The Duke's Disaster

by Grace Burrowes

  “That’s promising.” Meech topped up his own drink, his tolerance for spirits being legendary among the college boys. “Does she like you?”

  “She’s willing to tolerate me,” Noah said, opening a gold snuffbox on the mantel and catching a whiff of cinnamon, of all the nancy affectations. “The female who likes me has yet to be born to the human species.”

  “Take after your grandfather, you do. None of my charm, though I was a late bloomer too.”

  “Very late,” Noah rejoined, for sober maturity had yet to entirely settle upon Meech. “Will you fetch Harlan from school?”

  “A note will fetch him from school. He hasn’t your penchant for the books, Noah. God knows who that boy takes after.”

  A subject even Meech should not have raised.

  Noah set his drink on the mantel next to the snuffbox. “Just get him to the wedding in proper attire. Breakfast will be at Anselm House immediately after, family only, and my thanks for the brandy.”

  “Do you suppose Henny would like that snuffbox?” Meech asked.

  Henny had better taste than that, but she was kind. “You should ask her, but please, for the love of heaven, do not bring her up at the wedding breakfast.”

  Meech poured the remains of Noah’s drink into his own glass, something he likely would not have done had a servant been present.

  “If you’re intent on seeing this wedding accomplished forthwith, I will not be in evidence, Noah. Pemberton and I have accepted Deirdre Harting’s invitation to a house party out in Surrey, and she would be most disappointed did we let her down. I’ll give Henny your regards before I go, though.”

  For a man in his late forties, Meech was handsome, trim, and charming by most hostesses’ standards. He and his bosom bow, Pemberton, could have passed for twins, right down to a shared distaste for weddings.

  “Far be it from me to expect my nuptials would take precedence over your socializing,” Noah said, though he was disappointed—or he should have been.

  Meech walked with him toward the front door. “You’re sure you won’t take up with Henny again once the wife is settled?”

  “I’m sure.” Almost sure.

  “Best keep your options open. Wives can be the very devil.”

  “You would know, Uncle. You’ve had so many.”

  “Disrespectful pup. If you’re lucky, you’ll grow up to be just like me.”

  “I could do worse,” Noah graciously allowed—Meech had at least avoided diseases of vice and tiresome addictions.

  Noah accepted his hat, cane, and gloves from a footman, and saw himself out, stopping by his own establishment only long enough to send the requisite note to his younger brother—half brother, in truth—then choose a ring for his bride from among those presented for his perusal.

  “And for the morning gift, Your Grace?” the dapper little gentleman inquired. “Perhaps you’d like to see some bracelets, necklaces, earbobs?”

  “No, thank you.” Noah had forgotten this detail, but Thea Collins did not strike him as a jewelry-acquiring sort of female. She’d want independence, not ornamentation. “The lady will choose most of her own jewelry, but I will certainly recommend your shop to her.”

  “Our sincere thanks, Your Grace.” The man bowed and took his leave with a blessed absence of further obsequies.

  When Noah’s town coach rolled up to the Endmon establishment, his intended was ready, her belongings stowed in one pathetically battered and small trunk. Her luggage was lashed to the boot, and amid a teary send-off from Marliss—and only Marliss—Noah collected his bride.

  “Are you sorry to leave your charge?” Noah settled into the carriage while his future duchess sat across from him, cradling a small maple-wood box on her lap.

  “I will miss her,” her ladyship conceded, “but Marliss is destined for her own household now, so my task was complete.”

  “Lady Thea, does my person offend you?”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

  “I’m a frequent bather, and a devoted slave to my tooth powder,” Noah went on, “and I will wear only clean linen, so I must wonder why my affianced bride has left me to myself on the forward-facing seat.”

  She clutched her wooden box, her expression genuinely abashed. “I meant no offense, Your Grace. Habit only, I assure you.”

  Her ladyship didn’t move until Noah held out a hand, steadying her in the moving carriage as she switched benches. He took her box from her and kept her hand in his.

  “You’ve met my sister Lady Patience?”

  “She called this morning. A very amiable woman.”

