How to Marry a Duke

by Vicky Dreiling

  He narrowed his eyes. “And what problem was that?”

  “No one met all of the requirements.” After a stunned silence, she continued. “So I made a decision. Twenty-four of you received invitations because you most closely fit the duke’s vision of a bride. However, it is not for me to judge who is best suited. I am leaving that decision to His Grace. He will choose during a special courtship involving all the young ladies.”

  Tristan ground his teeth. He’d trusted her, and she’d dared to manipulate him. If she thought he’d stand for her tricks, she was sorely mistaken. He opened his mouth to put a stop to her nonsense, but before he could utter a word, Lady Verstan snapped her fan closed. “Miss Mansfield, are you suggesting that the duke court twenty-four ladies?”

  “Only for the first week,” she said.

  His jaw worked. She would pay for her deception.

  “Preposterous,” Lady Durmont said.

  Several other dragons murmured their agreement. No doubt they would all refuse to allow their daughters to participate in this sham of a courtship. When they did, he would dismiss Miss Mansfield, and that would ruin her career.

  A pretty, blue-eyed blonde raised her hand. “Miss Mansfield? I hope it is not too impertinent of me to ask, but you said the duke would court all of us for only the first week. After that, will the courtship be limited to one of us?”

  “A good question, Lady Georgette, and the answer is no,” Miss Mansfield said. “The actual courtship period will last several weeks. Each week some of you will be eliminated, based on the duke’s choices. Those chosen will receive an invitation to return the following week.” She paused and then said, “Of course, no one is obligated to participate, which brings me to my next point. Those of you who do not want the duke to court your daughters, please raise your hands.”

  None of the dragons lifted a finger.

  “Your Grace,” she said in a deceitfully sweet voice. “Do you have an objection?”

  “How could I possibly object?” Thanks to Lucifer’s handmaiden, he couldn’t refuse without insulting forty-eight ladies.

  Apparently she missed the sarcasm in his voice because she clasped her hands like a gleeful child. “Well, then it is all settled.”

  It most certainly was not settled. There had to be some way out of this fiasco. He could imagine all too well the notoriety the bizarre “courtship” would engender. Damn it all. He didn’t want to subject his mother and sister to a barrage of gossip, but it was too late now. By tomorrow, the entire kingdom would know.

  Once again, matters had spiraled out of his control. After weeks of finding himself the unwilling subject of the scandal sheets, he could bear no more. Yet he couldn’t conduct even a traditional courtship without the inevitable scrutiny of the ton.

  He would find a means of eliminating all but one of the young ladies. But if he courted one lady, the damned papers would print his impending engagement long before he’d made up his mind. Whether the lady in question suited or not, he might find himself obliged to offer because of her family’s expectations and those of society. However, if he courted several at once, he could avoid that trap. Of course he’d no intention of courting twenty-four of them.

  Miss Mansfield leaned closer to him. “I have several plans for the courtship,” she murmured.

  He’d have to be daft to trust her now. An idea occurred to him, one that would eliminate most of them. He leveled a stern look at Miss Mansfield. “I have a proposal for the first session.”

  Her smile froze. “Oh, how lovely.”

  “In fact, we can begin today, if the ladies can spare another half hour or so.”

  “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “A test.”

  Her brows furrowed. “What sort of test?”

  Tristan took a menacing step toward her. “A duchess test.”

  He insisted on supervising the test.

  Tessa sat beside the duke near the wall in her dining room. The twenty-four young women labored over their compositions at the mahogany table. The scratch, scratch, scratch of quills filled the room. With a sigh, she vowed to exercise patience with Shelbourne.

  What in the world had possessed him to propose this test? Surely he wouldn’t choose a bride based on a paper? Especially one titled “Why I Would Make the Perfect Duchess.” Poor man, he had no notion how to court a woman. It was fortunate he’d come to her for help.

