Dukes In Disguise

by Grace Burrowes, Susanna Ives, Emily Greenwood

  Claire uttered an indelicate snort. “Do you hear yourself congratulating me for participating in a dispute?”

  “People need to argue sometimes.” Louisa tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe Fitzwilliam would make you a fine husband after all.”

  Claire’s eyes lofted toward the ceiling. “It was one interaction. And he growled half the time.”

  But Louisa didn’t look like she was listening. “I think it would be very, very interesting to know what’s behind Fitzwilliam’s growling.”

  Claire silently agreed, thinking of how his lips seemed to twitch as she’d departed the breakfast room. But she made herself stop. Fitzwilliam was simply too much. Too powerful, too commanding, too manly, and she couldn’t afford to think of him at all.

  A spirited breakfast conversation was not much of anything. She didn’t know Mr. Fitzwilliam, but she knew herself, and she’d seen how weak she could be. She wouldn’t put her future happiness in the hands of a man who, once any attraction had worn off, would almost certainly run roughshod over her.

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam is not a good idea as a husband,” Claire said firmly. “He’s… just not for me. But Mr. Rutledge, now, is all that’s agreeable. And he’ll be at the assembly tomorrow night.”

  The note dispatched, Claire left on foot for the town two miles away to buy some ribbons with which to trim her hair for the assembly.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  Rowan finished his breakfast minus the distracting company of Miss Beckett, who seemed strangely inclined to be more contrary with him than he could remember any female being since he was in leading strings. Anyone at all, actually.

  He wondered how Mowne and Lucere were doing in their respective lodgings. Lucere, the devil, had probably already secured the affections of some lovely female—he invariably had a nearly instantaneous effect on women. Not that Mowne was at all shabby in that respect, though being injured, he ought to be enjoying a calming respite at the home of his dull old cousin Jules. Rowan supposed he’d eventually have something of a story to tell the fellows about his own “cousin,” once he discovered her secrets.

  Well, he had figured out this much about Miss Beckett: She meant to avoid him, either because she didn’t wish to make any mistake that would give away her ruse, or because she simply didn’t like the way he was.

  If she didn’t want to spend any time in his company, he ought to be glad. What could he possibly want from her?

  And yet, as he departed the breakfast room, he couldn’t erase from his mind the way her eyes had sparkled when she’d said no to him, as though disagreeing with him offered her some private thrill.

  He dearly wanted to know why.

  And there was this: When he was in her presence, the very air around him seemed hot and alive, as if suddenly everything was different. Which was… silly, he told himself. But it was also intoxicating.

  He made his way to his room, where he removed his bloodstained cravat. But as he tossed it over the back of the chair in his bedchamber, he recalled how much his valet bemoaned stains. Though Rowan had never in his life given any thought to such trifling concerns, he’d also never had to contend with them, and now that he had only a few things with him, he found he disliked the idea of a perfectly good cravat being ruined because of a small spot of blood.

  He put the cloth in the washbasin and poured cold water on it. Leaving it to soak for a few minutes, he surveyed his bedchamber, which had made little impression on him earlier in his haste to get to breakfast.

  Though simply decorated, the room was pleasing. Of course, he was accustomed to rooms being pleasing—he was a duke, and the staffs of several large manors had it as their life’s work to ensure that his living quarters were luxurious and immaculate. But this room, and what he’d seen of the lodge so far, was different from his other homes. Unlike those grand, ostentatious places, Foxtail was sparsely decorated and happily devoid of the sorts of gilt flourishes that adorned far too many of his homes. It was properly manly, he thought with satisfaction as his eyes passed over the mounted stag’s head.

  The furnishings were simple: sturdy furniture, thick draperies. The windows were smallish, giving the room the feeling of a retreat instead of making him feel on display, as he sometimes did with tall windows all around.

