How to Marry a Duke Without Really Trying

by Eva Devon

  “You’ll have a good deal more peace of mind,” agreed Rob.

  He doubted it. His mind was anything but peaceful as of late. Sleep was elusive. His nights were filled with Eglantine. Her wicked smile, her laugh. The way she took the cares of life so lightly. And good God, that kiss? It had nearly been his undoing.

  And it seemed that no matter how much reason he tried to employ or advice he sought, his mind wasn’t going to behave with regards to her.

  Rob cocked his head to the side, peering at him. “I say, is something else amiss.”

  George fought a sigh. “Nothing that won’t pass.”

  “You can rely on me if f you wish to talk about it.”

  “It is nothing,” George protested. “And you’re the first person who’s mentioned my distracted state who has not suggested I am in love.”

  “Are you?” Rob asked, laughing.

  “No.”

  “Well then.” Rob’s brow quirked, puzzled. “Ladies are always wanting us to be in love, are they not? Frankly? Most men are bounders and I’m not sure we really have the capacity for loving that they require.”

  Those sentiments seemed particularly bitter even if they did, in some ways, resemble his own. “Rob, you know you’re nothing like your father, don’t you?”

  Rob laughed. It was not a humorous sound. “Of course, Harley. Of course.”

  But as George took his stance again, ready to work out the tumult inside him here, he wasn’t so sure Rob believed his own words.

  The old Duke of Blackstone had been a devil. The worst of the worst. It was no easy thing for a son to survive such a thing.

  He’d had an excellent father and, yet, he was beginning to believe that he would never live up to his father’s expectations.

  It was a damned difficult thing, being a duke. Being a good duke.

  He shook the feeling away. He wouldn’t feel sorry for himself. It wasn’t the Harley way. And he was the head of the Harleys now and could not tread from that path.

  Chapter 16

  George was everywhere. When Eglantine went to Hyde Park in the morning for her daily constitutional, he was riding down Rotten Row. . . looking as devilishly handsome as ever.

  The card parties she attended were filled with his deep laughter as he drank brandy and bantered with the Duke of Drake, Duke of Royland, and Duke of Raventon.

  Beautiful widows fluttered about him like moths to a flame, outraged mamas looking on, trying to shift their daughters into his proximity.

  At the balls she attended nightly, George was there, too. He danced every dance, a smile upon his face, and now he was chattering away with the mamas who all suddenly looked as if they had been suddenly transported to heaven.

  And frankly, if Eglantine was to admit it, she was bloody annoyed. Oh, not that George was about. She quite liked George, but he was having such a good time, as though she had become but a footnote in his existence.

  This new feeling, one she hadn’t quite put her finger on, was exceedingly demoralizing.

  It wasn’t like he acted as though she did not exist. In fact, he’d sent her a copy of The Sylph just a few days ago, with a note. Written by a unique lady for a unique friend.

  It had touched her deeply that he had thought to send it. She’d rather hoped he would call upon her to discuss it which was very foolish. For such a thing, to the world, would look like a declaration of courtship.

  It had been most disconcerting, reading the book in bed. . . thinking of George. And then she’d barely shared a word with him!

  Oh, he still asked her to dance. He was quite pleasant. But he paid her only slightly more attention than any of the other young ladies upon the mart and it rankled.

  Because much to her horror, somewhere along the line, she’d begun to think of him as hers. Which was ludicrous because she had most decidedly chosen to make him not hers.

  Whatever was her brain up to? For it was behaving in the most unacceptable of ways!

  So, as he rounded the dance floor, waltzing with the best of them, the young lady in his arms giggling away, she bit back a note of frustration.

  Harriet was nowhere to be seen. She’d gone off, as she was doing more of as of late. Really, she’d become most elusive and rather secretive.

  No doubt, it all had to do with Blackstone.

  “You look as if you’re about to jab someone with your fan.”

  She blinked and nearly jumped towards Lord Haven. A smile tilted her lips. “Oh dear. Do I?”

  “Oh, yes,” he assured pleasantly, his dark hair glinting obsidian under the candlelight. He waggled his brows playfully. “Do tell me, who is the object of your ire? We can gossip about them together.”

  “The general company,” she said quickly, stifling a laugh. It was a relief to have him about given the rate at which her thoughts had been flying about her head. Really, Haven would be an excellent distraction from George.

  “They are rather trying,” he agreed with a nod. “Especially for someone with your romantic turn of mind. They haven’t an original thought between them all, unlike yourself.”

  “Lord Haven,” she chastised, though she was secretly pleased by his compliment. “You should not say such things.”

  “Perhaps not. But they are true. Don’t you long for more than this?” he whispered as he angled his head towards her. “More than these gilded fools who don’t know the difference between John Donne and Shakespeare?”

  “Your praise of me is too great and your censure of the company—”

  “Is accurate!” he protested. Gently, he touched her hand with his. “Surely you hunger for more?”

  She fanned herself slowly, her eyes following George about the room.

  “I suppose I do,” she confessed, unwilling to admit that what she really wanted more of was. . . George.

  “Good,” Haven announced. “Do dance with me?”

