The Duke Is But a Dream--A Debutante Diaries Novel

by Anna Bennett

  Nash’s jaw clenched out of sheer habit, and he counted to three in his head before speaking. “I agree, actually. There’s nothing that would make me happier than if you were to fall in love and settle down with a good and decent gentleman.”

  She stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Why do I feel as though there’s a but to follow?”

  “Because finding a good and decent gentleman in this town could take a while,” he said dryly. “I would rather that you not rush into anything. Take a couple of seasons to meet all the eligible bachelors—and to learn their true natures. We’ve been away from society for a long time, and you’ve yet to see its underbelly.”

  “It almost sounds as though you’re encouraging me to experience London’s darker side,” Delilah said warily.

  “Not at all,” he said firmly. “But I would wish for you to go into the marriage mart with your eyes wide open. Men are not always who they seem to be, and there are many who would take advantage of a kind and generous young woman like you.”

  “I’m not naïve, Nash.” She crossed her arms, clearly insulted.

  Jesus, he couldn’t say anything right.

  Delilah continued, her chin lifted and her tone firm. “I am a fairly good judge of character and would never give my heart to a man who didn’t deserve it.”

  He exhaled slowly. “I am glad to hear that.”

  “But Lord Brondale has given me no reason to distrust him,” she argued. “On the contrary. He’s courteous, attentive, and respectful—and yet, you don’t approve of him.”

  “I do not,” Nash ground out. “I’m sure he puts on a good face in front of you. But there are aspects of his character that you don’t know about.”

  Delilah rolled her eyes in frustration. “Then why don’t you tell me what you know? Give me all the pertinent information and allow me to decide for myself whether or not Lord Brondale is deserving of my affections.”

  Nash pushed his chair away from the table, stood, and paced the length of the breakfast room. Caroline had urged him to be honest with his sister, and he would. Even though learning the truth about Brondale might break her heart. Better for her to hear it now, before she fell deeper.

  “He gambles far too much and is deep in debt,” Nash began.

  “That describes at least three-quarters of the men in London,” Delilah said with a shrug. “Go on.”

  “He regularly jests that he plans to maintain a life of debauchery as long as he possibly can before taking a wealthy bride,” Nash said.

  Delilah’s face clouded at that. “Perhaps it is simply a jest, as you yourself just said.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nash said regretfully. “Brondale is involved in a very unsavory wager. The terms are spelled out in the betting book at my club, and his signature is there, plain for all to see. It’s clear from the nature of this bet that he has a complete lack of respect for women.”

  Delilah’s forehead creased. “What sort of wager?”

  Nash hesitated. “Suffice it to say that he’s a cad for even contemplating it.”

  “I see.” She set her napkin on the table, and Nash detected a slight tremor in her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Delilah. It must be hard to hear,” he said.

  “You’ve given me plenty to consider,” she said softly. “I think I’ll go to my room and rest for a bit.”

  “I’m going out but will return in time for dinner,” he said. “Do you have plans?”

  “I’ll keep Caroline company most of the day. And I have a visit with the modiste this afternoon. I require a few adjustments to the gown I’m wearing to the ball this week.” She cast a sideways glance at him. “You haven’t forgotten about that, have you?”

  “Of course not,” he said, only half fibbing.

  Delilah shot him a smile that said he wasn’t fooling her. “I’m glad we talked, Nash.” She rounded the table and pressed a kiss to his cheek before leaving the room.

  All in all, the conversation had gone more smoothly than he’d expected.

  There’d been no tears, no shouting, no hurling of objects.

  He should have felt better—but he didn’t.

  He had the distinct feeling that, where Delilah was concerned, trouble lay ahead.

  * * *

  It was late morning by the time Caroline rose and dressed. She couldn’t stop thinking about her night with Nash. The excitement of escaping the thugs at the Grey Goose. The thrill that shot through her limbs when he reverently unbound her breasts. And, most of all, the hours of pleasure they’d shared in his massive bed.

