It's Hard Out Here for a Duke Page 11

She didn’t know much by way of mathematics, Latin, or horses. She had not studied botany, biology, or any other sciences. But by God she knew the right way to address the wife of the third son of a marquess, both in person and in writing. She knew when and where every lady of note held calling hours. She also knew nearly every tenant on each of the estates.

  “Depending upon the seriousness of your intentions and how swiftly you wish to pursue marriage, you may wish to arrive with flowers. Is this something we need to review?”

  There was a beat of silence. Even her heart paused to observe it.

  “No.” There was another beat of silence. “But, please, tell me anyway. Just in case I wish to bring a woman flowers. Meredith . . .”

  There it was again: a note of longing in his voice when he said her name, accompanied by a searching gaze. All of it made her wonder if he meant her, bringing flowers to her. It seemed like he meant her? What did it matter if he did?

  But she could not do this and consider such a thing.

  “A small bouquet will sufficiently convey your interest at this early stage. A larger arrangement will certainly do more to declare your intentions and presumably to woo her. You’ll want to pay attention to the message the combination of flowers states.”

  “Good God.”

  “I know.” And Meredith allowed herself a smile at the ridiculousness of it all. “This is the sort of thing ladies of the ton are instructed to learn. Boys learn Greek and Latin, girls learn French and the language of flowers. But a servant can take care of this for you.”

  “What if I wish to do it myself?”

  She blinked. Whoever heard of a duke doing such a thing? But he wasn’t just any duke.

  “How romantic. Perhaps one of your sisters will be able to help you. The duchess is instructing them in the language of flowers.”

  There was another beat of silence in which they imagined the duchess endeavoring to teach something as frivolous as the language of flowers to his sisters.

  They both burst into laughter.

  “When you arrive, you will make polite conversation for a quarter of an hour. Appropriate subjects will be the weather, the season, mutual acquaintances, or perhaps a new play. Then you will take your leave.”

  “She doesn’t care for small chat,” he said offhandedly.

  There was another beat of silence. This one, tinged with awkwardness. That he knew such a thing about Lady Jemma meant things might be more serious than Meredith had wanted to consider. Very well, it was definitely more serious.

  “Oh.”

  “We talked about horses,” he said, as if this were any consolation, but it only made things worse. Meredith forced a smile.

  “You share a mutual interest. Actually, two: horses and a dislike for idle social chatter. She sounds different from the other women you have met.”

  Meredith did not share his interest in horses. The great beasts scared her, frankly. They had nothing in common, except for Durham and one night of passion in Southampton.

  “Hardly the stuff of a lifetime of marriage,” he said, dismissing it, or attempting to. But an acute ache in the region of her heart remained.

  “Marriages amongst the ton are built on less.”

  “That’s not what I want.”

  Again, she was acutely aware of the space between them. Just a few feet of air, and furniture, and whatnot, but it seemed insurmountable.

  “What do you want?” Meredith asked in a small voice.

  “Love. Companionship. Passion.”

  “What luxuries. I hope you find that.”

  “What if I might have found it already?”

  “In your wife. I hope you find that in your wife,” Meredith clarified. In truth, her hopes and feelings were not that simple. She didn’t wish unhappiness for him. She just wanted him to be happy with her. But the world they lived in conspired to make that impossible, and so she was left feeling awful and selfish because perhaps she didn’t want him to be happy with another woman. She wanted to be happy with him.

  “What are you thinking, Mer? I can see that you are thinking something.”

  Ha. As if she could tell him the truth.

  “It’s important that your call only lasts for a quarter of an hour. Any longer and it will lead to gossip and speculation with regard to your intentions. It will add undue pressure to your courtship. Also, it is doubtful that you will be left unchaperoned.”

  “Making all of this a performance,” James remarked. “It is as if we are all putting on a great play of Life, High Society Style. We have roles to play and lines to recite. Bouquets of flowers as props . . .”

  She smiled a little, enjoying his interpretation of life in the haute ton.

  “But tell me, Meredith, why are we alone? Why is it acceptable for you and me to be alone as we are right now?”

  Her smile faded.

  “The rules are different for a woman of my position. Of course I must have a care with my reputation—any woman does. But virtue and reputation matter more for women of a higher station, since more is dependent upon her innocence. You could compromise me, and it would not necessarily lead to marriage.”

  Never mind that her virtue was already gone, and he had already compromised her. And there had been nary a word of a betrothal. And it wasn’t necessarily wrong.

  This was the way of the world. But now that she spoke about it aloud, Meredith started to wonder: Wasn’t she as good or as valuable as Lady Winston or Amelia, Bridget, or Claire? Why did her virtue matter less than theirs? Oh, she had to mind her reputation and such in order to maintain her place with the duchess. But it wasn’t the same.

  Then again, she had more freedom. As long as she was discreet, she could get away with more than any highborn lady. Then again, she already had. Then again, it all came back to her place with Her Grace.

  “I wouldn’t take advantage. You know that.”

  “I do. You are a gentleman in action as well as in station. You are a good man, James.”

