What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

  His eyes locked on to one of those benches. As if pulled straight from his musings, there she sat, the unforgettable Miss Radclyffe, gazing silently up at the house. She had her back to him and did not know he was there. Watching. Absorbing every detail.

  All he could do was stand in place and stare, absentmindedly rubbing his horse’s nose as he was captivated by the sight of her sitting quietly in repose. A break in the overcast sky allowed a single ray of sun to shine down on her, casting her hair in that caramel glow he couldn’t seem to eliminate from his mind.

  She stood, and it was then that he noticed she was no longer alone. He was staring at her so intently, he hadn’t noticed Cliff walking up the path to her left until she stood in greeting. Shite. With his recent inattentiveness, he might as well hand in his resignation at the earliest opportunity. How would he continue to survive in his line of work?

  An intense pang of jealousy startled him, and he nearly jumped on his horse and spurred Abacus to a gallop to interrupt the private moment he'd witnessed. She seemed completely at ease with Cliff by the way her shoulders visibly relaxed at the sight of him and then alternately shook with what could only be mirth—probably at some witty remark made by his friend. Cliff was really quite charming with the ladies and was well known for putting others at ease with his friendly manner.

  The duke halted his quick stride before he made a complete fool of himself by charging in on their rendezvous. He knew she wasn’t really Cliff’s lover, but jealousy made a muck of his normally rational thoughts. Honestly, they would make a splendid couple, and he should not begrudge them their friendship. He wasn’t interested in a match with her himself; he was going to marry Lady Beatryce, after all. Lady Beatryce, his intended, who was perfect for him and the man he needed to be as the Duke of Stonebridge.

  * * * *

  “Good morning, Miss Radclyffe.”

  Grace stood at the friendly greeting; it was Lord Dansbury.

  “Good morning, Lord Dansbury. How are you this morning?”

  “Excellent—most excellent.”

  “That’s good to hear. Won’t you please join me? The gardens and house are beautiful from this aspect.” She gestured to the bench behind her. It was large enough to seat four comfortably. Two should be no problem even with a man as broad of shoulder as the marquess.

  “I would love to, thank you.”

  They sat on the garden bench, and for a moment, an uncomfortable silence followed. But after a minute or two, the couple looked at each other at the same moment and laughed. It worked to break the tension built from their awkward silence.

  They talked of books, the weather, and the theater—the usual social inanities. Grace was charmed and laughed often. It seemed Dansbury had a funny quip to share on every subject.

  After a furiously quick fifteen minutes, he said, “So. Miss Radclyffe. I must admit I had another purpose in seeking you out this morning besides hoping to enjoy your charming company. If you are still free, my aunt, who is currently taking coffee on the back terrace, would like to meet you—if you are amenable, of course. Oh, and don’t worry; she doesn’t really bite or breathe dragon’s fire. Often.”

  Grace laughed; he was quite the charmer to be sure. “Oh, I’m not afraid of a rascally dragon. I would be delighted to meet her, of course.” She stood. “Lead on, my lord.”

  * * * *

  The Back Terrace…

  “It is about time you returned, you rogue. I was beginning to think you had turned coward on me.”

  “Auntie, you know me better than that.” Dansbury leaned over to kiss his aunt on the cheek before turning to introduce Miss Radclyffe.

  “Aunt Harriett, may I present Miss Grace Radclyffe. Miss Radclyffe, Lady Harriett Ross.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” Grace curtsied.

  “My, my. You are quite beautiful, Miss Radclyffe. No wonder he likes you. Please, have a seat and join me. Dansbury,” she added. She did not even appear to look at her nephew as she said it, “although it is surprisingly becoming on you, it is not like you to blush. Besides, there’s no need; I wasn’t referring to you. Now run along. You’ve had her for quite long enough. It’s my turn to evaluate Miss Radclyffe’s character and make sure she’s suitable.”

  Grace, who had been trying desperately hard not to laugh, was startled: “Er…suitable?”

