No Dukes Need Apply (The Impossible Balfours Book 4)

by Gemma Blackwood

  “Hush.” He caught one of her hands and pressed it to his lips, a mischievous light gleaming in his eyes. “Give me a moment. You really knocked the stuffing out of me the last time I proposed, you know. Just let me muster the courage.”

  Selina could not keep back her smile. “I hear there’s a vacancy for the position of Duchess of Caversham.”

  “No.” He tightened his hand over hers, serious once more. “There’s a vacancy open for my wife. The dukedom is all well and good, but it’s not the important thing. I wish I’d realised it sooner. I wish I hadn’t spent so long calling you the perfect duchess when you were something else entirely.” He gazed down at her hand, small and fragile next to his strong fingers, as though it were the most precious thing in the world. “Simply… perfect. Exactly what I needed. Part of me must have known it all along. I never asked anyone else, you know.” These last words were soft, as though he were still unsure it was safe to say them aloud. “Only you. It was a game, and it wasn’t. But it was only for you. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t,” she admitted. “Not until very recently. Is it selfish of me to be so glad of it now?”

  “I want you to be glad,” he said, as forceful in his sincerity as he had ever been in anger. “I want you to be glad every day of your life.”

  “Then you ought to marry me, Malcolm.” Her heart slammed against her ribs the moment she said it. How had he found the strength to ask her so many times? How had she ever been cruel enough to laugh him off? “That is, if you would like to.”

  He stared at her like a man who had discovered he could gaze into the sun without going blind. “If I would like to…?” His eyes flared wide. “My word. Streatham was right.”

  She blinked. “Streatham? George?”

  He let her go, caught between laughter and astonishment. “He told me I was doing it wrong. Ha! And it’s obvious now! I should have known all along that you wanted to do the asking.” He pushed a distracted hand through his hair, sending sparkling droplets of water through the air. “Yes. You brilliant, impossible woman, I would like to marry you very much. I have wanted it for more time than I can admit, and I don’t pretend I deserve it, but…” He steepled his fingers together as though he were praying and pressed them to his lips as he gazed at her, enraptured. “If you would marry me, Selina, I swear…”

  The promise of a lifetime of adoration hung in the air between them. The answer flew from Selina’s lips before he found the words to express it.

  After so long saying no, it was surprisingly easy to say yes.

  Malcolm leaned into the soft back of the armchair, stretching out his legs one by one, and taking a great deal of care not to disturb the heavenly being nestled in his lap while he did.

  Five miles was hardly the distance from Marathon to Athens, nor even from London to Twynham, but on wet roads in soft boots it had been a considerable effort. Judging by the sun – his pocket watch having fallen out somewhere along the way – he’d made it in decent time, too. There was something of the young sportsman in him yet.

  That same sun was now sinking ever lower in the sky, the light in the room fading from golden to merely dim. He couldn’t bear to move just yet. It was more than a man could ask of himself, passing up the chance to see Selina in the moonlight.

  And yet…

  He stroked the back of a finger gently down her cheek. “Either that valet is taking a great deal of time about his task, or your clever sister has managed to waylay him.”

  Selina graced him with another of those smiles that sent tendrils of heat into places he had never imagined could be warm. “I’m touched as ever by your concern for my reputation.”

  He forced himself to stir, adjusting the alluringly rumpled neckline of her dress into an altogether less tempting position, and gathering those of her hairpins that had fallen within easy reach. “Even Lady Streatham’s ingenuity has limits. I hate to say it, but you must go before they notice you’re missing.”

  “Malcolm.” She was half-reproachful, half-yearning, and her hair was half-tumbled across her face, and since Malcolm had never been much use at resisting temptation, he kissed her again.

  There was a sweetness about her that he was only just learning to taste. Dizzying, to think that he could relish it for the rest of his life.

  “You must go,” he said, groaning the words against the soft skin of her neck. “Because the more liberties I take, the more I want, and I’ve enough sins to my name already.”