  “I do try.”

  And that was the thing: he did try. It made him more admirable in her eyes, even if it meant they couldn’t be together. It almost made her wish that he were more of a cad so that she would like him less.

  “Do you have any further questions, Your Grace? You must have other business to attend to.”

  “Meredith, I need you to know that it’s not what you think.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  This time he stood, and came around to sit beside her on the settee.

  Because he could. Because there was no chaperone.

  “With Jemma . . . it’s just . . . a formality,” he said.

  “You are using her given name,” Meredith pointed out. “I wonder if that is to suggest intimacy or if it is your stubborn American refusal to learn and adhere to titles and proper forms of address.”

  “Stubborn American refusal, probably,” he admitted. “I don’t want you to think that this social call changes things . . . or . . . means something that it doesn’t . . .”

  Gah. Now he wanted to soothe her feelings. He reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers—as he was about to court another woman. Heat flared within her, and it wasn’t lust or passion.

  Did he not know that she needed to relinquish any romantic thoughts or feelings for him? She needed to let him go, to send him out in the world with a bouquet of beautiful flowers arranged in a combination that conveyed the perfect message, to the right house and at the right day and time. She needed to pull her hand away.

  “Do you presume to know my own mind, Your Grace? My own heart?”

  “Tell me what is on your mind. I want to know.”

  “I think that you are beginning to accept the requirements of your station. I think you are beginning to try to step into your new role. And we both know that means at least trying to find a suitable bride.”

  “You do have the right of it, Mer, but it has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”

  “How
do you feel about me?” she asked.

  James clasped both of her hands and gazed deeply into her eyes.

  “I feel that the night we spent together in Southampton wasn’t enough, Mer. I want to spend all my nights with you. And yet I feel that only you can show me how to be Durham, and the man I must become, and as such, a man who should not spend his nights with you. Funny, that.” He paused, gave a wry smile. “I know that you are poised and elegant, and I have a hunch that you are stuck in a position beneath you. There’s so much I don’t know about you, and I want to know everything. I want to know you, Meredith.”

  His words flooded over her, drowning her. Coming up with excuses felt like coming up for air. But still, he said more of this heart-wrenching stuff that pulled her under once more, like a strong current she couldn’t resist, but had to resist for the sake of her heart and sense of loyalty. For her sense of self-preservation.

  Meredith withdrew her hands from his.

  “And yet you will go court another woman.”

  “Tell me not to, Meredith. And I won’t.”

  His words, his blue eyes looking at her like that, all of it another strong undertow tugging her down, sweeping her away. The only thing she could do was close her eyes to his handsome face.

  She thought of her mother, instead. She thought of the duchess. She thought about how much these two women needed her. She wouldn’t throw it all away, not for just a boy, not for Just James, not even if he was a duke.

  Any regrets she might have had of not doing so were abandoned, given the letter she received later that afternoon.

  The duchess’s private sitting room

  Her Grace was not usually interrupted when she and Meredith sat down to tend to her correspondence—an assortment of invitations, letters from far-flung friends, missives from town friends discussing the latest gossip, et cetera, et cetera. It took an hour, at least, each day to read through it all and craft the correct replies.

  But this afternoon, Pendleton arrived with a letter on a silver tray. This one was for Meredith as well as the duchess. Meredith accepted it, and Pendleton left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

  There was only one person who wrote to them both. Meredith glanced warily at the missive—the tattered paper, the blue-inked scrawl, the stamps gathered on its passage from Hampshire to London. Her heart had a strange, mixed-up reaction when she saw it.

  “It’s another letter from my mother.”

  The duchess raised an eyebrow, questioning.

  “Well, it’s from Mrs. Bates,” Meredith quickly clarified. Her mother no longer wrote, not even her own name. “Presumably with news of her.”

  Meredith hesitated for a moment before opening it, turning it over in her hands. She wasn’t certain what she hoped the letter would say—she half wished her mother had recovered completely, and a small, dark corner of her heart wished her mother would find her eternal peace and rest. Meredith did hate to hear of her suffering.

  The only thing worse was actually witnessing it.

  This letter probably contained more news of her ongoing decline.

  “Well, do open it up. The contents won’t change the longer you linger over it.”

  Right. Meredith broke the wax seal and unfolded the sheet. She quickly scanned the lines of Mrs. Bates’s inelegant scrawl, trying to quickly ascertain the most important thing: Was her mother well? She would read it all more slowly later.

  “Her good days are becoming fewer and farther between. In other words, not much has changed since I visited last. But then again, it has only been little over a fortnight.”

  That meant it had only been little over a fortnight since she met James in Southampton. Meredith had been in a certain mood that evening—all too aware how precarious life was, how it could all go in an instant, or how one could have nothing but their memories in their old age. That night Meredith thought only of living fully in the moment and of making memories that would stay with her until the end.

  “I am glad you had those days with her,” the duchess said softly.

  “I as well. Thank you for giving me leave to visit her.”

  The duchess smiled as if to say, of course, child, and then she sighed and said, “What are we going to do?”