  “Never you mind, dearie, never you mind. So, tell me, what sort of trade was your father involved in? Was it something exciting? Daring and risky? Do tell.”

  * * * *

  The Gardens…

  Later that day…

  It was a perfect day for pall-mall. The dew on the ground had dried completely once the sun came out at half past ten. By two of the clock, the sun was still shining quite brightly with no breeze to be felt. With such mild temperatures this time of year, it was the perfect weather for being outside.

  Though one would think that Grace ought to avoid the sport in light of her tendency toward chaos, she could not resist playing it whenever the opportunity arose. It was her favorite sport, after all, and often, her mishaps seemed to help her game more than hinder it, to the disgruntlement of others, of course.

  So it was with great trepidation (from the other guests) that Grace, Stonebridge, Dansbury, Beatryce, Lady Prudence Bookworth (a neighbor), Miss Bookworth (her sister), and Lord Richard Middlebury decided to play a game of pall-mall in the back garden.

  Lord Richard Middlebury, newly arrived to the festivities, was clearly an outright rake of the first order. It was immediately obvious in the way he perused the guests the minute he stepped out on the back lawn. He was dressed from head to toe in colorful attire and was, without a doubt, classically handsome—beautiful, actually—with his pale blonde hair, blue eyes, and slim physique—though there was a disconcerting coolness about his eyes that appeared whenever he wasn’t actively charming the ladies, which unsettled Grace.

  “Lord Middlebury, it has been an age,” exclaimed Beatryce with undisguised delight.

  “Ah, Lady Beatryce, you are a vision as always, my dearest.” Lord Middlebury had overabundant charm.

  “Oh, Richard, you are ever the Lothario. I do believe you know everyone here? Or perhaps you are not acquainted with my cousin, Miss Grace Radclyffe?”

  “I have not had the pleasure, no.” He perused her with a not so subtle inspection of her figure. She felt as though she were being stripped of her clothing and studied.

  “Well then, Richard, may I present my dearest cousin, Miss Grace Radclyffe. Grace, Lord Richard Middlebury. Ambrose and I have known Richard for quite some time, haven’t we, darling? Oh, the times we had and the youthful adventures we shared…” exclaimed Beatryce in a sweet and dreamy voice. A false voice.

  The sudden tension apparent by the duke’s clenched jaw belied that statement.

  “Miss Radclyffe, the pleasure is all mine.” Middlebury bent to kiss her hand.

  “Thank you, Lord Middlebury.” Grace curtseyed in return.

  Lord Middlebury held her hand for an inordinately long time, but just as she was about to become uncomfortable with his attention, he dropped her hand as if burned.

  Grace looked at him, startled, but he wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, his eyes stared down the duke.

  “Stonebridge.”

  “Middlebury.’

  The two men eyed each other with matching frowns. Neither shook hands despite their vocal acknowledgement. It was obvious these two men shared a troubled past. Each man radiated abundant fury; the surrounding air felt oppressed with it. The duke’s infernal eyebrow shot up and his hands were clenched at his sides. She’d noticed he raised that brow an awful lot throughout the day, and she was disconcerted that she’d noticed that level of detail about him. It was painfully clear that a thousand words were exchanged between the two men, though neither uttered a word out loud.

  The Bookworth sisters whispered furiously throughout the exchange, and Grace strained her ear to hear what they were s
aying. It was apparent the two women were discussing the two men.

  “I never thought we’d be so lucky,” whispered Lady Prudence.

  “Don’t I know it, Sissy. I’ve never seen them in the same room together. Have you?”

  “No. But won’t everybody in London be so jealous when we tell them. Ooooh, I wonder if they’ll come to blows.”

  Goodness, I wish they’d say why. Why might they come to blows? Grace should feel ashamed for her blatant eavesdropping, but she was too curious to care. She sidled closer, desperate to hear more.

  “How dashing! Simply everyone would want to come to tea at our house if they did, just to hear all the juicy details. I wish they’d get on with it. And just think, we’ll have front row seats.”

  Both girls giggled.