  The whole night had been a grand adventure—one she’d cherish forever.

  She made her way downstairs for a light breakfast of tea and toast, then stopped in the drawing room, expecting to see Delilah—but the room was empty. Assuming that she’d find her friend in her bedchamber, Caroline made her way toward Delilah’s room—and found it empty too.

  A young maid with flaxen hair bustled down the hall carrying a stack of linens. “Miss Delilah went for an early walk in the park,” she explained with a smile. “And she’s going to the modiste’s shop this afternoon. My name’s Winnie. Molly asked me to check on you and provide anything you need.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Caroline said. “I’ll be in my bedchamber if anyone is looking for me.”

  But as she closed the door to her room, she realized the stark truth.

  No one was looking for her. Or, if they were, they had no idea she was staying with the Duke of Stonebridge. But the ad Nash placed yesterday could remedy that.

  She opened the door, darted back into the hallway, and saw the maid dusting a small table near the staircase landing. “Actually, Winnie, there is something I need. Would you happen to have a copy of this morning’s Hearsay?”

  Winnie cocked her head, thoughtful. “I believe we do, miss. Give me a few moments, if you please, and I’ll fetch it for you.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline said sincerely before returning to her room.

  Resolved to make the most of her morning, she went directly to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out the journal that Delilah had given her. She located a pen, dipped the nib in the ink pot, and stared at the first, creamy page.

  The very blank page.

  How to begin? The first entry in a journal had to be special—for it set the tone for everything that followed. Delilah had encouraged her to write about her memory loss and the feelings Caroline was experiencing as a result, but she was free to write a story or a poem or even a shopping list instead. She let her gaze travel around the room, looking for inspiration, until the stack of papers on her desk caught her attention. Delilah’s copies of The Debutante’s Revenge.

  An odd tingling washed over her skin, and suddenly, she knew just how to start. She may not have known who she was, but, thanks to the evening she’d spent with Nash, she knew something of love. And, as Delilah had suggested, what better way for Caroline to determine if she was connected to the column than to try her hand at writing one?

  Dear Debutantes,

  The delight one takes in giving a gift is often as sweet as the joy in receiving one.

  And so it is with love.

  Seek a partner who is generous—with his time, attention, and affection. Someone who puts your pleasure before his own.

  Strive to be equally generous. For nothing is quite so satisfying as seeing a sensuous, sated smile on your partner’s face.

  Caroline set down her pen and blinked at the entry she’d written. It had flowed out of her quite easily, but it proved nothing, except, perhaps, that she was rather good at imitating the style of the columns that she’d studied the day before.

  Still, it was possible—however unlikely—that she was the authoress.

  A brisk knock sounded at the door, and Caroline slammed her journal shut. “Come in.”

  Winnie bustled into the room, a copy of the London Hearsay in her hands. “Here you are, miss. Enjoy, and let me know if you’ll be needing anythin
g else.”

  “Thank you, Winnie.” Caroline carried the newspaper to the bed where she stretched out and turned to the advertisements.

  One ad sought a dog—a setter—who’d strayed from an inn.

  Another reported a missing wife described as “thickset” and “shabbily dressed.”

  Caroline shuddered, dismayed that her best hope for being reunited with her family hinged on an ad sandwiched between sad notices about stray dogs and runaway wives.

  But there, near the bottom of the page, she found the ad that Nash had placed.

  Found: a female of approximately two and twenty years, of average height, with dark brown hair, striking green eyes, and a distinctive birthmark. Due to a head injury, she does not know her name but is otherwise of sound body and mind. Anyone who knows her and can provide proof of her identity shall be handsomely rewarded. Please direct inquiries to Mr. Edmund Drake, Solicitor, Oxford Street.

  Caroline pushed aside the paper, rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling, fighting to keep tears at bay. There was nothing wrong with the ad Nash had placed. It was exactly as they’d agreed. And yet, reading the ad had felt like a kick to the gut.

