How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by MacLean, Sarah

  He had come to London for two—and only two—reasons. First, sorting out the estate finances. Second, suffering through his obligatory presentation at Court.

  He explained these two—and only two—reasons clearly, repeatedly, to anyone who asked.

  So, naturally, the entire ton had decided he was in London to find a bride.

  And they made certain he didn’t lack for candidates. Every marriageable lady he encountered flattered and fawned over him. They made excuses to take his arm and praised graces he didn’t have. They declared a long-held desire to live a stone’s throw from the barren Yorkshire moors. They’d been yearning for the rustic life, they all insisted. How charming it must be.

  He knew what they wanted. It wasn’t the country life, and it certainly wasn’t him—it was the title of duchess. To a one, they would have leapt into his carriage the following day with nary an idea of what they’d agreed to take on.

  And then, once they’d given him the requisite heir and spare, every one of them would have gone running back to London. If not to the other side of the world.

  He knew what happened when a delicate butterfly was carried to the windswept north. She flew south with the next migration. His own mother had proved the rule. Whatever starry-eyed courting had caught her in London, it faded when Northern reality dawned. And nothing in Yorkshire had been enough to make her stay.

  James hadn’t been enough to make her stay.

  Infatuation, romance—they had no place on his list, this year or any year. When he eventually married, he would only marry a woman he could trust. Someone who said what she meant, who would be loyal to her promises, and who understood what it would mean to share his life.

  While the musicians tuned their instruments, he withdrew to the side of the room and stole a glance at the inside of his left cuff, consulting the list of names he’d scrawled there. It was truly unjust that the ladies had dance cards, but the gentlemen were expected to recall their partners from memory.

  He’d specifically arranged his dances in advance, calling on the few families in London with whom his family claimed some sort of connection and asking whichever daughter or sister was conveniently present to reserve him a set. He didn’t want to find himself ambushed again, the way he had been at the Hadleigh party. How was he to know the man had nine daughters? He wouldn’t have dreamed a man could have nine daughters.

  James lumbered through the first few sets without incident. A miracle. Then again, those were the easy ones, the dances where everyone stood in two lines and moved with painful stodginess, and he could muddle through by watching the gentleman next to him.

  Next, the true test: the waltz.

  Fortunately, his partner was to be Miss Fiona Carville, his hosts’ daughter and his second cousin, thrice removed. Or was it his third cousin, twice removed?

  He scanned the ballroom. Miss Carville was a wisp of a young woman with coppery hair, if memory served. He would have to take care not to tread on her foot, lest he crush her toes to splinters.

  “Your Grace?”

  James turned on his heel. He found a young woman standing before him, and she certainly wasn’t Fiona Carville. Her hair wasn’t copper, but a glossy, rich chestnut brown. And though she was small of stature, there was nothing wispy about her whatsoever. She claimed the space she occupied, without apology.

  And by God, she was fair. Her features were appealing in a way that defied passive admiration. He found himself chasing down her beauty, his gaze roaming from a wide mouth to pink cheeks to dark eyes framed by even darker lashes. James couldn’t quite identify the source of her loveliness.

  Then again, where was the beauty of a Yorkshire moor? Hiding in a patch of sky? Behind a craggy rock or beneath a bit of heather? No. The effect came from all of it, all together. The way it made his chest expand. The way it scrubbed all worries from his mind.

  The way it took his breath away.

  “Your Grace.” She made a deep curtsey.

  He nodded in return. “I am at your service, Miss…”

  “Ward,” she said. “Miss Louisa Ward.”

  “Have we been introduced? I can’t place the name.” He was certain it wasn’t written on the inside of his cuff. If he’d met this young woman, he would recall her.

  “No. We haven’t been introduced.” Something tugged at her lips. A smile of sorts, or an attempt at one. More of a berry-pink curve with no feeling behind it. It set him on guard. He’d seen a great many of those thin, false smiles lately, and he was learning to despise them. Sincerity was rarer in London than Bengal tigers, he’d come to believe.