  “Did you hear that Middlebury’s father wrote to Eton’s Head Master, and asked to be allowed to decide the duke’s punishment after their big fight?”

  Finally! Something worth hearing.

  “No, I hadn’t heard that part? How bad was it? I heard he nearly killed Middlebury. I bet the punishment was harsh.”

  “Yes, it was. And Stonebridge almost died from it. The Head Master was fired when it was over. And I heard it’s why Dansbury and Stonebridge are so close. I heard Dansbury somehow saved the duke’s life though they’d never met before then.”

  Both girls sighed together. They’d obviously romanticized the entire thing. Silly girls.

  “Well, I heard the duke’s father liked boys. Though I admit I’m not sure what that means. I heard the duke is just like his father that way.”

  “Ewww,” they said in unison. Despite the fact that they had no idea what they were talking about.

  Grace nearly snorted out loud. The idea that the current duke liked men, romantically, was obviously untrue based on what almost happened between them last night. As for his father, she didn’t know, but it really didn’t matter, did it? To each their own. But what it did say was that these two were degrading into fantastical rumors now, and so Grace ignored the rest of their questionable gossip.

  During the entire whispered exchange, the two men continued to square off in silent fury. Neither was prepared to back down. And just when Grace thought they were actually going to throw down their mallets and begin brawling amidst the wickets, Middlebury relaxed his shoulders and readopted his rakish façade. It was a thin disguise.

  “Well, let’s get stared, shall we?” he said. And broke eye contact with the duke.

  The crowd released their collective breath all at once. They all realized a more serious altercation had only just been circumvented. A few people continued to fidget with their mallets, their nerves stretched taut.

  Grace shook off her anxiety and picked up her mallet, resting it against her left shoulder as she walked over to the starting wicket. She couldn’t help but notice the others eye her with some hesitation.

  Hmmm…Are they thinking to see the infamous ‘Calamity Grace’ in action, perhaps?

  The secret imp in her couldn’t help but come out then, and thus, with a subtle grin, she lifted the mallet high in the air and swung it about a few times before resting it back on her shoulder. She hadn’t said a word and couldn’t help her grin when the others all jumped or cringed, startled by her antics.

  “Whatever is the matter? You look as if you’ve had a fright,” she said to the crowd in general. “Let’s get on with it then,” she stated, with a cheeky grin. Humor was her strongest defense against her own personal anxieties.

  She thought she heard a deep but quiet chuckle from behind, and with a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, saw the duke quickly look down, keenly inspecting his own mallet.

  Did he actually just laugh at my jest? Doubtful. Mr. Stiffshirt.

  She inexplicably desired to look back and stick her tongue out at him, but really, she was too much of a lady for such childish antics. Really.

  As the game progressed all were surprised that although having been at it for almost an hour, everyone was still…intact. No one was more surprised than Grace. She had never made it this far in the game without some misfortune or other occurring. What a rarity. Her parents had owned a pall-mall set themselves, a rare splurge for sure, and they had played with people from the village on weekends or at village fairs.

  Despite her success, she noticed that each time it was her turn to take a swing at her ball, the others seemed to hold their breath in anticipation, and throughout that time, the imp in her couldn’t help but play on their unease by either physically accentuating her swings, attempting ridiculously odd shots, or orating verbal jests at her own potential for disaster.

  Perhaps this was the key to success? She was enjoying herself and therefore she was completely relaxed; she quit worrying about any major incidents occurring in front of the others. So, perhaps she was a bit crass. Certainly for the high-sticklers of society to accept.

  Everyone seemed to be more at ease as the afternoon progressed. Even the duke quit trying to hide his amusement, which seemed completely out of character. Normally, he was scowling at her. When he wasn’t nearly kissing her, that is. The only person who didn’t appear to be enjoying herself was Beatryce, though even her glowering looks could not prevent Grace’s fun.

  Grace shrugged her shoulders and proceeded to take her next shot. It wasn’t a difficult one, and she relaxed as she took her aim. She was just about to take her swing when she heard Beatryce quip, “Ambrose, darling, I'd love to take a walk with you after the game.”