  “My sisters are all amiable,” Noah replied. “All three of them, until they fix on some objective, and then they amiably ride roughshod over all in their path to achieve it.” Including their ducal brother.

  “They are each wed, are they not?”

  “Thanks to a merciful God and the pudding that passes for brains in the heads of most young Englishmen, they are. Have you considered a wedding trip?”

  “I have not,” Lady Thea said, her gaze on their joined hands. “A journey seems inappropriate, as our union is not…”

  “Not…?” Noah wouldn’t rescue her from the windowless corner she’d painted herself into.

  “Not sentimental in nature, Your Grace. You’ve assured me we’ll have time to become acquainted, and you’re busy enough without having to create the appearance of doting on your broodmare.”

  Lady Thea would have had ample opportunity to draw that conclusion. During her weeks of chaperoning Marliss, she’d seen that a duke worth his title must needs go through life at the speed of a particularly fierce whirlwind. A duchy did not run itself.

  “I do dote on my broodmares,” Noah informed her. “They’re more likely to catch that way, and I enjoy it.”

  “Doting will not be necessary.” Lady Thea injected enough frost into her tone that a lesser man might dread his wedding night.

  “We’ll see.” Noah rubbed his thumb over her wrist, which was the only inch of skin exposed below her pretty neck. “In case you’re interested, I might enjoy being doted on a little myself.”

  “How would one go about that?”

  “You’ll think of something,” he assured her, “but we arrive to your brother’s residence. I hope you sent a note?”

  “Of course. One to Tim, one to Nonie. You may leave my music box here.”

  Though Noah did not want to encourage his bride’s tendency to issue orders, he put her box under the seat.

  The coachman set them down in the porte cochere, where no footman or butler appeared at the door to greet them. Noah looked askance at her ladyship, but her chin was held high as she opened the door and admitted them herself.

  “Lady Thea!” A plump older woman in apron and cap came scampering up the hallway. “It’s that glad we are to see you. Lady Nonie will be down directly now you’re here, and you’ve brought a caller.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Wren.” Thea bent so the lady could kiss her cheek. “Is my brother home?”

  “Oh, he’s home, my lady.” Mrs. Wren’s expression suggested the greatest of her earthly burdens lay one floor above. “Whether he’s at home, I surely couldn’t say. Perhaps you and the gentleman would like to greet Lady Nonie in the morning room?”

  “We’ll see ourselves up,” Thea replied. “If you could please send along some tea, once you’ve let Nonie know we’re here?”

  “Thea!” A younger, merrier version of Thea came skipping down the stairs, dark curls bouncing with each step.

  “Thea, you’ve come, oh, thank the saints.” Lady Nonie threw herself against her sister and held tight. “Is it true? Is this your fellow?” The girl tossed a barely recognizable curtsy at Noah, and proceeded to obliterate the protocol for introductions. “You’re the Duke of Anselm?”

  “I have that honor,” Noah replied.

  “Lady Antoinette,” Thea interjected, “may I make known to you my betrothed, Noah, Duke of Anselm. Your Grace, Lady Antoin
ette Collins, my younger sister.”

  “My lady.” Noah bowed over the younger woman’s hand, and saw a smaller replica of Thea, one not so plagued by life’s injustices and realities. “It will be my pleasure to offer you a place in our home for so long as you care to join us.”

  Or until some pudding-headed swain came along sporting a ring.

  Nonie blushed and slipped her hand into a pocket. “He even talks like a duke.”

  “I take tea like one too,” Noah said, seeing smitten lordlings by the half dozen lounging about his parlors several years hence. “If that’s the plan?”

  “Of course,” Lady Thea said. “The parlor is this way, and bother it, Nonie, have we not a single footman to take His Grace’s hat and gloves?”

  “Not a one,” Nonie replied blithely. “They work until the pay runs out, then find other positions until the next quarter’s funds show up. I can take His Grace’s hat and gloves.”

  “I’ll hold on to them for now,” Noah said. When the party reached the morning parlor, he set his accessories on a sideboard. The curtains hung the merest inch askew, the rug needed a sound beating, and the andirons hadn’t been blacked in a week.

  Shabby in the details, but not yet desperate.