  A duke was always on display, always of interest to everyone around him. People wanted things from a duke: influence, money, alliance, favors. To most people, a duke was as distant from the average human as a star, and just as unlikely to be affected by the things that touched other mortals.

  “I didn’t think you’d notice,” Maria had said when he’d demanded to know how she could have engaged herself to him when she was in love with another man. “You’re not like me—your world is grander.”

  “I’m just a man,” Rowan had said, the words torn from him by hurt and fury over her betrayal.

  “No, you’re not,” she’d said. “You’re a duke.”

  He would never complain that it was an affliction to be born a duke; he was wealthy, powerful, and respected, and he liked exercising the responsibility of overseeing his estates.

  But being a duke limited him too, he acknowledged as he tied a fresh cravat. And it made him aware of how little he could trust anyone who wasn’t in his immediate family or among his few old, tried and true friends—which pretty much meant Lucere and Mowne. His unwelcoming manner allowed him to keep others from trying to curry favor, or thinking they knew him when all they knew was that he was wealthy and titled.

  It occurred to him then, with bone-deep relief, that here at Foxtail he wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of keeping people at arm’s length, because there was hardly anyone here, and no one knew who he was anyway.

  What would it be like to have such a refuge permanently, a place where no grand parties would be thrown and where he might laze about in old clothes, unshaved and unpolished? His mother always said of Foxtail that it had been the place where Rowan’s father was most relaxed.

  Rowan frowned. He wasn’t supposed to be finding things to like about Foxtail. His goal for the day must be to explore his property to assess its state—and to find out more about the mystery of Miss Beckett.

  He poked his finger at the fading spot on his soaking cravat and was pleased to watch the stain disappear. After hanging it over the back of the chair to dry, he asked Mrs. Firth for a packet of sandwiches and spent the rest of the morning roaming.

  It was afternoon by the time he was making his way back to the lodge. His ramblings had shown him that the grounds were wild in places, that one of the stone bridges was gone and another crumbling, and that wildflowers and weeds had taken over paths he dimly remembered from his youth.

  As he emerged from the edge of the woods onto the path that led toward Foxtail from the main road, he saw someone perhaps a hundred paces in front of him. It was Miss Beckett.

  He called her name, and she stopped and turned. He caught up to her.

  “Are you coming from town, Miss Beckett?”

  “I am.” She looked prettily flushed from her exertions. And there was that thrilling rushing sensation within him again, and the feeling that he knew her, that he’d always known her.

  It’s just attraction, he told himself. An unusually powerful attraction.

  But he knew there was more to it. He itched to know more about her. He wanted to discover what she liked and what she didn’t, and what made her laugh and what made her cry, along with all sorts of ridiculously trivial things, like whether she preferred dogs or cats.

  He was a little infatuated with her. And at risk, apparently, of turning into an idiot. For heaven’s sake, he told himself sternly, Beckett might not even be her real name. Though the naturalness of her manner when addressed made him inclined to think the name was hers.

  “I was just about to visit Trethillin,” he said untruthfully. “Join me.”

  He had been about to visit the little mock village earlier, but the poignant stirrings of
nostalgia had stopped him. He had dim but happy memories of the place, tinged with the golden hues of youth, but he’d long ago learned that such enchanted places were never the same when visited as an adult. Everything would seem smaller and shabbier, containing none of the remembered magic of secret corners and spaces made sacred by the workings of childhood imagination.

  Something flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly extinguished.

  “No, thank you.”

  He frowned. “Miss Beckett, do you realize that you haven’t said the word yes to me once since I met you?”

  “And do you know, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that you’ve done nothing but frown at me and attempt to order me about since we met?”

  His frown deepened, and she laughed. “There, you’re doing it now. Frowning.”

  It had become second nature in recent years for him to frown and look severe toward anyone he didn’t know well. No one expected a duke to laugh and caper about, and no one would gainsay him if he scowled.