  She glanced at him, only to find him watching her through narrowed eyes. Tessa lifted her chin and pretended to ignore him. From the moment he’d entered her drawing room, she’d sensed his disapproval. He’d not believed her when she said no one met all of his qualifications. But she would not let him intimidate her. Eventually he would realize she’d done him a favor.

  The duke consulted his watch and announced, “Fifteen minutes remaining.”

  Tessa hoped Jane was faring well entertaining the matrons in the drawing room. Her companion’s eyes had widened in terror at the prospect of being left alone with the most fearsome ladies of the ton. To prevent disaster, Tessa had taken drastic measures. She’d brought out the sherry decanter and told Jane to top up the glasses at every opportunity. A little happy tonic might tame the dragons.

  A feminine gasp followed by several muffled giggles drew Tessa’s attention back to the bridal candidates. Miss Amy Hardwick, the plainest young woman in the room, picked up the quill she’d evidently dropped. Ink spots spattered her page. All the other young ladies stared at her with obvious disdain.

  Tessa rushed over to Miss Hardwick. “Do not fret. Here is another sheet of paper.”

  Miss Hardwick rubbed at the ugly ink stain on her finger. A frizzy red lock fell over her forehead.

  “Do not worry about the stain,” Tessa whispered. “Just copy what you’ve already written.”

  Miss Hardwick flushed. She hunched her shoulders and picked up her quill, her movements hesitant. Tessa backed away, fearing to add to Miss Hardwick’s embarrassment. With all her heart, Tessa wished she could provide encouragement to the young woman, who had not taken well with the ton. After four seasons, she had not received a single marriage proposal.

  A girlish voice startled Tessa. “Your Grace,” Lady Georgette said, “how much time do we have left?”

  He consulted his watch. “Nine minutes.”

  The other girls gasped and started writing. Lady Georgette smiled at the duke, revealing her twin dimples. Then she dropped her paper on the floor. “Oh, dear.”

  He started out of his chair, but Tessa shook her head at him. Then she walked over to Georgette, picked up the paper, and placed it on the table. The little flirt ignored her and waved her fingers at the duke. Tessa moved to block Georgette’s view of her prey and pointed at the quill.

  “I’m done.” Georgette offered the paper to Tessa.

  Tessa folded her arms. “Leave it on the table.”

  She returned to her chair and leaned toward the duke. “Have a care,” she whispered. “You’re distracting the girls.”

  “I am not,” he said.

  “Lower your voice,” she whispered.

  He made an exasperated sound.

  She shielded her face with her hand. “You mustn’t encourage flirtation. The girls need to concentrate.”

  A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. He bent his head and whispered, “Lady Georgette finished.”

  His breath stirred the curl by Tessa’s ear, making her shiver. The lingering scent of sandalwood tickled her senses. When he sat back in his chair, he gave her a roguish grin. Her cheeks grew hot at his knowing expression. Oh, why had she reacted so foolishly to his practiced wiles?

  The duke consulted his watch again and spoke in a low voice. “After everyone leaves, and that includes Miss Powell, you and I will have a private discussion.”

  “Yes, of course. We need to evaluate the papers,” she said in an undertone. She ought to tell the duke his test would not work, but undoubtedly he would defend his decision. He would discover
soon enough he couldn’t choose a bride on the basis of hastily scrawled compositions.

  After everyone else departed, Tristan walked to the hearth in Miss Mansfield’s drawing room and pivoted to face her. “Now you will explain why you tricked me.”

  The compositions she clutched fluttered to the carpet, scattering round her feet. “Oh,” she said, her voice squeaking.

  Why did women drop things all the time? Was it something he did? Irritated, Tristan walked over to her and knelt on one knee to gather the papers. When he handed them to her, an odd sensation gripped him. The devil. He must look like a besotted swain about to propose.

  That thought brought him to his feet. He straightened his sleeves and regarded her coldly. “Well?”

  “It wasn’t a trick,” she said. “You agreed to consider more than one.”

  “You failed to mention there would be twenty-four,” he gritted out.

  “I explained my reasons earlier,” she said. “Your requirements proved considerably more difficult than I anticipated.”