  The sisters were desperate to spend time together, though, based on the speed with which Nonie chattered on about some cat and the boot boy, and a bird loose in the pantry.

  “Are you packed, Lady Antoinette?” Noah asked when the girl had paused to take a breath.

  “I am.” She spared Noah a smile that was no doubt already turning heads when she walked in the park. “I’ll fetch my trunk down before we go.”

  “You,” Noah shot back, “will sit right there and sip your tea, while I see to your trunks.”

  He left the ladies in the morning room and found his way to the corridor housing the family bedrooms. A passing maid—cap askew, apron stained—pointed him to Lady Nonie’s room and gave him directions to Lord Grantley’s quarters.

  Noah found his lordship facedown on a bed and sporting one stocking only. The rest of him was sprawled across the covers, naked as a babe, snoring the day away.

  “Here lies the head of the Collins household,” Noah muttered. Grantley couldn’t be much more than twenty, his form hardly that of a man. The abundant evidence confirmed he eschewed physical exertion, and his hands qualified as those of a gentleman—or a lady.

  The young earl screamed like a female too, when Noah tossed a glass of cold drinking water on his back.

  “What the blazes!” Grantley slewed up onto all fours, shaking his head, then must have realized he wasn’t alone. “Who the hell are you, and why in blazes did you do that?”

  “I’m your prospective brother-in-law,” Noah replied, “and unless you want my boot planted on your tender and none-too-attractive backside, I suggest you get out of that bed and prepare to send your sisters into my keeping in, say, ten minutes.”

  “My sisters?”

  Noah smiled nastily. “You have the two, Nonie and Thea. I’m marrying Thea, the taller one, and she’s bringing Nonie with us for safekeeping. Your solicitors have the contracts, and the wedding is in three days.”

  “Three days!” Grantley bounced to the edge of the bed, then sat very still. “Shouldn’t have moved so quickly. Beg pardon.”

  Noah passed him the empty washbasin.

  “See you in ten minutes,” Noah tossed over his shoulder, heading for the door. “Nine and a half, now.”

  It took twenty, but Grantley managed a semblance of casual attire when he showed up in the morning parlor.

  He nodded at his older sister. “How do, Thea, and who’s your gentleman friend?”

  “Noah, Duke of Anselm.” Noah bowed politely. He held the superior rank, but they were under Grantley’s roof—and the ladies were looking on. “At your service, and it is my happy honor to report that Lady Araminthea has accepted my suit. The wedding will be at eleven of the clock on the indicated date, with a wedding breakfast at Anselm House thereafter.”

  Grantley squinted at the hand-lettered invitation Noah passed him and ran a hand through hair lighter—and less tidy—than Thea’s.

  “Is this cricket, Thea?” the earl asked. “Seems hasty to me, but maybe you’ve anticipated the vows?”

  Even Lady Nonie’s expression went blank at that insult.

  “Were you not so obviously suffering from the lack of couth that characterizes most with your insignificant years,” Noah said, “I would call you to task for the slight you offer my bride.”

  “Slight?”

  Both sisters were sipping tea as if their reputations depended upon it.

  Hopeless. “Grantley, you will swill some strong black tea and then assist me to retrieve Lady Nonie’s effects from her room,” Noah instructed.

  “Hirschman can do it.” With a shaking hand, Grantley accepted a hot cup of tea from his younger sister.

  Hopeless and arrogant. Noah’s sympathy for his bride doubled. “Where will I find that worthy?”

  “He’s a man of all work,” Thea said. “He’s been with us forever, and he’ll likely be in the kitchen if he’s on the property.”

  Noah left the three siblings to their tea and noted more evidence of poor household care as he made his way below stairs. A streak of bird droppings left a long white smudge on a window in the foyer, a carpet in the hallway bore a dubious stain, and the door to the lower reaches squeaked mightily. Fortunately, Hirschman was indeed in the kitchen, but Mrs. Wren nearly wrung her apron into rags at the sight of a duke in her domain.

  “Mr. Hirschman, if you’d see to Lady Nonie’s things?” Noah asked when Mrs. Wren had ceased fluttering and muttering.