  He had a sinking feeling about Miss Louisa Ward.

  “I’m a friend of Miss Carville’s,” she said. “She’s retired with a headache, I’m afraid, and she asked me to take her dances.”

  And there it was. The transparent excuse. However, this particular maneuver was new.

  “How convenient,” he replied.

  “Convenient? That’s not the word I’d use to describe a friend’s illness.”

  “I simply meant it’s rather fortunate, isn’t it, that you would be unpartnered for this set and willing to step in for her. Rather a coincidence.”

  Too great a coincidence to be believed.

  Breathtaking or not, she was like all the others he’d encountered since arriving in London. Insincere, scheming, and angling for a chance at a duke. The only difference?

  For once, James was disappointed.

  “Miss Ward, I’m certain your friend is heartened to have your assistance, but there is no need to sacrifice your supper set for my benefit. I will release you, and you may choose a partner of your liking.”

  “Your Grace is most generous to suggest it, but—”

  “Truly, I insist.”

  The woman refused to take the hint. Instead, she dug the heels of her silk slippers into the parquet. “You don’t seem to understand, Your Grace. Miss Carville asked me to take her dances. I promised my friend, and I always keep my promises.”

  He nearly laughed aloud. In the middle of this brazen ruse, she would paint herself as loyal and honest? A fine joke, that.

  The music began. He didn’t suppose there was any way to escape this without creating a scene. Unpracticed as his manners were, even James knew that to walk away would be the height of ungentlemanly behavior.

  “Well, then.” With a sigh he didn’t attempt to suppress, he offered her his arm. “Shall we have it done with?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As they joined the waltz, Louisa seethed in three-quarters time.

  Shall. We. Have. It. Done. With.

  The Duke of Thorndale had actually spoken those words. Aloud. To her. All of them, in that order, without a hint of irony.

  Really. Really.

  And of course he couldn’t place her name. Why should he know the name of a family he stood on the cusp of evicting from their home? He probably ruined so many lives, he couldn’t recall them all.

  An indignant growl rose in her throat. She wrestled it down.

  Louisa, you must control your emotions.

  Fiona’s future depended on this, she reminded herself. Nothing less could have convinced her to waltz with this callous, horrid man. Unjustly enough, his outward appearance didn’t reflect the man inside. Which was to say, he lacked horns, a forked tongue, and festering boils.

  He was, much as it pained her to admit it, handsome. Not overly so. His looks were less tufted velvet armchair and more country church bench. Solidly crafted, and made to age well over decades. His brown hair was a touch overgrown, curling behind his ear. Had he no valet to tell him it needed cutting?

  He caught her staring. She wanted to disappear.

  The next quarter hour stretched before her like a sentence of fifteen years’ hard labor. Worse, afterward he would take her in to supper and attend her throughout the meal.

  Unless, that was, he showed his true colors before the entire assembly and abandoned her with no regard for ballroom etique
tte. She wouldn’t put it past him. He wasn’t making the slightest attempt to converse with her, merely pushing her about the ballroom like a mulish schoolboy forced into dancing with his sister.

  After a seemingly endless silence, she couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. She perked and said brightly, “Why, yes. I am enjoying the evening. Thank you so much for asking, Your Grace.”

  “I didn’t ask anything.”

  “Precisely.” Louisa sighed. “A bit of conversation is typical in such settings, no matter how perfunctory.”

  “Yes, I suppose you have the usual questions for me. All the ladies do. ‘Is it true I’ve inherited half the North Riding? Do I mean to marry this year? How do I find London?’ I’ll spare you the trouble of asking. No to the first, no to the second. As for Town, I find I detest it.”

  “Detest it? That’s a rather harsh judgment.”

  “It’s an accurate one. The place is rife with scheming and rumor. Every encounter is composed of innuendo and pretense. No one says what they truly mean.”