  “I’m sure any gossip about my extended absence will be forgotten when we simply announce that we are engaged.”

  He paused his exploration of her exquisite pale skin. “Now? Tonight?”

  The prospect was tempting. Hell, everything about Selina was tempting. He imagined himself leading her downstairs on his arm. The shocked gasps from the room of small-town gentlemen. The news reaching London before he did, in a rented carriage with Selina sitting in his lap just as she was now. Hours of journey to while away together, perfectly alone.

  “Out of the question.”

  She said nothing, but a crinkle of hurt appeared between her brows. He kissed it.

  “I cannot possibly announce our engagement until I have spoken to your brother.”

  “Alex?” Selina let out a rippling laugh. She put her arms around Malcolm’s neck, her fingers toying deliciously with his hair. “You know he would never dare object. He knows better than to disagree with me. And I am quite set on you, you know.”

  “All the same. It’s the proper thing to do. And this, of all things, ought to be done properly. Besides, I want the man to like me.”

  “I’m sure he does already.”

  “Very kind of you to say, but unfortunately, susceptibility to my dazzling smile is not a Balfour family trait. I have some work to do to earn your brother’s respect.”

  “You will have it when he sees that I love you.” She let him go, with a soft sigh of regret that tugged at something vital deep in his chest. “You are right. I will go downstairs and behave as though nothing has happened. Though Anthea will guess, I suspect.”

  “Tell her, by all means. There’s no need to deprive your sister of an extra day’s joy.” He made a face. “Assuming that joy is what she will feel when she knows you’ve chosen to throw your lot in with me.”

  Selina rose to her feet, moving with the natural dancer’s grace that could catch the eye across a crowded ballroom. She went to the mirror and twisted a lock of hair between her fingers, stopping to shoot him a reproving glance. “Malcolm. When will you begin to value yourself as I do?”

  “I don’t know. You could try kissing me more often. That might help.”

  She turned back to the mirror, smiling, and pinned up the twisted curls. She made it look so easy. He remembered his own efforts in the Whitby family’s library, how the shining dark hair had rebelled under his fingers.

  He thought of Selina as a young girl, recently motherless, combing her sisters’ golden hair to soothe them when no lady’s maid would do. She must always have possessed that exceptional talent of making wounded hearts whole again, of lifting others with her love.

  Could such a skill be learned? He hoped so. Selina deserved to have every good part of herself reflected back to her. And if her chosen mirror was tarnished at present, it could be polished up in time.

  He bent to pick up the last of the hairpins and stood behind her, his hands finding her narrow waist as she finished her hair.

  She met his eyes in the mirror. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to broach the subject…”

  He smiled, and gave her a gentle squeeze, encouraging her to continue. “Is something amiss?”

  “I want to be clear about one thing before we go any further.” She set her shoulders, her eyes bright in the mirror. Her waist tensed under his hands. “I once loved another, as you know. And I was young, and not as careful as I should have been.”

  He pulled her close against him. “I hope you will treasure
that memory. As I treasure every circumstance that formed your character to such perfection and then brought you – against all the odds – to me.”

  She turned her head, frowning. He brought up a hand to cup her cheek. “I told you once that I wanted an equal. I meant that in every respect. You know I’ve never given society’s expectations much thought when it comes to my own happiness. That’s one thing I have no desire to change.” He kissed her to drive the point home. By the way she softened against him, she understood.

  He turned her back to face the mirror. “There. You look the perfect lady again. No one will suspect I’ve had you in my arms all afternoon. More’s the pity.”

  “Not quite.” She touched his face, running a teasing finger along his jawline. “Gloves.”

  “Gloves! Of course.” There was one somewhere underneath the armchair, he was reasonably sure. As he began his search, Selina stayed at the mirror, turning this way and that to check that all evidence of their encounter was hidden.

  Malcolm emerged triumphant from behind the chair, two white silk gloves in hand, to find Selina looking at something on the dressing table with a puzzled frown.