  And just as she was about to say yes, somehow George and his partner came to a stop before them. And quite unfortunately, the Duke of Harley led his partner right before them.

  The young blonde lady’s cheeks were aglow and she was chattering away.

  George did not seem to mind.

  Which surprised Eglantine for he had never liked such company before.

  But then again, he was looking for a wife. Quite unintentionally, she scowled. Panicked, she forced herself to smile. She wouldn’t let him know he was causing her so many mental gymnastics.

  Her stomach turned. Of course, he should look for a wife. But not some silly piece. He needed a lady who would match him, who would understand him. Someone like. . . someone like. . .

  “Lady Eglantine?” George asked, “Are you gathering wool?”

  “Not at all. I was contemplating the nefariousness of Cupid.” She narrowed her eyes. “How many couples shall find their match this night?”

  George did not balk but grinned. “It is impossible to say. But it is the season for it.”

  “So, it is,” agreed Lord Haven, nodding to George and his companion. “You two made a very pretty pair on the floor.”

  The young lady bobbed a curtsy. “Why, thank you. His Grace is an excellent dancer.”

  Annoyed. Yes, that’s what Eglantine was. At herself. For being annoyed. Really, her feelings were inexplicable. She should applaud George for moving on with such aplomb.

  Lord Haven nodded. “His Grace is excellent at many things, aren’t you, Harley?”

  For the first time, a slightly terse look crossed George’s face as he looked at Haven and Eglantine.

  “I strive for excellence, I don’t deny it.”

  “It must leave little time for the finer things in life,” Lord Haven said.

  George stilled, his gaze snuck to Eglantine, then quickly back. “It all depends on what you think the finer things are.”

  “Why, the enjoyment of wine,” Haven drawled. “Good company, art. . .”

  “I enjoy all those things,” George said easily.

  Haven lo
oked unconvinced. “But the trials of your position do leave you lost among stacks of bills and papers.”

  “I am grateful to be able to serve my country,” George said simply.

  And for some deuced reason, Eglantine’s heart swelled, because George was a man of many parts. He was not just a man to sit under a tree spouting verse. He was a patron of poets so that they could write verse, and he improved the lives of everyone about him. He was a renaissance man. Voltaire and Rousseau would have adored him.

  “You look quite transported, Lady Eglantine,” Lord Haven said. “Whatever are you thinking?”

  “Forgive me,” she all but yelped, mortified to have been so caught. “I do have a tendency to slip into my thoughts.”

  “And what were they?” George asked softly.

  “If you must know,” she began as she met George’s intent gaze. “I was thinking what a burden you bear and how well you wear it.”

  Lord Haven tensed ever so slightly beside her then extended his hand. “We have this dance?”

  She shook herself. “We do.”

  And with that, she allowed herself to be led onto the floor. The music began and Haven turned her efficiently and, after a few moments, with grand sweeps and pivots.

  He danced with great passion, yet she could not stop herself from following George as he turned and asked another lady to dance.

  “Do you think he shall make a great match?” Haven asked.

  She snapped her gaze back to Haven. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Duke of Harley,” Haven said pointedly. “I think he shall announce an engagement very soon what with the way he has thrown himself into the fray.”

  She nibbled her lip. “I suppose he will.”

  Haven shook his head, lamenting, “I pity the poor woman.”

  She immediately stepped on Haven’s foot.

  He winced.

  “I am terribly sorry,” she rushed.

  “No doubt you were thinking of something else.” He gave her a knowing smile. “As you are wont to do.”

  She made herself smile, still thinking of George announcing an engagement. “Yes.”

  “Your own marriage perhaps?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Why do you pity Harley’s future wife? He’s a good sort.”

  Haven’s brows rose. “Because she will be a slave to duty and she will never know an idle moment what with the causes she must take up.”

  Suddenly, Eglantine’s mind slipped to what those causes could be, education, the proper housing of the poor, the equalization of the lower classes, the theater. . . literature for all.

  “You have the strangest look on your face,” he said abruptly.

  “Do I? I was thinking of a novel I just took up,” she blurted.

  Haven’s dark brows rose. “Am I so very boring?”

  “Not at all,” she protested quickly, desperate to turn the conversation away from George. “You remind me of the hero.”

  “Do I?” he asked, sounding most pleased. And then as if inspired by her declaration, he lightly pressed his hand into her back and whispered as they danced,

  “So, we’ll go no more a-roving

  So late into the night,

  Though the heart be still as loving,

  And the moon be still as bright.

  For the sword outwears its sheath,

  And the soul wears out the breast,

  And the heart must pause to breathe,

  And love itself have a rest.

  Though the night was made for loving,

  And the day returns too soon,

  Yet we’ll go no more a-roving

  By the light of the moon.”

  “You quote Bryon very prettily, Lord Haven.”

  “It is you who inspires me,” he replied, his gaze intent. “I loathe the day if it means we must be parted, Lady Eglantine.”

  She bit down on her lower lip, unsure of what to say.

  Except as they danced, she realized that he did remind her of a character from a novel and he was the sort of character she did not care much for.

