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

by Blythe, Bianca

“Ainsworth told me,” Margaret admitted.

  “That’s what you were discussing on your long walk last night?”

  She nodded. “You found our walk long?”

  He frowned. “Length is subjective.”

  “Not when it’s a measurement,” Margaret said.

  The duke rose. “Er—perhaps not.” He raked his hand through hair. “I wonder where that marmalade is.”

  “My apologies, Your Grace.” The footman returned to the room, clasping a jar. “I’m afraid it took longer for Cook to find it.”

  “Ah, thank you,” the duke said absentmindedly, passing the jar to Margaret.

  “Did you say marmalade?” An unctuous voice sounded, and Margaret stiffened.

  Mr. Owens stood before them. A wave of embarrassment moved through Margaret, remembering that she’d extolled Mr. Owens’ good qualities to an extent he had not met when she’d seen him at dinner.

  Perhaps the duke had been correct in stating that Mr. Owens ardent recommendations on books in different genres had not been entirely a signal of a man devoted to reading with whom one might have long bookish conversations. After all, he’d seemed condescending.

  “Are you fond of marmalade, Mr. Owens?” Margaret asked as she removed the lid of the marmalade.

  Mr. Owens wrinkled his nose. “I find that marmalade has an abundance of sugar in it. One should examine a recipe before casually slathering it on one’s toast.” He leaned closer to her. “The recipe for this would appall one. I recommend that a woman of your figure confine herself to more savory spreads.”

  Margaret swallowed hard, and her cheeks flamed.

  She didn’t want to look at Mr. Owens. She certainly didn’t want to look at the duke.

  “It seems you have an answer for everything, Mr. Owens,” the duke said in an icy tone. “You are insulting a very fine woman.”

  Mr. Owens did not flush. Instead, he provided a self-satisfactory smile. “I simply was informing Miss Carberry of the ingredients. She might not be aware.”

  Margaret shifted in her seat.

  “I do make it a point of knowing much about a wide variety of topics,” Mr. Owens continued, evidently confusing silence with interest. “Knowledge is so often unappreciated. I am certain you understand, Your Grace.”

  “Of the dangers of marmalade?” The duke shrugged. “It is my favorite topping for toast. I’d recommended it to Miss Carberry.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Owens face whitened somewhat. “But you, Your Grace, are a man in top form. They call you a paragon, Your Grace.”

  “They?”

  “The ton. The haute société. The creme de la creme.”

  “Ah. Those who scatter French words liberally, as if the war never happened,” the duke said, and even though Margaret had been feeling distraught, she found herself forcing her lips from yielding to a sudden instinct to smile.

  Mr. Owens’ face whitened.

  “Do have a seat, Mr. Owens,” Margaret said.

  Mr. Owens’ eyes jolted from one side of the room to the other, as if wondering whether he might find an excuse to abandon the room so shortly after his arrival. But no helpful guest appeared, and Mr. Owens sighed. He dabbed his forehead with a napkin with the air of a man who has recently climbed a tree after being chased by a lion and is now merely attempting to pass the time while he hopes for the lion to leave.

  The duke showed no signs of leaving the room, even though he’d long ago finished his breakfast. Instead, he cast steely eyes in Mr. Owens’ direction.

  “I wager you are a man without sisters,” the duke said thoughtfully.

  Mr. Owens raised his chin. “I am an only child.”

  “Ah.” The duke flashed Margaret a smug smile, and something curious seemed to happen to her heart.

  Margaret’s parents arrived in the room, and the pleasant feeling sailing through her abruptly halted.

  “Good morning,” the duke said quickly, rising. “Help yourself to everything.”

  Mr. Owens staggered to his feet and gave a cursory bow.

  “Your Grace!” Mama dipped into a low curtsy, as if she were practicing visiting the king, then directed her attention to Mr. Owens.

  Papa returned their greeting absent-mindedly, his eyes focused on the array of breakfast foods. They sparkled under the morning’s bright light.

  There was an awkward silence, and Mama sat down slowly, as if she half-expected the duke to pull her aside at any moment and emit a diatribe.