  Well, his mother and brother and sisters did, and Mowne and Lucere often teased him about his “lord of the manor” look and how it struck onlookers dumb. But they of all people understood how a duke was constantly under scrutiny, how a duke was expected to be wise and all-knowing and commanding. A duke didn’t make mistakes. He wasn’t vulnerable, and he would never allow himself to be tricked by a woman.

  Except that Rowan had. Maria had tricked him quite thoroughly.

  He tried arranging his features into a more welcoming expression, and Miss Beckett laughed again. “I’m afraid that’s worse.”

  He growled at her.

  “You’re also prone to growling. I suppose all your dark looks and beastly ways intimidate everyone into doing your will.”

  “Usually.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “It’s a small thing, Miss Beckett, this little word yes—why don’t you try it? I’ll give you another chance. Would you visit Trethillin with me?”

  “I can’t. I have some things I need to do.”

  “You’re on holiday at someone else’s home. What could you possibly have to do besides letter writing, an activity that in my opinion can always wait?”

  “If you must know, there’s an assembly in town tomorrow tonight, and I need time to make some adjustments to my gown.”

  “An assembly? Why wasn’t I told about this?”

  “Because no one would think you’d want to do such a silly thing as dance?” she proposed.

  He sniffed. “I happen to like assemblies. I shall certainly go.” He paused. “And you must—er, will you save me a dance, Miss Beckett?”

  She hesitated, and he thought, with more disappointment than he ought to feel, that she would say no, but she surprised him. “Very well, yes, I shall. Now, if you will excuse me, I ought to get back to the lodge.”

  “What you ought to do is come to Trethillin with me.”

  “Not this again…”

  He shouldn’t be asking her. Shouldn’t be fascinated by her. The women who interested him—sexually, at least—were widows. He preferred smart, experienced women who knew what they wanted—and what they would get—from an affair with him. Despite the confidence that allowed her to hold her own against his bluster, this woman was young, and an innocent—he felt sure of it. The wisest thing would be for him to let her continue on her way and take himself off to Trethillin alone.

  But he did not want to be wise.

  “Come, Miss Beckett, surely it’s a small thing the duke our cousin asks of us? As we are here enjoying his hospitality, don’t we owe it to him to do this?”

  She looked as though she was weakening. “How are we even to find it, since we are both strangers here?”

  “Not to worry,” he said. “I glimpsed the buildings through the trees earlier when I was walking.”

  “So you might have gone and looked then and gained impressions to give the duke.”

  “But I wouldn’t have had your opinion, and as you are his cousin as well…”

  She made a small sound of exasperation. “Oh, very well. Lead on, then, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  As they picked their way along an overgrown path, Rowan wondered if she would have been so begrudging about coming with him if she’d known he was the duke. Somehow, he felt that it would make no difference to her. He wanted to believe that, anyway.

  * * *

  “You do realize this assembly will be full of country people,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said as he held a low-hanging branch aside for Claire to pass. She still couldn’t think why she’d agreed to visit this Trethillin place with him—for one thing, it was contrary to her plan to be disobliging—but she would have been lying to herself if she insisted her acquiescence had had nothing to do with the appeal this haughty man held for her.

  It was purely physical, she told herself firmly. Something pulled her toward him like the irresistible force that drew magnets together.

  But there was something more to it than just a physical pull, something she couldn’t have named, probably because she’d never felt anything like it before.

  “I am a country person, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I rarely go to London.”

  “Is that so? I confess myself surprised; you have a certain polish.”

  “It’s not Town polish, I assure you. I’ve been to London only once, and that was last year.”

  “For your Season? I’m surprised we didn’t meet, with so many relatives in common.” She thought he paused meaningfully before mentioning their relatives, as though mocking the idea that they were truly related, and her eyes skittered sideways, but his neutral expression did not suggest anything amiss.

  She was being anxious over nothing, she told herself. If he truly suspected she wasn’t the duke’s cousin, why wouldn’t he simply say so? He was hardly shy.