  “Of course.” Hirschman rose, presenting a sturdy if slightly stooped frame. “But where, might I ask, is the young lady off to?”

  About time somebody asked, because Grantley didn’t seem inclined to delve into particulars.

  “Noah Winters, Duke of Anselm.” Noah bowed slightly, because this fellow was likely all that had kept Grantley’s wastrel friends from bothering Lady Nonie. “Betrothed to Lady Thea, who is gathering Lady Nonie under her wing. Lady Thea is with her brother and sister now, and the wedding is to be in a few days’ time.”

  Bushy white eyebrows rose, and the housekeeper’s apron-wringing came to an abrupt halt.

  “So soon?” Hirschman asked. At least he didn’t inquire outright if they’d anticipated their vows.

  “I cannot countenance leaving the young ladies to shift for themselves any longer than necessary,” Noah said. “Or perhaps there’s some hidden streak of sobriety in Lord Grantley I’ve failed to appreciate?”

  “Not perishing likely,” Hirschman scoffed. “Too much like his friends, that one. I’ll fetch the trunks, but Your Grace will leave the direction with Mrs. Wren, if you please.”

  Noah complied, because Hirschman’s request, while presuming in the extreme, was fair. If Grantley turned up missing, his sisters ought to be notified—eventually.

  When Noah returned to the morning parlor, Grantley was looking a little less like a fish dead three days, and Lady Nonie’s speech had slowed to a rapid approximation of conversation.

  “If you ladies are ready?” Noah picked up his hat and gloves. “Lady Nonie’s trunks are being loaded as we speak.”

  “You’re leaving?” Grantley asked. He was a good-looking enough young man, but would soon lose his appeal if he remained dedicated to dissipation.

  “We’re off to the home of His Grace’s sister, Lady Patience, until the wedding,” Thea said, “and thence to Anselm House.”

  “Because you’re getting married,” Grantley recited slowly, “to him.” He blinked owlishly, likely still a little drunk from the previous evening’s revels.

  “We’ll send a carriage for you,” Noah said, “and some footmen. Who’s your tailor?”

  Grantley waved a hand in a gesture Noah had seen Thea make. “Some fellow on Bond Street.”

  “That narrows
it considerably,” Noah said, his sarcasm clearly escaping Grantley’s notice. “Ladies, shall we?”

  “Bye, Tims.” Nonie hugged her brother. “You should go back upstairs and have a little more rest, I think, and don’t forget your tooth powder.”

  Thus warned, Thea merely extended her hand to her brother. “I look forward to seeing you at the wedding, Tims, and thank you for coming down.”

  He bowed over her hand, his expression bewildered as they took their leave. Some of Noah’s ire toward “Tims” abated when he saw how lost the earl was to be parting with his sisters.

  Noah knew how that felt. He’d forgotten he knew, but he did know.

  “This is the lot of it?” Noah asked as Hirschman set down a second trunk amid a paltry pile of bags beside the coach.

  “I haven’t many clothes that still fit,” Nonie explained. “This is it. My thanks, Hirschman.”

  “On your way, your ladyships.” Hirschman tugged his forelock. “Mrs. Wren and I will look after Master Tims, same as we always do.”

  Noah shot Hirschman a speaking look. “You have my direction. I’ll send a carriage, clothing, and a squad of dragoons to impress the pup into the wedding party. Warn him he’d best be sober. He’ll regret shaming my bride in any way.”

  Noah handed up Thea, then Nonie, and signaled the coachman to hold for a moment when the door was closed.

  “How bad is the earl?” Noah asked Hirschman, walking a few steps toward the rear of the coach.

  “For now?” Hirschman scrubbed a hand over his chin. “His lordship’s not awful, he’s just young and stupid as a stump. He gets took advantage of, but the solicitors curb the worst of it, and the old lord set it up so they can keep him from ruin for at least another year. Once he turns five-and-twenty, though, he gets the reins, and God help us then, Your Grace.”

  “If he lives that long. You and Mrs. Wren are adequately provided for?”

  “We take our wages out first when the quarterly money shows up. The rest is spread around as needs must.”

  “Do the best you can.” Noah pushed a card at him. “If the water gets too high, send word to me.”