  Mr. Owens coughed and turned to Papa. “Are you enjoying your time in England?”

  Papa shrugged. “I’m just working.”

  Mr. Owens raised his eyebrows. “Working?”

  Papa nodded. “Yep. I suppose I can do that here as well as in Scotland.”

  Mr. Owens’ widened his eyes, and he turned to the duke. “Mr. Carberry is working.”

  The duke nodded with an amused expression on his face. “So I’ve heard.”

  Mr. Owens gave a frustrated sigh and turned to Margaret. “He works.”

  Margaret nodded, trying not to let irritation shine on her face. Mr. Owens seemed to forget that he worked as well, though since his work topics were more intellectual, if vastly less financially rewarding, he might dismiss them as an extension of university.

  Margaret was not going to get into an argument about Papa here. Not in front of the duke. Not in front of Papa.

  “Mr. Carberry is a successful businessman,” the duke said.

  “I-I don’t understand,” Mr. Owens muttered.

  “He’s a magnate,” the duke said.

  Mr. Owens scrunched his forehead, and his pallor resembled those of certain women in too tight clothes before they toppled to the floor and had to be revived with smelling salts and the loosening of stays.

  “He’s still in—er—trade.” Mr. Owens whispered, then shot Margaret’s parents a guilty look, as if realizing they might hear him, even though they seemed enthralled in the breakfast selection.

  “You find trade an unadmirable occupation?” the duke asked. For some reason there was a dangerous glint to his eyes, and Margaret shook her head. There was no point irritating Mr. Owens. A man like that would be reluctant to be dissuaded from his opinions.

  “Concerning oneself with money is a poor use for one’s mind,” Mr. Owens said.

  “I highly doubt that,” Papa said. “Besides, I can read intellectual journals as well. I simply choose not to do so.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Owens said. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “You merely meant to compare it negatively with being a soldier killing people with regularity, or a bishop?” the duke pressed.

  “Er—yes.” Mr. Owens raked a hand through his hair. “But it’s not polite to speak of this.”

  “I believe you started this line of thinking,” the duke said. “And I am most curious to learn more. I would imagine that obviously landowners wouldn’t meet your standard.”

  Mr. Owens blinked. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Because I spend a lot of time running my estates,” the duke said. “And I have little patience for reading.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Owens voice sounded oddly high-pitched, and he removed his handkerchief and patted it against his forehead.

  “I imagine Mr. Carberry’s income is even higher than mine,” the duke said.

  “Higher than yours?” Mr. Owens’ voice squeaked. His eyes darted about the room, landing on Margaret’s. She nodded in confirmation, and Mr. Owens exhaled.

  “I don’t have an estate like yours,” Papa said in a relaxed tone to the duke.

  The duke shrugged.

  “Though if one does come for sale,” Mama said brightly, “we have been looking.”

  “You’re looking to buy an estate?” Mr. Owens asked. “Like this?”

  “It is rare to find a castle on the market,” Mr. Carberry said. “And I wouldn’t want to find a place too far away.”

  “No Cornwall for us,” Mrs. Carberry said, and they laughed.

>   Mr. Owens retained a shocked expression on his face, but he glanced at Margaret with greater frequency.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JASPER MADE A POINT of liking most people in the world, but despite his years of practiced affability, rendered stronger by his natural instinct toward good-naturedness, Jasper struggled to find much about Mr. Owens to like.

  His conspicuous condescension was hardly endearing, and he catastrophically failed at behaving with the gallantry required of a gentleman.

  The man was a beast.

  Perhaps that was a slight exaggeration. Jasper allowed himself the hyperbole. In this situation, hyperbole was excusable.

  Mr. Owens did outwardly resemble a gentleman. Perhaps his attire was not as fitted as some of the other dukes, but his cravat was tied with flourish. If Mr. Owens had tied that knot himself, Jasper would need to congratulate him. It was not every man who could stand before a mirror for as long as it would need to take to tie the knot successful. It was certainly not every man who could do that with Mr. Owens’ face.