  She’d been reduced to a scant few lines of text—age, height, hair and eye color, and an odd birthmark. Surely, there was more to her than that.

  But as long as she stayed with Nash and Delilah, she was isolated from the rest of the world. Maybe the ad would work as intended, and she’d be home in a day or two. But if it didn’t work, she needed a plan.

  Chapter 15

  “It is easy for a gentleman to hang about when all is well. Seek a man who will remain by your side when everything goes awry.”

  —The Debutante’s Revenge

  Nash strode into Drake’s cluttered office, called out a greeting, and helped himself to a glass of brandy. He’d never seen Drake take a drink himself, but the solicitor kept a decanter at the ready for his friends and clients.

  Nash took healthy gulp from his snifter, and without preamble asked, “Have we had any replies to the ad?”

  Drake arched a brow and pushed a tidy stack of papers from the center of his desk to the side. “We’ve had three queries.”

  “Anything promising?” Nash asked, navigating his way around the stacks of books on Drake’s dusty floor. He sank into one of the leather chairs across from his friend’s desk, his thoughts jumbled. He wanted Caroline to discover her identity—but he didn’t want her to leave.

  Drake withdrew a paper from the top right drawer of his desk and consulted a neatly written list. “One is from a vicar who believes the woman might be his daughter, Trudy.”

  Nash arched a brow. Caroline didn’t look like a Trudy. But then, he couldn’t imagine her as anyone but Caroline. “Did the vicar provide a description?”

  Drake gave a curt nod. “His daughter is with child. About six months along.”

  Nash gave a firm shake of his head. Ignored the wave of relief that washed over him. “We can rule out the vicar. Who else responded?”

  “A couple who owns an inn. They suspect the young lady you described could be a barmaid who worked for them. She went missing a week ago,” Drake said, “after stealing all the money in their safe box.”

  Nash tried to picture Caroline committing the crime and couldn’t. “Did they mention her birthmark?”

  “They said their barmaid has a dark mole next to her nose.”

  “Definitely not Caroline.” Nash exhaled, glad for the proof that his instincts had been correct. “Who’s the last reply from?”

  “An elderly baron who claims that, for reasons unbeknownst to him, his governess suddenly abandoned her post.” Drake cleared his throat, signaling his skepticism. “Reading between the lines, I’m guessing that the baron had a difficult time keeping his hands to himself.”

  Nash’s thoughts had run along the same lines. So much so that his blood simmered and his fists clenched. “Even if Caroline were his governess, I wouldn’t tell him. But it might be worth investigating if it helps us discover who her family is. Does he have any evidence?”

  “He said he wasn’t aware of a birthmark,” Drake said.

  “It’s on her shoulder,” Nash admitted. “He wouldn’t see it if she routinely wore long-sleeved gowns or shawls.”

  Drake nodded, thoughtful. “The baron claims to have plenty of samples of her handwriting that we could compare to Caroline’s.”

  “I’ll talk to her and see if she wants to pursue the lead. Otherwise, we’ll wait to see who else replies.”

  “Here you are.” Drake folded the paper containing all his notes and handed it to Nash. “If we receive any other responses to the ad, I’ll notify you at once.”

  Nash threw back the rest of his drink and balanced the empty snifter on his thigh. “Is it awful of me to admit that I’m not eager for Caroline to remember who she is?”

  Drake winced and shot him a sympathetic smile. “It’s a little awful of you. But I think I understand. You have feelings for her and don’t want her to go.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Nash grumbled. “She could recover her memory tomorrow and walk out of my house—my life—never to return again.”

  “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?” Drake ribbed. “Of course, there’s the possibility that Caroline will leave. But no matter who she turns out to be, she’ll be more likely to stay if she knows how you feel.”

  Nash muttered a curse. “What if I don’t know how I feel?”

  Drake chuckled. “You might need to dig deeper, my friend.”

