Always the Best Friend (Never the Bride Book 4)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  She wanted to grab his hands and tell him he was a fool for not realizing they were meant for each other. She wanted to kiss him, have him kiss her back, wanted him to push her against a tree, and cover her lips with his and—

  “Harry? Harry, did you hear what I said?”

  She blinked and saw Monty staring, concern across his face.

  Forcing the familiar smile she had to adopt whenever she found her imagination playing tricks on her, giving her a tantalizing look into a future she could not have, Harry tried to speak calmly. “I am your best friend,” she said simply. “And I want you to be happy.”

  She halted and reached down to pick another leaf to shred, and Monty stopped with her, standing beside her. Was it possible to keep being this close to him and not confess her love?

  Yes. The answer was instantaneous because she knew she could never stop being with him. She was his best friend, and that doomed her into the position of best friend forever, and never the bride.

  “It feels more and more unlikely with each passing day I will be happy,” said Monty quietly. His light tone was gone, and he was looking out across the garden without seeing it. “All women are dull eventually, once you move past the artifice. Yes, they are beautiful, witty, and interesting for an evening. It is when the evening has faded, and you are spending yet another boring day talking about—gloves, for goodness sake. How can anyone want to marry that?”

  Harry laughed despite the pain. “You have been talking to Miss Coulson, I see. But Monty, you are a little critical of my sex here. You cannot have met half the eligible young ladies in town alone, so how can you possibly say all women are dull?”

  Monty shrugged. “Perhaps you are right. I do, after all, have one piece of evidence a woman can be genuinely interesting and captivating over time, and so I should not give up hope.”

  Jealousy, red hot and prickling, flared across Harry’s soul. She must not think of this beauty, whoever she was, who had caught Monty’s eye. Was this the moment when she would discover who would usurp her in Monty’s affections and become the Duchess of Devonshire, her rightful place?

  “Oh?” she said, swallowing down her bitter ire. “And who is that?”

  “Why, you, of course,” Monty laughed, pulling the leaf from her fingers and allowing it to fall to the ground. Then his voice became more serious. “You have never been dull, not ever. Harry, not once in our whole lives have I ever been bored with you.”

  He was staring, a smile still dancing on his lips, but with a serious look as though he had only just realized this fact.

  It was all Harry could do not to throw herself onto him. Monty was being polite, gracious. It was a fact, nothing to do with romance. Had he not just said, not fifteen minutes ago, he would not marry her?

  “Well,” she said, in the airiest voice she could manage, “I suppose you would have to marry me to find out how dull I am.”

  For a heart-stopping moment, Harry thought she had gone too far. Monty was looking at her strangely, as though through a window which had for the first time been properly cleaned. She tried not to think, to feel, but it was impossible. Had he shifted his feet to move closer to her? Was he looking at her mouth?

  Monty chuckled and shook his head. “That is the first proposal I have received all week. I suppose I will have to get into the habit of making them soon. If only it did not feel so impossible to find a bride I could at least tolerate.”

  She could feel frustration prickling at the corners of her eyes. What could she do to show him she was different from all those other women, but also a woman who felt and loved and hurt just like any other?

  But as she always did, Harry smiled through the pain. “Well, then. Why don’t I help you?”

  Chapter Six

  “This is idiotic,” Monty growled.

  His waistcoat and boots were too tight, there was something inherently wrong with his collar points, and his shirt was uncomfortable.

  He shifted on his feet, trying to stretch his shoulders into a more comfortable position. “Is all this really necessary?”

  Someone punched his arm, and he looked at Harry, who was beaming.

  “You said yourself you were not able to find a bride,” she said with a stern look, “and here I am, taking time out of my arguably busy social calendar to help you. The least you could do is stop moaning.”

  Monty sighed. She was right, of course, but that did not make it any easier to swallow. Harry had made him promise to meet her at Hyde Park at eleven o’clock and to wear his most gentlemanly clothes. He had been wearing country styles for so long, he had forgotten just how poorly designed his formal town wear was.

  The day was bright and breezy, and gentlemen and ladies were promenading, eager to see and be seen. It was the last place he wanted to be.

  Monty pulled at his waistcoat. “And why does this have to be so tight?”

  Harry grinned. “Do not complain to me if you have had far too many good dinners since you last wore it.”

  “Good dinners!” Monty stared in mock outrage as she surveyed the park. “I have not grown fat, if that is your suggestion, and I take great offense at it. I think it shrank when Mrs. Loughton washed it.”

  Harry glanced at him, and for no reason, Monty felt self-conscious. He was not accustomed to being weighed and measured by a young lady, even Harry. But she was not looking at him as a friend. She was examining him as though taking him to market.

  “No more complaining,” she said briskly, placing her arm on his own and forcing him to walk. “Did you not have some ridiculous reason you needed to marry, and soon?”

  Monty did not reply, trying to unbutton a few of his waistcoat buttons. Anything to feel less like a bear chained and being made to parade before an audience.

  Harry slapped his hand away and muttered under her breath, “If you are going to be married to a lady, then you need to start behaving like a gentleman!”