  Still, the man couldn’t go about making Miss Carberry feel bad. Making her smile less forceful was hardly the act of a good man.

  Jasper was suddenly very glad he’d arranged this festivity for Miss Carberry.

  If this was the sort of man Miss Carberry might find on her own, then she needed his help. Each of his friends would make better husbands than this man would. A woman shouldn’t be criticized for her choice of reading material or her appearance.

  Besides, Miss Carberry’s appearance was beautiful.

  Mr. Owens was a fool to not see it.

  Through the large glass windows, he spied his friends returning. Jasper abandoned the room hastily, though not before shooting Mr. Owens a warning glance. At least Miss Carberry’s parents remained there. Relief only came when he saw his friends returning from their morning adventure.

  “We missed you,” Brightling said.

  “Did you?” Jasper flashed an innocent smile. He strode into his drawing room, gesturing for them to takes seats.

  “You’re not one to give up a morning of riding,” Brightling said, before settling onto the chaise-longue.

  “All about being a good host.”

  “Ah, yes,” Ainsworth said. “Though tell me, just how did you meet this Carberry family?”

  “I met Mrs. Carberry and her daughter at a house party Lord Metcalfe was throwing.”

  “Well, that’s not inappropriate,” Ainsworth said, before his brows scrunched together. “This wouldn’t be the house party that Lord Metcalfe arranged in order to find a wife?”

  Jasper shifted his legs, conscious that his friends were staring at him. Finally, he straightened. “It was indeed the same one.”

  “Ah. How curious.” Ainsworth narrowed his eyes. “Are you courting, Miss Carberry?”

  Jasper widened his eyes. “No! Naturally not.”

  He wondered though what it might be to actually court her, to dance as many dances as he could with her every time he saw her, to know her eyes gleamed because of him. How wonderful it might be to take lengthy strolls in the garden with her and not be torn away hastily. How nice it might be to discuss life, to discuss the future, to learn everything about her.

  Ainsworth nodded. “Because you do seem fond of her. All those rose petals when she entered the castle last night. It’s the sort of thing a person might deem romantic.”

  “Perhaps he got into a tiff with his gardener,” Brightling said loyally.

  Ainsworth smirked. “Is that the reason, Jasper? Should we expect to see upturned flowers and jagged hedges?”

  “Er—no.” Jasper tapped his fingers against his armchair. The seat might be comfortable, but Jasper twisted and turned in it. “I get along well with my staff.”

  He’d always thought that people who tormented their staff, who caused them to leave their positions hastily, or who raised their voices at them, to be the very worst sorts of people.

  Ainsworth nodded thoughtfully.

  “Surely, you don’t want to spend this house party speaking of my servants,” Jasper said.

  “No,” Ainsworth admitted, “Though I had expected to spend more time with you.”

  A wave of guilt moved through Jasper.

  He forced himself to gaze up at Ainsworth and smile. “You’re right. Let’s have a pleasant weekend.”

  “That sounds good,” Ainsworth said, but his eyes remained fixed on Jasper, and Jasper sighed.

  Sometimes having intelligent friends could only be described in a single word: exasperating.

  He thought he’d halted Ainsworth’s thought process, but one could never be certain with a man like Ainsworth. After that dreadful breakfast with Mr. Owens, it was more necessary than ever for Miss Carberry to find a proper husband.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BREAKFAST WAS LESS stimulating once the duke left.

  “Are you interested in botany, Miss Carberry?” Mr. Owens said.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t given much thought to botany,” she said.

  “Ah.” He shook his head gravely. “That is a mistake in a young lady. It is important for every young lady to know about botany.”

  “You believe so?” Mama asked, and her eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Oh, indeed,” Mr. Owens said solemnly, nodding with such force that a double chin appeared. “What could be more feminine than flowers?”

  “Indeed.” A pensive look drifted onto Mama’s face.

  “And you are an expert on flowers, Mr. Owens?” Papa asked.

  Mr. Owens tightened his jaw and stretched his lips cumbersomely. If clocks had smiles, they would resemble Mr. Owens’.