  Nash shook his head firmly. “I don’t have the luxury of losing my head over a woman. I have responsibilities to my estate and to Delilah. For her sake, I need to be steady and solid. I’m the only family she has left, and I can’t—won’t—risk doing something foolish, even if I am drawn to Caroline.” Look where all-consuming passion had gotten Emily. She and their father were dead, and Nash and Delilah had an awful, gaping hole in their lives.

  “You’re right to be cautious,” Drake said. “But though I haven’t yet met Caroline, I have the sense she’s special. I’ve never seen you like this. Perhaps she is worth the risk.”

  Nash shook his head, grim. He could try to make her happy. He could try to convince her to stay. But he couldn’t give her his heart without dredging up demons.

  Demons that were best left alone.

  * * *

  At dinner that evening, Caroline endeavored not to stare at Nash but was not entirely successful. A deep green jacket stretched across his broad shoulders and his amber eyes sparked in the candlelight. The dark slashes of his brows seemed more expressive than usual, and every glance he sent her held the promise of wicked delights—which made it difficult to focus on her steaming bowl of clam chowder.

  Earlier that afternoon, he’d stopped by her room briefly on his way to dress for dinner. He’d said there had been no credible replies to the ad but promised to tell her more that night when they were alone. The stab of disappointment she felt was eased with the hope that more people would reply in the days to come. In the meantime, she had another evening with Nash to look forward to, a deliciously wicked thought that heated her blood.

  She fanned herself with her napkin and took a fortifying sip of wine before looking across the table at Delilah, who wore a fetching pale green dress and an effervescent smile.

  “How was your outing to the modiste?” Caroline asked.

  Delilah’s cheeks glowed pink. “Lovely. My gown will be ready the day after next—just in time for the ball.”

  “I can’t wait to see you in it,” Caroline exclaimed.

  “I wish that you could join us,” Delilah said. “I shall feel awful going out, knowing you are left here alone.”

  “You mustn’t give me a second thought,” Caroline replied. “I plan to spend a pleasant evening reading in the library—and perhaps writing in my journal.”

  Nash glanced at her from across the table, curious. “You have a journal?”

 
; “Delilah gave it to me,” Caroline said, smiling. “I’ve been writing a bit, hoping it will help jar my memory.”

  “That’s excellent.” Nash’s voice was deliciously low and smooth, and yet, Caroline had detected a hint of hesitation. “Delilah and I will definitely miss you at the ball. But, with my sister on my arm, I’m sure I’ll be the envy of every man there.”

  A strawberry stain crept up Delilah’s neck. “That reminds me,” she said, fluttering one hand over her chest. “While I was out today, I happened to see Lord Brondale, and he asked whether he might be permitted to call on me tomorrow.”

  Nash’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “And you told him no.” It was half question, half statement.

  Delilah shrugged her slender shoulders and winced. “Actually, I told him that he would be welcome.”

  Nash’s knife clattered on his plate and a chill slithered up Caroline’s spine. “Damn it, Delilah. What were you thinking?”

  “That it might be nice to have a gentleman caller for once,” she retorted. “That I’d enjoy experiencing the sorts of things that other young ladies do—like entertaining a handsome beau.”

  Nash’s brows shot halfway up his forehead. “I warned you about Brondale. Explained why he’s not right for you. And now you’re telling me he’s your beau?”

  Delilah threw up her hands, flustered. “Perhaps. I don’t know. The point is that I would like to find out.”

  “What about the wager?” Nash demanded.

  “For all I know, he made that bet months ago—before he met me. People are capable of change, you know.”

  Caroline knew better than to step into the middle of a sibling argument but couldn’t help herself. She turned to Nash, confident he’d listen to reason. “It’s admirable that you wish to protect your sister, but surely no harm would result from a brief, chaperoned visit by Lord Brondale.”

  “And you know this because of your own vast experience?” he asked dryly.

  Her stomach sank. “I don’t pretend to be an expert on such matters.”

  “It certainly seems that way.” Nash unleashed the force of his golden gaze on her, but she refused to cower.