  He didn’t believe her. “You should have notified me you were having difficulties.”

  “I decided to find a creative solution.”

  He scoffed. “Naturally it never occurred to you to consult me.”

  “I admit this courtship is somewhat irregular, but truthfully, I have handed you the opportunity of a lifetime.” Grasping the papers to her chest, she ticked off her points on her slender fingers. “First, you will have sole access to twenty-four of the most eligible ladies in society. Second, you will be able to eliminate any you do not think suit. Third, every bachelor in the Beau Monde will envy you.”

  “Admit it. You meant to manipulate me,” he said.

  “I know you are vexed, but you agreed to court all the girls.”

  “I could not refuse after their mothers approved. You purposely arranged matters so I had no choice.”

  “Actually, I have given you twenty-four choices.”

  His head ached from listening to her ludicrous excuses. “Enough. We will judge the papers now.”

  Her brows furrowed. “You cannot mean to choose a wife based on a paper.”

  “It is my courtship, and I will do as I see fit.” He would make her wait before telling her the real reason behind the test.

  An hour later, Tristan realized he’d miscalculated.

  He sat at the opposite end of the settee from Miss Mansfield. The compositions lay in a neat stack between them. He’d read all the papers, with the exception of the four illegible ones. The other papers all sounded alike. A litany of their accomplishments swam in his brain. Singing, dancing, painting. Lord, did they really think he cared about such nonsense?

  He’d hoped to eliminate all but two or three, but he did not have enough information yet. Clearly, he would have to devise a better plan. The news would delight his mischief-maker, but he would make it clear he was in charge. He would relegate her role to chaperone.

  Tristan stole a look at her. As she read the last paper, she moistened her strawberry-plump lips. Her generous mouth made him think of lush, heated kisses. She sighed, drawing his attention to her full breasts. He imagined stripping the flimsy bodice from her and gazing at her taut nipples. His body stirred, warming like the first swallow of an excellent brandy.

  She set the paper on top of the stack. “You must admit the compositions demonstrate some of the qualities you requested in a wife.”

  Determined to rein in his lusty thoughts, he shifted his gaze to the papers. “I failed to detect a single example.”

  “Oh, but you are wrong.” She riffled through the papers and pointed at one smeared with ink blots. “Miss Hardwick stressed her training in managing household accounts. That indicates dutifulness, in my opinion.”

  Miss Hardwick must be the bashful redhead who had dropped her pen.

  “All the other ladies are quite accomplished as well.” Miss Mansfield regarded him with a guileless expression. Her long-lashed round eyes and full cheeks gave her an innocent appearance. Yet those ripe lips ruined the effect.

  Her mouth curved into a serene smile. “Since the girls did so well, we shall have to invite them all back next week.”

  “Not so fast. There are four I couldn’t read.” He thumbed through the papers until he located them. “I cannot abide an illiterate wife.”

  When the mischief-maker huffed, he decided to get a little revenge, and he knew exactly how to unnerve her. “Eliminate these girls.” When she reached for the papers, he let his fingers brush her soft hand.

  She inhaled sharply.

  He fixed an innocent schoolboy expression on his face. “Is something the matter?”

  She turned her gaze away as she set the papers aside. “I think you should reconsider. Their nervousness prevented them from doing their best.”

  He bit back a smug grin. “The point of the exercise was for me to observe how they react in demanding situations.”

  She whipped her stunned gaze back to him. “You misled them.”

  “It was a test of their confidence. Only one of them passed.”

  “If you are speaking of Lady Georgette Danforth, you mistake conceit for confidence,” she said in an indignant tone.

  Interesting. Miss Mansfield had made no secret of her dislike for the girl during the test. “You have a long-standing acquaintance with her?”

  “I know her type. She is a determined flirt.”

  “I imagine they all are, with the exception of that unfortunate red-haired girl.”

  She lifted her chin. “Miss Hardwick wrote the best paper despite her mishap. I think that shows fortitude.”