  Louisa was suppressing several of her own true opinions at that moment. “What a pity you’ve formed such a poor opinion of London society. Perhaps you should be meeting different people.”

  He gave her a withering look. “No doubt.”

  Insufferable man.

  When the dance began, Louisa had harbored a sliver of hope that the duke might prove more generous in person than he had been in correspondence. Perhaps she could explain her family’s situation and persuade him to give her father a reprieve.

  That hope had been foolish, clearly. The duke was not more generous in person. He was worse. Imperious, arrogant, inflexible. And proud of it.

  “You’ve grown quiet,” he said. “Has my honesty shocked you, Miss Ward?”

  “To the contrary, Your Grace. I’m not shocked by you in the least.”

  “Good. I wasn’t raised to tell falsehoods.”

  What was he insinuating? “Neither was I. And I’ll thank you to not insult my parents with the suggestion. They are the best of people. Kind and decent. They don’t deserve your scorn, nor your—” Louisa bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. “Kindly forget I suggested conversation. There’s no need for it.”

  “I concur.”

  “We’ve nothing in common, and little to discuss.”

  “Agreed.”

  “After all,” she went on, “it’s not as though either of us wishes to establish an acquaintance.”

  “I—” He cut off abruptly and peered down at her. “Wait. You said you don’t wish to establish an acquaintance.”

  Louisa wasn’t sure how she could possibly be more clear. “After this dance concludes, I doubt we shall ever see one another again, and I imagine we will be equally relieved.”

  He stared at something across the room. “Interesting.”

  She laughed a little. “Something interesting? In London? How shocked you must be.”

  “Indeed.” He tilted his head. “You see, I thought I would be relieved to part ways with you. Suddenly, I’m reconsidering.”

  Now Louisa was the shocked one. Reconsidering? What on earth could that mean?

  She was saved from having to puzzle it out. The dance finally—finally—twirled to an end.

  The duke made a rough bow. Louisa curtseyed with relief. The ordeal was over.

  Or it would be over, as soon as he released her hand. Which he showed no intention of doing.

  Instead, he nodded toward the dining room. “Allow me to escort you in to supper.”

  “Thank you, no.”

  The guests would notice her absence, but Louisa would make some excuse. A torn hem, or a need for fresh air.

  She could still salvage the evening. This was the final set she’d promised to take for Fiona. Surely other gentlemen would notice her now that she’d danced with a duke. She wouldn’t lack for partners the rest of the night. It gave her some satisfaction to think the Duke of Thorndale would be doing her a favor, unwittingly.

  Despite everything he threatened to take from her, she was stealing something back.

  Maybe all wasn’t lost.

  “If not supper,” he said, “save me another dance.”

  Another dance? Louisa was astonished. After a moment, she laughed, painfully aware of how girlish and nervous she sounded. “You don’t want that.”

  “I know what I want.” His intense gaze pinned her slippers to the floor.

  The other couples had gone in to supper, leaving them alone in an empty ballroom. A cavernous space, with nowhere to hide. Only the servants remained, clearing away the drained punchbowls and picked-over trays of sweets.

  And still, the duke had not released her hand. “I’ve been in London nearly a month, and I’m starved for honest conversation.”

  If he was starved for honesty, Louisa could have offered him a heaping plate. She would have loved to gut him with sharp words for calling in forgotten debts and excoriate him for his callous treatment of his uncle’s dear friend. But if she started, she wouldn’t know how to end—and she couldn’t afford to cause a scene.

  “Your Grace,” she said quietly, “perhaps your recent arrival in Town has left you unaware of social custom. A gentleman does not ask a lady for two sets in the same evening. Not unless he intends to…” Not unless he intends to propose. The words were too absurd to speak aloud. “People will talk.”

  “I don’t care what people say.”

  “It’s all very well for a duke to shrug off gossip, but a young unmarried gentlewoman does not have that luxury.”