  Despite his discomfort, Monty grinned. “You can talk. You climbed up that tree and into my bedchamber just last week!”

  As they were passed by an elderly couple and a snuffling dog, something lurched in Monty’s stomach at the memory of Harry creeping into his bedroom in the middle of the night.

  It was hard to believe she had done that. There was truly no one like her, and a strange feeling found its way into his stomach every time he thought about it.

  He could not have believed it of anyone, yet she had managed to climb up that old oak tree, which was getting rickety, just because she had wanted to speak with him.

  Harry was unique, and the thought of that did something strange to him. Something he did not understand.

  Harry was grinning. “Yes, but then you must remember I am not the one you may be marrying. You never did tell me the reason you had to marry in the next six months, by the way, and do not think I have forgotten it. Some sort of bet placed with Daniel or Josiah?”

  Monty’s smile faded. He had known the topic would resurface. Harry was far too clever not to notice his loose tongue. He had been so…so disorientated by her presence, he had mentioned the six-month restriction. Now he was forced to tell her everything.

  Well, that was not entirely true. As they inclined their heads at a passing gaggle of gentlemen, including the Viscount Stulsemere, Monty knew there were few secrets he would keep from his best friend.

  “I was going to tell you eventually,” he said. “I…the more people who know, the more real it becomes. At present, only Daniel, myself, and a few lawyers know about it.”

  “Lawyers?” Harry’s expression darkened. “Now that is a story I need to hear.”

  Monty sighed. It was not a pretty story, but Harry deserved the truth.

  “My grandfather was the tenth Duke of Devonshire,” he began as they curved around a grove of trees. “His two elder brothers were the eighth and ninth dukes, and the title came to him because they had not married and had died young.”

  Harry nodded. It was a relatively common occurrence w
ithin titled families, after all.

  “My grandfather was the youngest son, and he had married early,” Monty continued. “When you are the youngest of three sons, it does not really matter who you wed as long as she is not what my father would have called ‘unacceptable.’ Relatively well connected, relatively well-bred, and a little coin in the dowry was enough for him.”

  It was difficult to keep the bitterness from his voice. Monty had rarely seen eye to eye with his father, or his grandfather if it came to that. Cavendish men were notoriously difficult to live with. Even Letitia’s father, his own uncle, proved that.

  “That is not unsurprising,” said Harry in an undertone as they continued walking. “Not unlike my family.”

  Monty grimaced. “Well, here is the part typically not like most families. My grandfather believed the reason the family line was secured was that he had married young. Marrying young had meant he had seven children by the time he ascended to the title, and he had a few more after that.”

  “Your poor grandmother,” Harry muttered.

  “I cannot imagine,” said Monty honestly. “But when my grandfather died, his will was read, and it had a few surprises in it—the most important one, a codicil about matrimony.”

  Was it his imagination, or was there a sudden change in Harry’s grip on his arm? Monty glanced at his companion, but she was looking calmly ahead of her, not showing any particular interest in his story.

  He grinned. He knew her better; she was listening closely, far more intrigued than she would ever admit.

  “The will stated,” he continued, “for a gentleman in the family to inherit—and keep—the title, he must be married by the age of five and twenty.”

  He allowed his words to sink in, and Harry turned to him in surprise. “Must be—must be married? But you are five and twenty now.”

  Monty sighed. “I am indeed. I have but six months to not only find a bride but woo her and wed her, otherwise…” His voice trailed off. It was not worth thinking about.

  They walked for a full minute before Harry jabbed him in the stomach. “Otherwise?”

  “Otherwise, we lose everything—I lose everything,” Monty said heavily. “His will states unless all my heirs and I are married by the time they turn six and twenty, they forfeit the title, the lands, the property, the money, everything.”

  Harry snorted. “Ridiculous! Your brother have the title? Daniel, the Duke of Devonshire? Do not make me laugh, Monty, he would utterly fail at it. How is he going to understand all your tenants, he barely understands what a plow is!”

  “It is worse than that.” Monty tried to keep his voice light, but it was impossible.

  “Worse? How could it be worse?”

  They had reached the gate to the park, and Monty looked at Harry. “Are you happy to take another turn around—”

  “Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “How is it worse?”

  Monty smiled. Harry’s impatience matched his; they were perfectly balanced. He never could bear a cliffhanger.

  “Because,” he said quietly as a trio of young ladies passed them, giggling, “when my grandfather wrote his will, he wanted to force the line away from such a disobedient grandson. His will states if the eldest in a family does not abide by the rules of the will, all his brothers forfeit, too, and the line goes to a cousin. My grandfather had five sons and several daughters. It did not even occur to him there would be no cousins to inherit the line.”

  Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “The will says if I am not married by February the sixteenth, I will lose the title, and it will go to my cousin,” said Monty. “My nearest male cousin. But I do not have any male cousins. All my cousins are female.”

  Harry was frowning. “So, who would inherit the title.”

  Monty sighed and shook his head. “No one would. The title would die out.”