  Grace choked and ended up hitting her ball a bit too forcefully, sending it crashing off into the shrubbery. Gracious.

  There was no doubt Beatryce spoke aloud for Grace’s benefit.

  Why does she think I even care? Why do I care for that matter?

  Grace couldn’t deny that her heart was beating in double time just thinking about Beatryce and Stonebridge taking a walk. Alone. And she was edgy and irritable because of it.

  Didn’t he try to kiss me in the library? Just last night?

  Grace growled in frustration to mask the hurt that threatened her composure. It would do no good to revisit what happened—or didn’t—in the library. Hadn’t she already spent the entire night reliving the experience anyway? Over-analyzing every moment? Wondering what might have happened had she stayed?

  Last night, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from dreaming of something more with the duke. The hero out of her old dream, the one about the handsome stranger who rescued her for her life, now had a defined face (with green eyes, imagine that), yet she knew it would only ever be that—a dream.

  So why did the duke’s flirtation with Beatryce bother her? She didn’t really know this man. She was attracted to him—absolutely—but this shouldn’t matter. Likely, she was just tired of her family’s attempts to make her feel less, simply because of the taint of trade surrounding her. And his actions fell right in line with making her feel as if she wasn’t good enough, which was ridiculous, of course. Grace clenched her fists and firmed her resolve. She would not let them ruin her day.

  With a newfound sense of confidence, she marched off through the hedge in search of her ball. She might be awhile at it, for hers was a natural sort of green, making it doubly hard to spot, so she bade the others to continue on without her rather than wait.

  She had been searching for several minutes to no avail, when she thought she heard a rustling nearby. She looked about for a moment, but nothing appeared suspicious. She waited a few seconds more, then shrugged and carried on in her search. It must have been a squirrel.

  A few moments later, she was focused on the ground beneath her, not watching where she was going, when her ball landed at her feet with a thump.

  “I found it near the hedge; you must have just missed it,” he said softly. He sounded odd. Hesitant.

  Of course, she knew immediately who it was; his voice was etched too firmly in her mind already.

  “Thank you. It’s quite an unfortunate shade of green.” She s
poke without looking up, as if talking to her ball and not him, Stonebridge. She was too surprised and discomfited by his presence to confidently manage his direct gaze.

  “It’s easy to miss, for sure; I almost did myself.” There was an awkward silence before he blurted out, “Do you know why I’m here?”

  She was so surprised at his outburst; her gaze jerked up to meet his. She wasn’t sure which he meant: here with her in the woods or here at Beckett House. She decided to play it safe and answer assuming the latter. “Of course. You’re here to propose marriage to my cousin, Lady Beatryce.”

  He chuckled before responding, “Yes, I am, and I will; I must.” He was quite serious when he spoke again. “I also wanted to apologize for last night. I behaved…badly, and I wanted to reassure you that it won’t happen again.”

  She nodded her acceptance of his apology. At the moment, she didn’t trust herself to speak. It was what she needed to hear, but the truth hurt. Which was ludicrous. Hadn’t she just had this talk with herself? And yet when he asked her if she knew why he was here, she envisioned an entirely different response, one that involved heated kisses and…

  She broke the chain of her thoughts, her face alight with flame. She knew the rules of life, and they said no handsome duke would be in her future no matter how much she wanted it otherwise. She pulled herself together and said, “We should return before we’re missed. And, thank you.”

  Then, she picked up her ball and walked off, leaving the duke behind.

  * * * *

  She didn’t use his title, and she didn’t clarify what she was thanking him for, but there wasn’t anything else to say, and it was fine. He was glad she didn’t use his title; it made him feel more human around her, and he liked that. Just a man. Not a duke.

  He watched her walk back to the others, her head held high. He couldn’t help but watch the way she moved with poise, despite her acknowledged clumsiness. He tamped down his desire, which always flared when she was around. They both knew the rules of society to which they were bound, but it didn’t stop his lust from reminding him he was only human.