  We. What are we going to do? Not, what are you, Meredith, a single woman of little fortune and no connections, going to do about this heartbreaking and expensive and tragic situation? Without the duchess’s assistance, Meredith and her mother would be eking out a very mean existence indeed.

  This was why she could not dally with James and wreck the duchess’s plans for him. Meredith owed her that much.

  “What can one do?” Meredith replied, trying, and failing, to keep the frustration out of her voice. She hated not being able to do anything. And while she appreciated the duchess’s help, more than anything in the world, there was still the fact that she alone couldn’t care for her own mother.

  “Write to Mrs. Bates. Tell her carry on as best she can. That woman is a saint.”

  “Thank you,” Meredith said softly. And just like that, her future and her mother’s were assured. They would carry on as they were, for better or for worse.

  “Your mother served me well. Above and beyond what was required of a lady’s maid. This is the least that I can do for her.” With no small amount of bitterness and regret, the duchess added, “Especially given all that has happened on my account.”

  Meredith bit her tongue. “All that had happened” was not known to Meredith. No one was very forthcoming whenever she tried to ask. Her mother, bless her, wasn’t lucid enough to relate stories from so long ago, and the duchess wasn’t talking. Likewise, all she had done on my account was also unexplained. When she tried to ask, the answers were always vague and gave no clarity to why a duchess supported her former lady’s maid so well, after so long.

  “On her good days, she is grateful,” Meredith said. “And I am also grateful, and forever in your debt.”

  Meredith lifted her eyes to the familiar face of Her Grace: the pale skin, lined, but with a fresh complexion. Her blue eyes were brighter and sharper than ever. Her hair—pale, pale blonde, nearly white—was styled firmly, like a helmet, but prettier. She was a warrior. A major general. Anyone would be a fool to cross her.

  She was strong and kind and had given Meredith a life she never dreamed of.

  Meredith was forever in her debt.

  The truth of it was never far from her mind. Or her heart.

  And she knew exactly how to repay Her Grace for a generosity that could not be repaid. It seemed the duchess did, too.

  “I know you are appreciative, child. And I am counting on you as everything changes. I need your support. Your steadiness. The circumstances that have brought us together are sad. But I daresay together we can make something positive come of it. We have been blessed with all these years of companionship, of course, and now we must persevere in our efforts to secure Durham for another generation.”

  Meanwhile, in the corridor

  Eavesdropping was not polite on any continent, and yet that did not stop James from pausing outside the slightly open door to the duchess’s chamber. It was almost embarrassing how he unabashedly lingered and listened.

  His sisters were having a profoundly terrible effect upon him.

  But he happened to be walking past the door, which was already slightly open. And then he happened to have heard Meredith’s voice.

  It’s from my mother. Well, it’s from Mrs. Bates. Presumably with news of her.

  This piqued his curiosity. James hadn’t imagined her having a mother, which was absurd, because everyone had a mother. He hadn’t imagined her having a family. He supposed she had just emerged from the duchess’s head, like Athena, fully formed and all knowing.

  The rest of the conversation he heard only stoked the flames of his curiosity further.

  Thank you for leave to go visit her.

  At the mention of a fortnight since, James quickly counted
the days—or nights, rather—since that night in Southampton. He concluded that this visit to her mother must have been the purpose of her journey.

  Her good days are few and far between.

  Meredith had a mother. And she was ill, possibly dying. And yet Meredith was here in London and not at her mother’s bedside. He wondered why.

  Your mother has served me well, above and beyond what was required for a lady’s maid.

  Meredith’s mother was a lady’s maid. A servant. Which explained why Meredith was so achingly aware of the vast difference in their positions and so adamant that she was not suitable for a duke. But did daughters of ladies’ maids grow up to be companions to aristocratic ladies? He had no idea who to ask, besides Meredith, and he hesitated to broach such a personal topic.

  James stood there in the dimly lit corridor, feeling like the worst sort of lurker, stitching all the pieces together in his mind. And, not being much of a stitcher, he came up empty—save for more questions. Who was her father, then? What was wrong with her mother? How had she come to live with the duchess?

  James meant what he’d told her that morning: he wanted to know her, all of her.

  Chapter 8

  Occasionally, a duke might enjoy the same entertainment as the masses, but only under certain circumstances and with certain appropriate persons.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  The boxing match

  When a most unlikely scenario presented itself—the brawny Lord Fox invited the brainy Lady Claire to a boxing match—James immediately seized the opportunity. He insisted she accept and that he and Miss Green accompany her as chaperones.

  He rather fancied spending the day at a boxing match instead of whatever the duchess had planned for the lot of them. He rather fancied spending the day with Meredith, too. They had spent a night together, but never a day together, from morning to night, without the watchful eye of the duchess, or servants, or society.

  Until today.

  After a pleasant carriage ride—not for a picnic, as they’d led the duchess to believe—in which Lord Fox expounded on the significance of today’s match and in which James and Meredith couldn’t keep their eyes off each other, and in which Claire either didn’t notice or pretended not to, they arrived.