  “I can imagine you’re quite unfamiliar with flowers. Can anything grow in Scotland, since it’s so far north?” Mr. Owens shrugged, obviously assigning his question prematurely to the rhetorical variety.

  “I assure you,” Margaret said, “that plenty of flowers do grow in Scotland. We know. We have seen them.”

  “All the same,” Mama said, “perhaps Mr. Owens would be kind enough to show you around the garden.” She looked at him. “I doubt my dear daughter is aware that flowers extend beyond roses, and I rather suspect she cannot name them.”

  Margaret flushed. When she’d told Mr. Owens she hadn’t given much thought to botany, it had been in the hopes of halting a potentially irritating conversation about pistils and petals.

  It seemed she was now going to be subjected to a more intensive discussion.

  “Miss Carberry, I will be happy to address the gaps in your knowledge,” Mr. Owens said. “I can assure you that my knowledge is irreproachable.”

  “How splendid for you,” Margaret said.

  He gave a casual shrug. “You are too kind, Miss Carberry. I am enchanted.”

  Enchanted?

  Margaret drew back.

  Mr. Owens rose and extended a hand toward her. “Please, let us go.”

  Margaret put down a half-eaten piece of toast. She hoped lunch would be served soon. She’d been too nervous to eat much.

  She glanced at her mother. “Did you want to join us?” Margaret despised the unfamiliar pleading tone in her voice.

  Mama blinked. “Ah, nonsense. What do I need to know about flowers? Besides, we can see you from this room.”

  Margaret’s hope drifted away, abandoning her with the speed of a leopard racing over the plains.

  Papa slathered some marmalade onto his toast, and a smile appeared on his face. “This is good. Did you try some, young man?”

  “I haven’t,” Mr. Owens said reluctantly.

  Papa shook his head. “You’re missing out.”

  Margaret noticed that Papa didn’t pass the marmalade to Mr. Owens. She waited a moment, to see if Papa would add anything else, but when he slathered another piece of toast with marmalade, she rose as well and joined Mr. Owens.

  “Have a good time, dear,” Mama said. “You better go now. I think it might rain.”

  Margaret frowned. The s
ky’s cerulean color hardly harbingered rain.

  “Hurry,” Mama said, and Margaret followed Mr. Owens from the room.

  Her heart sank as they walked through the corridor, then left the castle.

  She didn’t feel more buoyant when they strode outside, even when the warm sunbeams hit her skin, and even when she inhaled the floral fragrance of the nearby flower garden.

  The latter scent only made her stiffen.

  Oh, well.

  She could take a stroll in a garden with him. After all, she hadn’t been exactly comfortable in the duke’s presence. It was nice to have one’s heart move at a more steady pace, and for sweat to no longer spring up spontaneously on the back of her neck as if she’d accidentally worn a woolen dress intended for the coldest days of the year.

  Voices sounded from the other side of the hedges, and she peered over, spotting the brim of the duke’s top hat. He and his friends were laughing together, and she was reminded of the group of little boys who’d all had in common that their fathers had died. Her heart squeezed, and she was happy they still had one another.

  “No need to tarry,” Mr. Owens said. “Exercise is good for somebody of your form.”

  Margaret stiffened.

  “You should walk for two hours each day, no excuses,” Mr. Owens said. “Forty-five minutes after each meal.”

  “That’s one hundred thirty-five minutes,” Margaret said automatically. “That’s over two hours.”

  “Are you certain?” Mr. Owens scrunched up his forehead.

  “Yes,” Margaret said.

  Mr. Owens shrugged. “All the better, then.”

  “I believe you may have meant forty minutes after each meal,” Margaret said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Because that would be one hundred twenty minutes.”

  The man stared at her blankly.

  “Two hours, instead of over two,” Margaret said quickly.

  “Er—right,” Mr. Owens said. “So it is. I was perhaps over generous with my recommendation given your—” He waved his hand in her general direction.

  Margaret flushed. “Do you walk two hours each day?”

  Mr. Owens’ eyes widened, then he laughed. “You are amusing. Naturally, I do not walk so much each day. I do not need to do so.