He's a Duke, But I Love Him

by Ellie St. Clair

  “I suppose,” said Olivia with a shrug. “As much as I am regarding the rest of them,”

  “Oh Olivia,” said Rosalind. “You cannot think that way. You never know what’s waiting for you if you pull your head out of your figures and take a good look around you!”

  Lady Hester Montgomery chose that moment to join their conversation.

  “Olivia, darling,” she said with a smug grin. “Are you still trying to find yourself a husband? After how many seasons, do you suppose, is it time to move on and accept that your time has passed?”

  “Oh do shut up, Hester,” Olivia said with a roll of her eyes. “Why must you be such a witch at all times? You may not have as many seasons’ experience as I do, however it is not as though you are a fresh daisy yourself on the marriage market.”

  Hester’s lips rounded into an O as she looked down her nose at Olivia.

  “That mouth of yours is becoming rather low-bred, Olivia,” she said. “I should watch what comes out of it if I were you.”

  As she flounced away, Rosalind looked wide-eyed at Olivia, who was nonchalantly sipping her tea as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  “You must be careful with Hester, Olivia,” she said. “She’s a right nasty one.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Olivia narrowed her eyes. “Never fear, Ros. I can handle a girl like Hester. I shall never understand why she feels she should be able to say such things to whomever she wishes. I do not stand for such women.”

  Olivia looked around her now. Mothers and daughters sipping tea and eating pastries, as they discussed one another’s affairs, carefully guarding their words. Olivia always spoke her mind, which seemed to get her into more trouble than she bargained for. This was why she enjoyed her hidden identity. Under her guise with the journal, she could say whatever she wanted — as a man — and not have to worry about what she wrote.

  If only life itself were the same.

  2

  Alastair Finchley, Earl of Kenley, broke into a wide grin as he read the words of the column in the financial journal in front of him. He had long subscribed to The Financial Register, but only recently had noticed the new advice column.

  “I say, Merryweather, take a gander at this,” he said to his friend, who sat across the small table from him at White’s Gentlemen’s Club in his own deep leather chair. They had met for lunch, though each had his head down, scrolling the papers in front of him.

  “Ah yes,” said his friend, Viscount Merryweather, as he read it himself. “I have also been reading the words of this Scott fellow. Quite profound.”

  “Agreed,” said Alastair, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “He has sound advice but it’s the way he words it. I enjoy the droll of the man. See here — ‘Remember, money will not bring you happiness. It can, however, pay for your favorite kind of misery.’”

  Alastair chuckled as he read it, admiring the wry wit. He appreciated anyone who took the time to add a little spirit to mundane matters, including investments.

  “Have you put any of the man’s advice into practice?” asked Merryweather.

  “I have, as a matter of fact,” replied Alastair, taking a sip of the brandy in front of him. “I am pleased to say I have already seen some profits upon investing as the man has suggested.”

  “Excellent,” said his friend. “Perhaps I should take a closer look myself.”

  In truth, Alastair did not have a particularly great deal to invest at this point in time. His father, the Duke of Breckenridge, still managed the finances of the estate, but Alastair had a small stipend he could spend as he wished. He knew he likely spent far too much at clubs and gambling and the like, but Alastair felt now was the time for him to enjoy life, before he had to deal with any real responsibility.

  And, a wolfish grin crossing his face as he thought of the night before with the widowed Baroness of Hastings, there were other ways he continued to have his current fun that did not involve parting with any funds.

  “Is your sister still on the hunt for a husband?” asked Merryweather, startling Alastair.

  “Yes,” answered Alastair, his eyebrows coming together as he looked over his paper at his friend in consternation. “Her first season is going well enough. She certainly has many interested gentlemen, though to my father, none will ever be good enough for her. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” said Merryweather, but his smug grin belied what he was really feeling.

  “My sister,” Alastair ground out, “is not for your consideration, Merryweather.”

  “Why not?” asked Merryweather. “I’m a good catch, and I believe it is near time I begin to look for a wife. Your sister is beautiful, and it seems to me her only flaw is that she has you for a brother.”

  Alastair laughed at that, pushing back a curl that had fallen over his forehead as he shook his head at his friend. “Perhaps,” he said. “But should you ever do anything to hurt her, you know you would have to answer to me, in addition to my father. If you’re prepared for that, I would suggest you speak with him before raising the hopes of my beautiful, yet young and innocent, sister.”

  “Understood. And how does the Duke fare these days?” asked Merryweather, as he poured more of his own drink and looked around the rapidly filling club.

  “Fine, of course,” said Alastair. “I swear the man will outlive us all. He enjoys spending his days commanding the estate as if he were the King himself, frightening my mother and sister, and declaring that I must take more of an interest in the responsibilities of the dukedom. That time will come, though hopefully not for many years, and in the meantime I will continue to enjoy my freedom.”

  “And all the women that come with it?” asked Merryweather, his eyebrows raised over his questioning brown eyes.