  She quietly released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “We didn’t stay for the full Season.”

  “And will you go again this year?”

  “No.”

  “No? Not going shopping again for a husband?”

  Claire coughed. “Really, must you be so blunt?”

  He looked at her, those bittersweet chocolate eyes settling on her as a passing breeze ruffled his overlong black hair. Perhaps one of the reasons for all those blacksmith-and-hammer thoughts she had in his presence was that she couldn’t imagine this brawny man being overmastered by anything, whether it was a forceful word, a wily foe, or a fierce blow.

  “I find being straightforward cuts through a great deal of nonsense,” he said. “Plain speaking lets people know where they stand.”

  He was right, actually. Why had it taken her so long to realize that refusing to speak of her own wishes and needs was a recipe for never letting anyone see who she really was?

  Maybe because she’d believed that no one wanted to know who she was, or what she thought or hoped. Certainly no one in her family invited such discussions, though her brothers spent a great deal of time shouting about what they wanted, however much good it did. But ever fearful of causing conflict, she’d allowed herself to become incredibly bland.

  Until she’d come to Foxtail and, in a way, gained the space to think about what she wanted and what she was willing to do to get it.

  She shouldn’t care if Fitzwilliam sought her company… but she did. She was glad he’d pressed her to come.

  “Besides, you can hardly accuse me of being blunt,” he continued, “when you’ve been saying no all the time.”

  It was funny, but their plain speaking made her feel more comfortable around him than she usually felt around gentlemen. In London, she’d been so concerned with not offending people and with being pleasing that she’d spent all her time and effort trying to appeal to others. Refreshingly, she didn’t have to do that with Fitzwilliam, and it left her free to speak her mind. Even though so much of what she’d told him thus far was a lie, she felt, oddly, that she could be herself around him.

  “In truth, I was meant to be findi
ng a husband in London, but I was unsuccessful.”

  “I confess myself astonished,” he said.

  “There’s no need to be polite.”

  Warmth touched the edges of his mouth. “The two of us haven’t been very polite to each other, have we? But I wasn’t being polite.”

  The implication behind his words was that he’d been thinking about her—just as she’d been thinking about him. A shiver of excitement tripped along her shoulders.

  “I didn’t really like any of the gentlemen either,” she admitted, “so I wasn’t particularly disappointed. And since none of them liked me enough to propose, I suppose you could count it even.”

  His snort of laughter made her laugh too. Who would have thought she would be laughing about her failure to attract a husband?

  At that moment, a pair of hounds emerged from the woods ahead of them. Barking excitedly, the dogs bounded toward Claire and Fitzwilliam, but it was soon apparent that she wasn’t of as much interest to them as he was. The dogs stopped before Fitzwilliam with their tongues lolling happily, and he crouched down to pet them, all traces of his customary rough hauteur replaced by an endearingly boyish enthusiasm.

  “Who are you fellows?” he said as he ruffled the fur on their shining brown heads. “Some neighbor’s beasts, I suppose?”

  “They certainly seem taken with you,” she said, petting one of the dogs and receiving a canine kiss in return.

  “I like dogs,” he said. “Perhaps they can tell.”

  “I can imagine you and dogs getting on quite well,” she said. “No need for polite conversation.”

  He glanced up at her with a smile tugging at his lips, and Claire’s heart thumped in response. From what she knew of him, his smiles must be rare. But how very, very handsome he was when he did smile. With a final ear ruffle, he stood up and sent the dogs on their way.

  “So,” he said, “you don’t mean to go back to London next year to try the Marriage Mart again?”

  She thought they’d moved on from that topic. “Perhaps I’ll be married by then.” If she was lucky, she’d be married before the month was out, and not to Lord Haight. She’d been invited to dine with the Clarke sisters that evening, and the guests would include Mr. Rutledge, so with any luck, they would have a chance to deepen their acquaintance. It was a sensible plan, even if it didn’t fill her with enthusiasm.