All You Need is a Duke (The Duke Hunters Club, #1)

by Blythe, Bianca

  Margaret dropped her hold on the duke’s arm. She hardly wanted her mother to get romantic notions about Margaret with him or any of these other men. Mama had brought a great many items with her, and it was entirely possible that one of the items might be rope.

  “You’re back.” The Duke of Jevington bowed, but his demeanor seemed more guarded somehow.

  Lily showed less restraint. She bounded into the Duke of Jevington’s arms with enthusiasm, then rushed to Papa showing him similar affection.

  “We can put Lily in our room,” Mama said.

  “Nonsense,” the Duke of Jevington said.

  Lily rushed back to him, and he bent to pet her.

  “Shall we go eat? The servants have worked hard to keep the food warm, but I would not like to test the powers of the natural world more.”

  Margaret nodded. The duke’s tone possessed an additional formal veneer that it had lacked earlier. Perhaps the man was simply hungry. He had worked heroically to find Lily. People tended to act oddly when they were hungry.

  She followed the others into the dining hall. Everyone was happy when the footmen began to place enticing dishes before them. The dining room was beautiful: red silk lined the walls, giving the room a cozy quality despite the high ceilings, elaborate wood paneling and large hearth. Still, it was impossible for the dining room to compete with the food splayed over the long table. Everything appeared delicious.

  Margaret knew. She knew every dish.

  She turned. “It’s Scottish.”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Indeed.”

  “B-But.” She stared. She’d been to festivities before. She’d even attended dinner parties given to honor her father. But she’d hadn’t been served Scottish food at a single of those events. “I don’t understand.”

  He smiled, and his gaze was once again warm. “Don’t tell me you’re not familiar with these dishes. They were created by Chef Parfait. I’m afraid none of our kitchen staff are actually Scottish. They’re probably all up there, enjoying their easy access to black pudding.”

  Her heart felt oddly light, as if it bobbed against her throat, but she still managed to thank him, even if her voice did squeak.

  He’d spoken to her about Scotland today, but he wouldn’t have had time to have people prepare such foods. This must have been planned in advance.

  Her heart glowed, and perhaps something shown in her face, for he stiffened and cleared his throat. “Everyone, please note that Miss Carberry comes from Scotland. It is a beautiful land with a good cuisine.”

  Her parents stared at him oddly, and he shifted in his chair. He turned to the dukes. “Do you not like Scotland?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Absolutely.”

  All the other dukes nodded and murmured their assent. The violinists entered the room. They shifted to a Scottish reel, and even though Margaret was not overly fond of dancing, she thought she could have easily made an exception.

  After all, her heart was already dancing. It twirled and pirouetted merrily, undaunted by its lack of feet. Candlelight glowed throughout the room, gleaming from golden candelabras. From time to time she glanced at the Duke of Jevington. He sat at the head of the table, but he did not use the opportunity to utter into monologues relating to his greatness, his family’s greatness, and his plans for his future’s inevitable continued greatness. Instead, he managed the conversation, as if to make certain everyone felt included, and that everyone was able to voice an opinion in the conversation.

  Though the dukes had seemed bewildered when she’d first met them, she soon learned they were all different, and not simply in how their consistently pleasant appearance was manifested in various standards of beauty.

  Mr. Owens eagerly explained the importance of every bill and his own indisputably important role in the writing of each part of it. Commas were essential in legal matters, and Mr. Owens had been tasked with checking all of them. Margaret had hoped she might sit beside him, but the man pontificated so freely, she still learned more about him. At least, she learned of Mr. Owens’ utter delight of having been included and the similarly important people he’d met over his lifetime. The Duke of Ainsworth of course was very intellectual and was an expert in the classics, and she chatted with him.

  Most people forgot their Latin after school, but Margaret had a particular fondness for reading the exciting stories in the Aeneid. Somehow, it was comforting to know that the ton had not existed forever, and that once everyone had followed different rules entirely, rules that had become forgotten.

  After dinner, the violinists followed them to the drawing room. The Duke of Brightling whispered something to them, then sat at the piano. Soon, they played a quadrille. Uncharacteristically, Papa led Mama to the center of the room. The Duke of Ainsworth quickly took Margaret’s hand and led her beside them. The Duke of Jevington gave a stiff smile, then led Margaret’s grandmother to the dance floor.

  Margaret didn’t want to dance.

  She didn’t like dancing.

  But perhaps because Lily was found, perhaps because the Duke of Jevington had created such a pleasant environment, or perhaps because she simply didn’t want to refuse the Duke of Ainsworth, she began to dance.

  And it wasn’t utterly horrible.

  Sometimes the Duke of Jevington’s gaze fell on her, and she shivered.

  If only their stroll hadn’t been curtailed. There were more things to chat about with him, though they could hardly speak while bobbing about.

  She wasn’t counting the days until the trip would end, as she normally did when she left the house.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JASPER WAS THE BEST matchmaker in the world.

