came a hostile male voice from across the paddock. “Ignorant American—can’t tell a calf from a countess!”

  A second later Red pulled the captive countess against the paddock fence and rushed over to give her a smooch on the cheek. Daisy was dumbstruck, but once the lasso was removed and Red moved on, the countess recovered with a flurry of “Oh, my’s” and “Goodness sake’s.”

  There was laughter at her reaction and she lifted her skirts and fled back to the house. Daisy would have gone with her, but the duke seized her hand and pulled her to his side, pointing to the paddock gate. Someone was pushing a calf into the arena, and as soon as it was released, it began to run.

  Onlookers pointed and shouted at Red to lasso it. Daisy held her breath and watched while Red circled the rope over his head and took aim. He stalked the frantic calf for a few yards, then let the loop fly. Time seemed to slow as the lasso opened, sank through the air, and landed around the calf’s neck. A second later the poor animal was yanked to a stop, struggling against the restraint. Red nodded to recognize the burst of applause. “Th’ tricky part’s gettin’ the loop off,” Red called as the noise subsided. A moment later he halted, let the rope slack, and as the stiff loop loosened, the calf slipped out of it and ran off.

  It was a moment of triumph, well earned, but not without its detractors. The old baron still insisted he rope a calf from a running horse.

  “Nobody ropes from a horse in th’ dark,” Red declared, “unless they’re lookin’ to break a horse’s legs. You need daylight an’ a heck of a larger spread to work in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Strait, for this marvelous demonstration.” Arthur stepped in to declare amazement at Red’s skill. “Your roping is unparalleled, exceeded only by your generosity in displaying it for us. I say—everyone back to the house for a bit of champagne to celebrate!”

  They were halfway back to Betancourt before Uncle Bertram caught up with Arthur and pulled him aside to snarl into his ear, “What are you thinking—opening up the cellars after such an appalling display?”

  Daisy heard enough to guess Arthur was being chastised, and stepped into Arthur’s line of sight. Her smile was more defiance than pleasure.

  Arthur straightened at the sight of her.

  “Would you have me take back the invitation? Surely we can part with a few bottles of wine and some liquor, Uncle. We’re not destitute.” He paused and looked quizzically at Bertram. “Are we?”

  * * *

  Daisy walked the gravel path back to the main house with Arthur, missing the anger in Bertram’s face as he stalked toward the servants’ entrance to order the cellar opened. But Ashton saw it as he rode toward the stable, towing Reynard’s horse—with Reynard sagging precariously in the saddle—behind him. He wasn’t certain what had gone on in the paddock by the stable, but he suspected it had to do with her.

  Despite his worst hell-raising intentions, he hadn’t drunk nearly enough to purge the scene in the morning room from his thoughts and hadn’t found a single opponent worth bloodying his knuckles.

  He dismounted, helped Reynard sluice from the saddle, and handed off their mounts to an aged stable man. He called for a younger groom to help him get Reynard inside and to his room. They used the front hall and main stairs to avoid the people and noise from the grand parlor. In Reynard’s room on the second floor, they let him fall with an “uff ” on the bed and then loosened his tie and removed his shoes. Ashton looked around the mahogany and brocade-upholstered guest room and thought of
his spartan lodgings near the nursery. He should have expected as much. He hadn’t been welcome here in years, and after today, might never be again. His thoughts were confirmed when he found Uncle Bertram waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

  “How dare you show your face in these walls?” his former guardian snapped. “You’re banished from this house, this family. Set foot inside our doors again and I’ll set the law on you, do you hear?”

  “I have no doubt you would do just that. But I think Arthur may have something to say about it.”

  “Arthur is irrelevant.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Ashton shoved his face near Bertram’s and let the words claw their way up out of the bottom of his soul. “You’d better pray he lives a long and fruitful life. Because if he should die without issue and I become duke, I’ll see you begging in the streets before I’m done.”

  He strode to the tall front doors, threw them open with a bang, and exited, leaving them standing wide open.

  Bertram narrowed his eyes as he watched Ashton stalk into the night and was soon dragging Seward out of the merriment in the parlor for an urgent conference. After a few words, they hurried upstairs to Lady Sylvia’s chambers, knocked, and demanded the old girl’s maid wake her up. It took a while for Sylvia’s maid to make her presentable. When they were admitted to her elegant chambers—once the domain of the Duchess of Meridian—she was garbed in a nightgown dressing robe, a chin sling, and more than one nightcap. She waved them to the tea table by the window and demanded to know why they had disturbed her. Seward’s explanation told her that serious discussion was required and she sent for her teeth.

  “Mark my words, he’ll cause trouble.” Bertram mopped his forehead, then fanned himself with his handkerchief in Sylvia’s overheated chambers. “He could go to Arthur, tell him what we paid him to do.”

  Seward shook his head. “Then he would betray his own selfish motives—agreeing to ruin the dollar princess for a few pieces of silver.”

  “How did this happen?” Sylvia swatted away her maid’s attempt to wrap her in a shawl.