  “Absolutely,” said Alastair with a laugh. “All the women.”

  “Can you honestly tell me that no one female has caught your eye?”

  Alastair thought of the widows he bedded. They were warm, fun, and lovely, but not serious and certainly a little too overeager. He thought of the society darlings that fawned over him and his future title. They were all quite young, innocent, and fell so quickly in line to what was expected of them that there was very little, if any, intrigue or excitement to be had. His mind stopped for a moment on one woman that had held his interest for more than a moment. Lady Olivia Jackson. She had been at a house party he had attended only a few months prior. He had flirted with her, yes, but had done so at the bequest of his friend, the Duke of Carrington, who was interested in Lady Olivia’s own friend, Isabella.

  At least, that was what he continued to tell himself. It certainly hadn’t been a chore spending time with her. She was beautiful, though not in a conventional way. Her blonde hair was more the color of honey than sunlight, and her nose was slightly crooked under blue eyes a bit too wide. When he thought of her, however, he pictured her laughing, and when she smiled it seemed all of her features came into perfect proportion.

  More than that, though, she was interesting. She said what was on her mind, whenever it entered her head. Her mother had nearly had an apoplexy a few times when Lady Olivia had mentioned aloud what she felt was happening behind closed doors or between certain members of their party.

  Alastair, however, had been warned not to toy with a woman like Lady Olivia, and he certainly knew better than to give the daughter of an earl any reason to suspect he was after something serious. They had parted as acquaintances and nothing more.

  “A certain woman on your mind, Kenley?” His friend asked him. Alastair realized he had been drumming his knuckles on the table, a bad habit he reverted to whenever his mind wandered from the subject at hand.

  “Too many women,” he responded, his green eyes gleaming. “If there was one, that would be well and good, but I’m not in the frame of mind to be with only one woman for the rest of my life.”

  “You know as well as I do that doesn’t necessarily need to be the case.”

  “No,” Ala
stair said with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t have to be, but then I should spend my life feeling guilt for my pleasure, and that is not the way I wish to take it.”

  “Fair enough,” said Merryweather. “Although at some point you will need an heir.”

  “Someday,” responded Alastair. “But not today.”

  They were midway through their meal when a bit of a commotion at the entrance to the club caught Alastair’s attention. He looked up, and his heart began to hammer a bit harder in his chest as he recognized his own footman at the door of the room, being kept from entering by the staff. Alastair stood, stepping away from the table to meet the man at the door.

  “Albert!” He called as he the man approached. “What are you doing in here? Whatever is the matter?”

  “Lord Kenley,” the man managed to get out between puffs of air as the man at the door looked on in disapproval. “You must come at once.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It’s your father,” he said. “Something is the matter. His chest … his breath … you must come.”

  Without a backward glance at Merryweather, Alastair took off after the man, not caring about the stares that followed him out the door.

  He rushed out of the white marble building on James Street to the waiting carriage, his thoughts racing. There couldn’t be anything seriously wrong with his father, could there? This must all be some mistake. His father was a healthy man. He walked the grounds at their country estate everyday when in residence, he imbibed no more than most men did, and he never overindulged in meals. He was a strict disciplinarian in every way, including his own constitution. He believed gluttony was a sin, and ensured the rest of his family knew it as well, as he’d always stare down his rather prominent nose at the rest of them if they took too many helpings at the dinner table.

  The carriage made the short trek to his father’s stately white-stuccoed London Mayfair home faster than ever before, and Alastair was out the door before the carriage had finished its roll to a stop. He vaulted out of the carriage to the house, realizing as he entered that he had left his coat at White’s.

  “Where is he?” he shouted at the butler, who pointed upstairs. Alastair took the stairs two to three at a time, as he raced to the Duke’s bedchamber. He heard the soft cries of his mother and sister before he even entered the room. He found them gathered around his father, who lay back on his pillow, his normally ruddy face now ashen, near the color of the pillow he lay against. Alastair froze in the doorway, and looked to the physician who was standing at his father’s side.

  “Lord Kenley,” the man inclined his head. “I am sorry to come upon you in such circumstances.”

  “What … what has happened?” he managed.

  “Your father suffered some sort of attack,” the man replied. “It came on suddenly and he is still fighting, but breath seems to be difficult. I believe it will not be long now.”

  “No,” Alastair ground out, shaking his head and refusing to believe the man’s words. He had seen his father only this morning, and he had been perfectly fine. “That cannot be true. You must do something.”

  “I could try bleeding him,” the physician responded. “But in my experience with a person at this stage, that will only bring on death more quickly.”

  Alastair sank to his knees as he looked at the man who was so strong, so healthy, so commanding, with all of his life-force sucked out of him. The two of them had never gotten along — if he had to admit it, he had never really even liked his father. And yet, a part of him still loved the man. His father’s eyes suddenly fluttered open, and meeting Alastair’s, he weakly lifted a hand, and summoned him forth towards him.