  “What’s this doing here?” She picked it up and held it towards him, and even though there was no longer any need for it, Malcolm’s heart gave a guilty start.

  He took the silk square with the embroidered swallow as carefully as though it were a living thing. It was still damp from the rain “I, ah. I carry it with me. Have done for some time.” He ran his thumb over the familiar ridges of the embroidery, the graceful curve of the little bird’s wings in flight. “Ever since you gave it to me, in fact.” He felt naked in a way that putting on a shirt would do nothing to fix. “It gave me something to pin my hopes to. And it seemed appropriate, after all.”

  “Appropriate?”

  “Yes. It’s a spring bird, the swallow. They come north when the winter’s over.”

  She looked at him quizzically, and he could not resist a grin. “Icicles melt in the spring.”

  20

  “Behave yourself, for goodness’ sake.” Malcolm treated the yipping dog at his feet to a glare that would have silenced the House of Lords, but Percival was not a lord and had no regard for rank. He had recognised the Balfour house the moment their carriage pulled up outside, and he knew who they would find waiting for them. Malcolm had to admit to a degree of sympathy for the dog’s excitement.

  “You are here at Selina’s request, and under sufferance,” he said, scratching Percival behind the ears. “And, may I add, you have discovered a remarkable talent for jumping up and down, considering you are supposed to be lame. It’s not too late to put you back to work as a coach dog, you know.”

  Percival quieted, rubbing his head luxuriantly against his master’s glove.

  “Ha. I knew the thought of an honest day’s work would frighten you. I mean what I say, Percy. We are paying an important visit, and we must both be on our best behaviour.” Malcolm considered the task that lay ahead of him and breathed out a low groan of resignation. “Me, especially.”

  A week he’d waited. A week of pure agony, when he’d thought at first he would burst if he kept it in for a day. Selina had returned to London with Anthea early the morning after the election that was not an election, leaving Malcolm to wait for Lord Louis to sleep off his indigestion sufficiently to make the journey himself. Malcolm’s phaeton, sadly, had hit its last pothole. But Louis had borrowed his father’s most commodious carriage for the trip, and there was room for Malcolm within and Higgins the coachman on the rumble seat.

  Malcolm passed the journey in such unusually excellent spirits that Louis was thoroughly unnerved by the time they arrived at Malcolm’s London residence. The grinning duke ran up his front path with barely a wave of farewell to his puzzled friend, calling for his valet as he went. It wouldn’t do to meet the Duke of Loxwell in the sort of clothes the Twynham tailor had rustled up.

  He bounded up his front steps two at a time, the butler barely managing to open the door before he reached it. He was greeted by a joyous Percival in a manner that suggested the little dog had thought him gone forever.

  Malcolm thought it worth a few seconds’ delay to scratch the dog’s ears, and in doing so, he noticed the letter half-chewed inside Percy’s mouth.

  “Drat that dog!” exclaimed the butler. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I’ll have it out in a jiffy.”

  “No need.” Malcolm extracted the note by a combination of belly rubs and brute force. He unfolded it.

  He cursed loudly enough to send the dog running to hide behind the hat stand.

  The Duchess of Loxwell’s travail was upon her. Selina was at her side and wouldn’t leave her for the world. Malcolm did not need telling that Daisy’s adoring duke would be out of his mind with worry.

  There was no question of seeking an audience with Loxwell that day. Or, presumably, for several days after. Malcolm wasn’t family – not yet – and he couldn’t intrude.

  I know you want to speak to him personally, so I won’t suggest that you write, Selina had written. There is no call for haste, in any case, as I will not be returning to society until Daisy is back in perfect health. I will write to you every day. Nobody will notice a few letters amid all the fuss.

  Try to be patient, Malcolm. I know you won’t be – in fact, I hope you are as anxious as I am – but try, for me.

  He pressed the letter to his lips, remembering too late the slobbering it had received from Percy. “Gah!”

  So here he was, a week later, assured that Her Grace of Loxwell was quite recovered from her efforts, that the duke was utterly smitten with little Lady Erica Balfour, and that Selina showed no sign of coming to her senses. She still wanted to marry him.