  Evidently she meant to champion the wallflower of the bunch. The poor girl would not suit at all, but he couldn’t deny Miss Hardwick had recovered well. “I will give her one more chance.” And then he would eliminate her.

  Miss Mansfield’s wide smile transformed her from merely alluring to breathtaking. She regarded him with shining eyes, making him feel as if he’d just saved a damsel in distress.

  Bloody hell. Doubtless she’d perfected that worshipful look to add to her bag of she-devil tricks. He would not let her distract him again. “Send invitations to all but the four I mentioned previously. And make it clear they may not court other gentlemen.”

  “They would not risk their reputations or their chances with you,” she said.

  “I always make my expectations known from the beginning,” he said. “If they don’t like the conditions, they may withdraw.”

  She grumbled under her breath.

  He cupped his ear. “Sorry, I didn’t hear that.”

  She sniffed. “For the next event, I propose an informal gathering at my town house.”

  “No, that will only lead to inane conversation,” he said. “I will send round a plan shortly.”

  “Are you never spontaneous?” she asked.

  “No, and I don’t like surprises.”

  Her green eyes glimmered. “But some of the most wonderful things in life are unexpected.”

  “You’re a hopeless optimist,” he said.

  “Only a pessimist could utter such a ludicrous oxymoron.”

  “I am a rationalist. In my experience, a logical approach prevents disorder and misunderstandings. I never allow emotions to interfere with my judgment, something you must make clear to the bridal candidates.”

  “No one is completely devoid of feelings,” she said.

  “Allow me to clarify. If any of these girls have starry-eyed visions of romance, they’d best drop out of the competition.”

  “Competition?” Her voice pitched up an octave. “Do you think of yourself as a prize?”

  He fought back a smile. “No, but I imagine they do.”

  She made an exasperated sound.

  Her poor opinion tickled him enough to rile her further. “Miss Mansfield, most people treat me with deference.” In truth, he despised the sycophants who fawned over him.

  She sniffed. “I am sorry to be the bearer
of bad tidings, but beneath the ducal trappings, you are only a man.”

  “You wound me.”

  Her lips twitched. “I doubt it.”

  He found himself smiling at her wit. The afternoon shadows made him aware of the late hour. He couldn’t remember ever spending this much time with a woman, outside of bed, without becoming restless and bored. That thought spurred him to his feet.

  She rose as well. A subtle, tealike fragrance, roses, curled through his senses. The soft sound of her breathing drew his attention to her slightly parted lips. His heart beat a little faster.

  She curtseyed. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  Her voice jolted his befuddled brain. He muttered something polite, bowed, and strode out, wondering where the devil he’d lost his mind.

  The next evening, Tristan nursed a brandy while waiting impatiently for Hawk at White’s. The liquor did nothing to quell his gloomy mood. His mother had confronted him about his courtship this morning. Apparently her fellow she-dragons had wasted no time in their rush to spread the news.

  Masculine voices grew louder as the premises swelled with London’s elite gentlemen. The aroma of sizzling beefsteak drifted from the upstairs dining room. Tristan retrieved his watch and frowned at the time. Then he turned his attention outside. Rain tapped on the window. Outside, a yellow pool of light from the gas lamp pierced the mist. A carriage rumbled along the cobbled street and jangled to a halt. When Hawk emerged, a gust of wind blew back his black greatcoat. He looked like an enormous raven as he dashed to the door.

  A few minutes later, Hawk sprawled in the vacant chair across from Tristan. “Sorry I’m late.” In the candlelight, Hawk’s bleary eyes, disheveled hair, and tangled cravat made a frightening picture.

  “Good Lord,” Tristan said. “Were you attacked by thieves?”

  “No, a ballerina.” A solicitous waiter brought Hawk his usual brandy. After the waiter left, Hawk eyed Tristan. “My ballerina has a friend, if you’re interested.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Are you too fastidious to consider a dancer?”

  “No.”

  Hawk lifted his brows. “Are you ill? I heard about this doctor who specializes in—”