  “Son,” he managed.

  Alastair made his way toward the Duke, crouching beside him.

  “Do not speak, Father,” he said. “Save your energy and fight this.”

  “Son,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  Alastair lifted his head and stared at him. He didn’t think his father had ever apologized to anyone for anything. Why would he say sorry to him now?

  “Whatever for?” he asked.

  “For what I’m leaving you.”

  “You’re leaving me more than I deserve,” he said. “It is I who should apologize for not listening to you when you told me —”

  His father silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  “Your time has come,” he said.

  As his eyes fluttered closed, he let go of Alastair’s hand, and the new Duke of Breckenridge slowly rose from beside the bed, in utter disbelief.

  3

  Six months later

  Olivia sat in the library, running her fingers along the spines of books lining her father’s shelves. There were hundreds in his expansive collection, and she had read nearly all that interested her. Having finished her column for the day, she had good intentions of doing additional research of the latest financial journals, but none could keep her attention. She was itching to do something — something different, outside of her everyday life and what was expected of her.

  She had taken on this column to do more than what was conventional for young ladies in society. It provided her an outlet for all of her thoughts and ideas, which no one else would listen to, and she enjoyed having a purpose. And yet … and yet she still felt as if something was wanting, that she needed something more.

  She sighed. How she longed to be able to put her own financial advice into action. She had little money of her own to spend, no more than a small allowance for frivolities. It hardly seemed fair when she had a more than generous dowry awaiting the husband who never seemed to be coming.

  If only she were a man. Then she could come and go as she pleased, to the clubs and the bars and the gambling hells where she knew she would not just spend money, but win it. She had a way with numbers, and anyone who had ever played cards with her soon refused to again as she was near to unbeatable but for games of chance. She remembered the numbers and suits of the cards — they flowed through her head as they were dropped onto the card table. In games such as whist, she knew what had been thrown and what was to come. She knew what sequences were available, and what others were likely holding onto by the hands they played.

  Why was it that a gentleman could throw away every last pound, while if she were ever caught stepping foot into such a place she would be ruined? It was so very unfair.

  The more she thought of the possibilities of gambling, the more it stirred something inside of her. What fun it would be to truly possess the identity of another for just a night, to get a taste of what a man must feel. She knew she could never make her way into a gentlemen’s club or a gambling hell. But there were private parties which women attended. Not typically young, unmarried ladies, however, but women. She realized what might happen if anyone found out, but perhaps it was worth the risk…

  She jumped when the door to the library opened. It was the butler, Jenkins, advising that her presence was required in the drawing room immediately.

  Her mother wanted to see her. Well, that should make this day more interesting. She walked through the expansive halls lined with portraits of her ancestors, the former earls and their families, many of whom had walked these very same corridors. What were their hopes and dreams? Their reasons to be? Was it simply to wander this house themselves, have more children and continue to populate the family line? It was very likely, at least for the women of the family.

  She put aside her musings as she entered the drawing room, where her mother sat waiting for her amongst the overstuffed, impossibly uncomfortable furniture.

  “Mother, whatever is on your head?” blurted Olivia, who came to a stop in astonishment as she took a step through the door.

  “A hat,” her mother bit out the words. “Lady Bramford was wearing one the other day and I simply had to have one myself. She said it was the very latest.”

  “You look like a peacock.”

  Her mother’s face tightened, but she refused to allow Olivia to affect her c
omposure.

  “I did not call you here to discuss my attire,” she said, showing no reaction other than a slight tick at the corner of her eye. Olivia wondered how her mother managed to keep the rest of her facial features from moving along with her lips.

  “Olivia. You have been out for five seasons now. Five! It is well past the acceptable time for you to be married. Your father may allow you your girlish dreams of love and such, but it’s high time you realized that’s just what they are — foolish thoughts of a young girl, which you no longer are. I’ve been far too lenient with you. You will find a husband this season, and therefore allow your sister to do so as well.”

  Olivia had been rolling her eyes at her mother’s words until she mentioned her sister, and a roil of guilt flowed through her. She knew it wasn’t quite fair to Helen. It did not seem right that Helen should have to wait for Olivia to find a match before she would receive interest herself. But what was Olivia to do?

  “That’s all very well, Mother, but you cannot force me to marry.”

  “Can I not?”

  “No,” Olivia said, holding her head high and staring her mother in the eye. “Besides, no one wants me anymore, anyway.”

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “We can change that. I’ll speak to your father about increasing your dowry. That should bring the young lords running once again.”

  “You shall do no such thing,” Olivia challenged back. “I refuse to marry a fortune hunter who will then set me aside for the rest of our days. Change the dowry all you like. I will not give into your wishes.”

  “We shall see about that, daughter,” her mother said back, her eyes glinting with a new steel to them that caught Olivia off balance, and she whirled around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Olivia’s mind raced back to her previous thoughts on the adventure that could await her if she stepped out of her world and into another. She could be found out — but did she care?