  And all he had to do was ask her brother. A trifling detail, really. A simple conversation between one duke and another.

  Malcolm ran a finger around the inside of his cravat, which suddenly felt just a little too tight.

  Percy bounded in the moment the butler opened the door, to squeals of delight from Lady Isobel, who was crossing the hallway with a sheaf of music in hand. “Oh, the sweet little creature! Good morning, Duke.” She held her music out of the way of Percy’s enthusiastic pawing. Malcolm passed his hat to the butler and hastened to rescue her from the dog’s attentions.

  “Good morning, Lady Isobel. Are the ladies of the house at home to visitors?”

  She raised an eyebrow, looking him over with far more perspicacity than he was comfortable with. “To certain, particular visitors, yes.” She passed him the sheaf of music and gathered Percy up in her arms. “Come with me to the drawing room. We are going to see which composer makes the best lullabies for the baby. Anthea thinks Haydn, but I say it will be Bach.” She glanced back over her shoulder before opening the drawing room door. “George is here, by the way.”

  Perfect. Another witness to Malcolm’s trial by Balfour. He took a moment to square his shoulders before following her inside.

  The scene that greeted him was enough to soothe the most agitated heart. The Duchess of Loxwell sat propped up by cushions, cradling a wide-eyed baby to her chest. The duke bent over her, reaching down a finger for the infant to grasp. The Earl of Streatham and his countess stood arm in arm by the fireplace, not quite so rapt by their burbling niece that they forgot to steal loving glances at each other, and Lady Ursula sat in a nearby armchair, her clacking needles providing a counterpoint to the murmur of baby-talk as she worked on what appeared to be the world’s largest blanket.

  But all of this was nothing to the sight of Selina, standing at an easel to sketch the happy scene, and the way her head lifted the moment he walked into the room, as though she’d been counting the seconds until his arrival. Her eyes glowed, and Malcolm’s chest swelled.

  He would slay dragons for that woman. Never mind contend with the Duke of Loxwell.

  “Caversham’s here,” said Isobel casually, and the little tableau was broken by exclamations of welcome and surprise
. Streatham, in particular, shattered the domestic atmosphere with an especially wicked grin.

  “Morning, Caversham,” he said, cocking a meaningful eyebrow. Malcolm ignored him.

  “Caversham,” said Loxwell, coming to greet him with politely contained surprise. “How good of you to call. We did not expect it.”

  Malcolm made an offhand gesture with the sheaf of music Isobel had foisted on him. “I was in the neighbourhood. I thought I’d stop by and offer my congratulations.”

  Percy, the faithless animal, jumped from Isobel’s arms and ran to Selina’s feet, where he nestled in instantaneous repose. Some creatures had all the luck.

  Loxwell laid a friendly hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Come and meet my daughter.”

  He breathed that word, daughter, with such reverence that Malcolm’s indifference to babies was overcome.

  He was very soon relieved of the music, seated in an armchair, supplied with a cup of tea, and agreeing warmly that Lady Erica was, indeed, the most charming infant ever to grace the earth. Since Malcolm did not have a vast amount of experience with children, it was an easy assertion to make.

  Selina remained at her easel, maddeningly near. She glanced up every so often, taking in Malcolm’s expression along with the curve of the baby’s cheek, and returned her attention to her work with the most alluring hint of a smile on her lips.

  “Caversham?” The Duchess of Loxwell’s polite insistence dragged Malcolm’s attention away from Selina. She had clearly asked a question which Malcolm had not even heard, but her serene expression was unchanged. “You seem very deep in thought.”

  “I was only thinking of how I admire you, Duchess. It strikes me as a rare talent to be both a great force in society and an excellent mother.”

  Daisy looked down at the baby cradled in her arms. Malcolm had the impression that she was hiding a knowing grin. “I hardly think my skills as a mother have been put to the test yet. But I think you did not always admire me, Caversham.”