  “Surely a young unmarried gentlewoman would only be elevated by a duke’s attention.”

  He left her no excuse but the bluntest one. “I don’t want to dance with you,” she said through gritted teeth. “I find you insufferable and arrogant. You say you detest London? Well, I detest people who detest everything.”

  “Hold a moment. I never said I detest everything.”

  “I suppose you don’t. You clearly have a high opinion of your own character. You believe yourself above everyone in the room.”

  “Not above them. Merely apart from them. I don’t belong in this place. I’ve no patience for empty pleasantries.”

  “That explains why you skipped over them and went straight to unpleasantries.” She tried to master her anger, with little success. “You insulted not only me, but my friend, my family, and the place I call home. As for your attentions, there are doubtless many young ladies here who’d eagerly queue up to experience this dizzying ‘elevation’ you describe. I am not one of them.”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “I believe that you aren’t.”

  “I’m glad we understand one another.” She tried to slide her hand from his.

  He held her in place. “Wait.”

  She stared at their linked hands, baffled. His grip was firm. Not so firm as to be controlling, but strong enough to communicate resolve.

  When he spoke again, his manner was entirely different. Not stiff and disapproving, but open and familiar. “Listen, we’ve begun all wrong, and that’s my fault. You are correct. I treated you abominably, to my regret and my shame. But if you grant me another dance, I promise to behave myself. Or at least, to misbehave in different ways.”

  A half-smile played about his lips. One that made distressing hints at warmth and humor.

  No, no. Thorndale wasn’t warm. He wasn’t amusing. He was a villain with a heart of ice. A cruel, unforgiving man who meant to take her family’s house—sagging floors, worn carpets, and all—out from under their feet.

  “Your Grace, I don’t—”

  “You say you want nothing to do with me. Strange as it must sound, that makes me want to know everything about you. I can’t speak for the strutting peacocks of Mayfair, but I appreciate a woman who speaks her mind.”

  Please don’t say that.

  Louisa’s chest squeezed. Those were the words she’d been longing to hear—from any other man in England.

  She had to
leave. He had her utterly flustered. She needed to hide, compose herself, and return to the ballroom ready to be someone different. A demure, compliant lady who could catch the interest of a marriageable gentleman.

  “The retiring room,” she stammered. “My air is torn. That is, I need some fresh hem. I can’t—” She swallowed hard. “I just can’t do this.”

  She tugged hard, yanking her hand from the duke’s, then made a drunken spin in her quest to escape. Her flight was impeded by an unsuspecting manservant bearing a cut-crystal bowl half-emptied of its contents.

  Its red, sloshing, liquid contents.

  As she and the servant collided, Louisa caught the scents of cloves and cinnamon and claret. Mulled wine.

  The wave of red crashed upon the white shores of her gown.

  And her hopes of a Christmas miracle drowned.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Damn and blast.

  James had seen it coming. He’d reached to catch her by the shoulders and draw her back before the wine made its inevitable cascade.

  Unfortunately, he’d been an instant too late.

  The panicked servant mumbled something about fetching bicarbonate of soda before fleeing the scene.

  James turned Miss Ward to face him. She stood frozen with shock, lips parted and eyes unfocused. A red droplet caught in her eyelash, then quivered and fell, trickling down her cheek. He whipped out his handkerchief and attempted to blot the dark liquid soaking into her gown. He only succeeded in smearing the wine about. No amount of bicarbonate of soda would remove this stain.

  Miss Ward stiffened beneath his hand.

  James realized that in his efforts to remove the stain, he’d been vigorously patting her bosom. God, he was a lumbering ox. This was why he belonged in an oatfield, rather than a ballroom.

  What would a proper duke do in this moment?

  Damned if he knew. Anything else, he supposed.

  “Right.” He wadded up the handkerchief. “Which apology should I start with? The wine or the groping?”

  “Don’t bother with either of them.” She took his handkerchief and dabbed at her gown.