  And immediately, she knew the difference between George and Lord Haven. Everything George did was for others. Despite his romantic soul and all the compliments he paid her, everything Haven did was for himself.

  The music came to a close and she quickly curtsied. “Thank you, my lord. The dance has been a revelation.”

  He smiled then, his eyes darkening. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Her heart did something then. It hammered in her chest. . . and not from pleasure for it was very clear that Lord Haven wanted her. And he would, no doubt, offer for her soon.

  And there was only one thing she would be able to say.

  Chapter 17

  The fine coach and four sitting outside belonged to Rob. His ducal crest was unmistakable. George stood in the window, looking out to the street, wondering what the devil his friend was doing visiting so late.

  It wasn’t like Rob. He’d only seen him at Number 79 once, just recently, and then at various balls surrounding the necessity of marrying one’s sister off.

  George pulled the green damask curtain back a bit further. He was always glad to see Rob. So it was a pleasure really. He desperately needed to be distracted from his own gallivanting about town, attempting to simultaneously not obsess over Eglantine but not ignore her either.

  It was damned difficult. He was growing very tired of smiling at silly people.

  So, a few drinks with Rob would do just the trick.

  The footman opened the door and someone stepped down from the coach.

  It wasn’t Rob.

  George’s fist tightened about the curtain as he tried to make sense of what he was witnessing.

  His sister, Harry, stepped down onto the pavement. Her blonde hair rioted about her face, the pins clearly gone. Her pale gown was askew.

  Askew.

  And she looked. . . well, he couldn’t decide precisely how she looked but she didn’t look like she’d had a perfectly uneventful carriage ride.

  As she mounted the steps to the townhouse, the Blackstone coach rattled off, but not before he caught sight of Rob.

  For one moment, he caught his friend’s gaze.

  And there it was.

  Pure, unadulterated guilt resonated in those orbs.

  “I’m going to kill him,” he hissed. “I’m bloody going to kill him.”

  George whipped away from the window and strode for the foyer.

  Harriet had a foot on the first step of the sprawling staircase, no doubt heading for her room.

  “Harriet,” he called, his voice rough with a harder edge than he’d intended.

  Rob was a rake. A bounder. A dead man.

  She stilled on the steps, then slowly turned, wincing. “Why hello, Brother.”

  “Hello, yourself,” he said. If she thought he was going to ignore this, she was greatly mistaken. “What the devil just happened?”

  For one moment, Harriet looked like a girl who had been called upon the carpet, ready for her set down and punishment. But then she did the most astounding thing. She faced him and squared her shoulders like an independent, strong woman.

  “You know what happened,” she replied, lifting her chin.

  He brought a hand to his brow as he realized he had utterly failed his sister. “I don’t, Harry. I really don’t. Did he ruin you? Is that what you mean?”

  She gave him a withering look. “I am not a bit of goods to be damaged.”

  He drew in a steadying breath. “Of course you aren’t. But half the street had to have just seen you enter. So damaged or not, in the eyes of society you’re ruined. Do you know what you look like right now? You were alone with him. In a coach.”

  She stood defiant. “Well, we will just have to weather it.”

  “I beg your pardon?” he queried.

  Her eyes shone. “I’m not marrying him.”

  George swallowed, wondering if he was a complete failure as a brother. As her
protector. But he wouldn’t fail her now. Not in this moment. “If he. . . if you. . .”

  “Were intimate?” she finished for him.

  He groaned. “Oh, bloody hell.”

  “People do it all the time, George,” she pointed out.

  “I’m more than aware,” he said quickly. “Damnation. It’s hell having a sister who’s a woman now.”

  Her face softened. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know, scamp. I know. But there is no running from this.” He hesitated. “Are you well?”

  She stared at him for a long moment then replied, “As well as I can be. He doesn’t wish to marry me either. But he didn’t hurt me at all, if that’s what you’re inquiring.”

  “It was, scamp,” he said softly, glad of that. He’d never thought Rob had it in him to be cruel. But in this, reckless was unacceptable, too. “I’ll kill him if he hurt you.”

  She gave him a droll look. “Very practical.”

  George blew out a breath then crossed the distance between them and took her hands in his. “I love you, Harry. And I’ll make this right.”

  She nodded but then she said gently, a sheen of tears in her eyes, “You know, George, you can’t fix everything.”

  He arched a brow then pulled her into his embrace. “The devil I can’t, Harry,” he whispered against her forehead.

  And he would make it right. No matter the bloody cost.

  George stormed down the small close leading up to Number 79. His boots slammed down over the cobbles as his mind focused on one single thought. Rob had to die. Or at the very least, be severely maimed. One did not hurt Harry and get away with it.

  Mounting the steps, he ripped the door open and his thunderous footsteps filled the foyer. He looked left then right. First, he had to find Rob and there were far too many damned rooms in the place for his liking just now.

  “Where the devil is the bastard?” Harley roared. There was no answer, but he spotted the faint hint of candle glow at the top of the stairs.

  He pounded up to the landing, considering that surely a crime of passion would not be negatively judged by his peers. His steps echoed through the entire house as he made his way up.