  Both Ainsworth and that Owens fellow seemed taken with Miss Carberry, and if she only spent more time with the others, he was certain she would charm them too. It didn’t matter in the least that Miss Carberry didn’t seem to know all the steps, or at least, had added an additional one comprised of trampling on her dance partner’s feet at odd moments.

  Everything was proceeding perfectly.

  His bodyguards sat in a corner of the room, slouched against the wall, their arms wrapped around themselves, as if to disguise the size of their fists from a possible attacker.

  Perhaps hiring them had been excessive.

  After all, the worst thing that might happen to Jasper was that he might marry Miss Carberry. And that was hardly a terror-inducing thought, even if he’d always imagined that marriage would be postponed. No, whichever man married her would be fortunate. He would have an intelligent partner in his life.

  Jasper took another sip of his champagne. The bubbles leaped from the flute, as if desiring to take part in the dancing.

  The song ended, and Miss Carberry yawned. “I think I shall retire now.”

  “You want to leave?” His voice sounded higher than he’d desired, and she raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s bedtime.”

  In three days, Miss Carberry and all his other guests would return to London, as if this house party had never occurred.

  He’d assumed this house party would be tedious, as was so often the case when people from differing backgrounds were thrown together, like a cook, flummoxed by his choice of spices, who’d decided to not put anything in at all. He’d been prepared for courteous conversation that verged on the stilted: polite inquiries about the beauty of Scotland followed by vague professions of interest to one day visit there, when everyone knew the roads to Scotland were appalling and one was far more likely to visit the continent.

  And yet somehow, that had not occurred.

  “We haven’t danced yet,” Jasper said.

  Miss Carberry widened her eyes. “You want to dance with me?”

  Jasper nodded. He despised the slight insecurity in her voice.

  Of course, he wanted to dance with her.

  He gestured to the musicians. “Keep on playing.”

  They nodded, then started a lan
guidly paced waltz. He refrained from frowning, though the temptation was palpable.

  This was the sort of romantic music the musicians could have been playing when she’d danced with Brightling or Hammett.

  Because obviously it was the music that sent odd tremors rushing through him when he took Miss Carberry’s hand. That was the only explanation for it.

  He’d thought her quite unremarkable when he first saw her, but then, she hadn’t been following the careful scripts of other women. She’d been quiet, with large eyes that observed him, as if she knew everything about him. As if she merely had to look, and she...knew.

  A faint vanilla scent wafted toward him. He inhaled the warm fragrance, reminding him of delicacies and deliciousness.

  She swept her long lashes upwards, and a shy smile settled onto her face.

  Heavens.

  The woman emanated innocence. He felt dreadful for bringing all these men here for her. He’d had it all wrong. Other debutantes might have been cool and calculating in her position. They might have interrogated each man subtly, in between ample references to their own brilliance.

  Miss Carberry hadn’t stated her skills with fossils, her interest in birds, her love of animals, and her vast knowledge of literature.

  He spun around with her, conscious of her hands on his shoulders, as his hands rested on hers. He stared into her eyes, and for a strange moment it occurred to him that it might be quite pleasant to kiss her. The world spun about them, and furniture and people blurred together.

  But he couldn’t fail to see her. He couldn’t fail to see the softness of her pinkening cheeks, the manner in which her dark eyes glimmered, and the swoop of her upturned nose. How had he never realized that her heavy dark brows bestowed her a regal quality? Her olive-green dress was an unusual choice. Most women seemed to favor colors found on petals: whites and pinks, blues and purples. They never chose olive. And yet... The color emanated its own sophistication.

  Suddenly Jasper felt ill at ease. Miss Carberry lived in a world he knew little about, a world filled with all manner of facts. He’d sat her beside Ainsworth, and he could swear he’d heard them discuss Latin words. Even finishing fighting the French had not brought him as much joy as had closing his Latin book forever.

  The dance ended, and he continued to stare, wishing they might dance more, feeling there was more he wanted to learn. Unlike other gaps in his knowledge, it felt vital he rectify his lack of expertise.

  She stepped away, and he nodded to the musicians that they might halt their playing.

  Somehow, he didn’t want to see her dance with anyone else anyway. He’d spent much time orchestrating this event, but it failed to usher in the anticipated joy. Miss Carberry would marry someone: it seemed absurd that he’d worried. Perhaps when he’d seen Miss Carberry on his bed, he shouldn’t have let her escape through the window, escape from having more than a cursory appearance in his life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, MARGARET strolled to the breakfast room. She may have been up late, but she was not going to spend the morning sleeping, no matter how sumptuous the duke’s sheets were.

  This was an adventure, something entirely different from her normal life in London, and Margaret did not intend to waste a moment.

  The breakfast room overlooked the garden, and for a moment Margaret could only stare at the rows of roses and neatly trimmed hedges. The sun had been absent in England much of the year, but now it was back in full force.

  She returned her gaze to the table. Staffordshire china glimmered in the bright light, depicting fanciful scenes of an idyllic England removed from her experiences in London. There’d been nothing romantic about the capital’s hack and carriage filled streets.