  The expression on Harry’s face was a perfect match of how he had felt: shock, concern, and horror at the idea of the dukedom disappearing from the world.

  “No, that cannot be right,” Harry said slowly. “Surely if your grandfather was so concerned about the line, his will would not make it—”

  “I have spoken with who I am told are the best lawyers,” interrupted Monty. “Trust me. If there was a way around this, I would have found it.”

  He had never been one for titles, money, or prestige. He had them, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that possessing them did not make him a better man.

  But to lose them all himself was nothing compared to seeing the dukedom going extinct on his watch. To be the last Duke of Devonshire would be a terrible thing, notoriety he would never live down.

  He would not be that person. He would not permit it to occur.

  He could see from Harry’s face she was genuinely astonished. She had kept quiet, as she always did when she had to rearrange her thoughts, but there was that little furrow on her forehead, which told him she felt the pain of his position just as keenly as he did.

  “And so here we are, goggling at girls,” he said, desperate to sound lighthearted.

  There was another punch to his arm. “We are appreciating women,” said Harry sternly. “You need a bride, and quickly, true. But marriage…marriage is for life, Monty. You are going to live with the result of your decision, and so it would be best if you can find someone you can be…be happy with.”

  Perhaps it was his imagination—it was certainly difficult to see Harry’s face—but had there been a catch in her throat?

  She nodded covertly at a young lady walking with her mother.

  “What about her?”

  Monty watched them carefully. “No.”

  Harry glanced back at them before hissing, “Why not?”

  He grinned and knew his answer would infuriate her. “Harry, did you not see what she was wearing? One of those bizarre bonnets, making the young lady look as though her head has been bashed on one side. That young lady is obviously a slave to fashion, and I cannot have the Devonshire coffers turned inside out for the latest style every six months.”

  Harry snorted. “Monty Cavendish, you think you are so clever. Do you even have eyes? That bonnet is last year’s style, and I am wearing one of them right now!”

  With a frown on his face, he stopped and made Harry stand in front of him. Her cheeks pinked in the growing breeze.

  “Good, God, you are right,” he said. “So you are, I did not notice. It does not matter, I did not like her.”

  Harry glared, and there was something odd in her expression. If he did not know her, he would say it was…anger.

  But whatever it was disappeared as quickly as it came, and she pulled him toward her, placing her arm in his once again. “Well, why am I not surprised? You never were much for fashion, though I have to admit myself astonished at your complete ignorance.”

  “I am not ignorant!” Monty protested, but he was shushed immediately.

  “What about her?”

  Harry had nodded at a solitary lady who strode past them at high speed. She was wearing spectacles, the ugliest looking gown Monty had ever seen, and was evidently in a furious temper.

  “I think I know her,” Harry whispered, looking behind them to watch the lady go. “Miss Mariah Wynn, is it not?”

  Monty shrugged. “Whoever she is, she looks as black as thunder. I need someone with good temper in my home, Harry, a good temperament, steady in the face of all things.”

  Harry’s laughter filled his ears, and his chest tightened. “Monty, we are not here to pick a horse! Your bride has to put up with you, and that requires a sweet temperament because you are an utter ass!”

  “That young lady looks fine,” she said wearily, pointing out another girl. “Surely, you cannot find a thing wrong with her?”

  Monty looked where she had pointed, and saw a young lady with no figure to speak of and no particular beauty, sitting alone, reading what looked like a Mrs. Radcliffe novel.

  “Oh, Harry,” he muttered. “Why
can’t you let me have a pretty wife? If I am going to have to look at her every day, she should at least be worth looking at!”

  He had expected her to laugh, expected her to snort as she always did when he was facetious, and tell him in a mock stern voice he should be treating the whole exercise with less levity.

  But she did not. Instead, she said quietly, “So you are not interested in the character or personality of your future wife? Just whether she looks good on your arm?”

  Monty grinned as they turned and started making their way back. “It would not hurt, would it? After all, this woman is going to be the mother of my children, Harry. I am not much of a looker, so they will have to get it from somewhere. Though I will want more, including intelligence and a sense of humor.”

  Almost every gentleman in his acquaintance had chosen their wife based on looks, and while each had their particular likes—one preferring dark eyes, another looking for golden hair—it was a fact the physical traits of a woman was undeniably the first things one looked at.

  “After all,” he said, unsure why he was attempting to justify himself to Harry, “in today’s society, it is impossible to have a half-decent conversation with a lady before you are wed as it is. Beyond how they look, what can you know? You pick one and hope.”

  She did not reply immediately, and then said softly, “I had hoped you would look further than that.”

  Her quiet disappointment in him rankled far more than if she had shouted. There were few people in the world whose opinions mattered to him, but Harry was one.

  “I would if I had time,” he said. “But a betrothal negotiation can take months, and I do not have months. I need to find a bride soon, and she may as well be a pretty one.”

  Harry stopped and pulled her arm away. A prickle of discomfort moved up his spine as he was examined her once again. He had let her down in some way, and although he did not know how, it stung his pride.