  Margaret didn’t miss coach drivers berating the speed of their horses and that of the horses pulling other carriages, and she didn’t miss the heavy scents of a crowded city in the summertime. Only the very nicest neighborhoods were in any manner lacking such unpleasantness. She didn’t miss needing to take transportation everywhere she went, not because Margaret was in any manner incapable of walking, but because the security risks of wandering about herself were deemed too high.

  Margaret wanted to wander through the countryside and hear the sound of the ocean. She liked seeing her friends in London, but she had no desire to live there year-long, like Papa’s work demanded.

  No. This was a lovely place.

  Variously shaped loaves of bread reclined in baskets, and jewel-colored jams and honey sat in crystal bowls.

  She stepped into the room, turned her head, then noticed the Duke of Jevington sitting at the head of the long breakfast table.

  Her heartbeat quickened, and his lips curled.

  Margaret averted her gaze. She didn’t need to think about his lips. Or the manner in which light played in his hair. Or his chiseled features.

  Margaret rather wished her parents had risen early. Perhaps coming down here by herself hadn’t been an intelligent use of her time, after all. Perhaps she’d undervalued London. At least when she was at home her heart didn’t beat in an odd manner when she entered a room. Dullness was not devoid of virtue.

  “You’re alone,” the duke said, and for some reason the man’s eyes glimmered.

  Well, she didn’t need to ponder too hard why that was the case.

  It was evident he was still apprehensive around her mother, and he had not yet formed a full opinion of her father. Magnates had a habit of being intimidating, even when they delegated all child rearing duties to their spouses.

  It could not be that he had any interest in her.

  “You’re alone as well,” Margaret said. “Where are your friends?”

  “Horse riding,” he said. “I thought I would be a good host and not abandon your family.”

  “You didn’t need to do that.”

  “Naturally not,” he said. “I quite suspect you’re familiar with breakfasting, but I can still give you advice.”

  “Advice?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “The marmalade is a must,” he said. “Some people might go for the jam, but the marmalade is particularly superb.”

  “Very well.” Margaret smiled, reached for a roll, and spread marmalade over it. She bit into it, conscious of the duke’s gaze.

  “How do you like it?”

  “It’s most scrumptious.”

  The Duke of Jevington’s eyes remained on her, then he averted his gaze abruptly. He raked his hand through his hair. “It’s a pity there’s so little left in the jar. I’m sure your parents and grandmother will want some too.”

  “Well, they actually prefer jam, but—”

  He shook his head and glanced at the sole footman in the room. “Could you please fetch some more marmalade?”

  The footman bowed. “Very good, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you,” the duke said cheerfully.

  Margaret widened her eyes. “You wanted him to leave.”

  “You are a very intelligent woman.”

  She stared at him.

  “You needn’t act so surprised.”

  “Did you also want your two bodyguards to haul you away last night?”

  The duke’s cheeks turned a ruddy color. Somehow, they did not hinder his indisputable handsomeness, rendering him an odd boyish quality.

  “I’m—er—sorry about that,” he said. “New position. They are liable to be rather over eager in the fulfillment of their duties.”

  Her lips twitched, and she moved her gaze about the room, lest she linger on the duke.

  A large portrait sat on the wall. A family played outside, and it took Margaret a moment to realize that the painting depicted the estate. Judging from the clothes, Margaret imagined that this must be Jasper’s family, and she stared at the boy with cherubic curls.

  “That’s my family,” the duke said, and his voice was more serious.

  Margaret flushed. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have stared.”

  “Nonsense, I put the p
ainting here. I want to look at it. There are some other paintings of them in the Painting Gallery, but I moved this here.”

  “It’s a lovely spot for a beautiful painting. They look so happy.”

  “Yes,” the duke said. “That’s not just the artist’s interpretation. We were.”

  “I’m sorry they passed away.”

  “I am as well,” the duke said, and his voice had a wistful tone to it.

  “I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose all of them at once,” Margaret said.

  “It was atrocious. But I had the other dukes.”

  “Friends are important,” Margaret said, thinking of her own friends in London. It would be nice to see them again.

  “People used to think we were tight at Eton because we were snobby,” Jasper said. “But that wasn’t it. Unless you’re that rare royal duke, if you have the title of duke, it’s because your father has died. We were all missing fathers. We—er—had something in common, something more substantial than the fact that we were addressed as ‘Your Grace’ while most of the ton’s highest elite were only addressed as ‘my lord.’”

  “It still must have been difficult,” Margaret said.

  “It was.” Jasper sighed. “I want to remember the past without remembering how it ended. I don’t want my family’s deaths to be the most important thing about them.”

  “Of course,” Margaret murmured. “I lost a brother.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It was in the war. We knew when he left that we might never see him again. And then we didn’t.” Her voice wobbled at the end, but she forced herself to breathe.

  She was conscious of the duke’s gaze on her, and energy thrummed through her. She poured tea, added milk, then stirred it with rather more care than the task required.

  She rarely spoke of her brother. Speaking of him made her parents sad, but it was nice for Margaret to remember he had in fact existed.

  They were silent. Finally, the duke tilted his head. “How did you know about my family’s death?”