It's Hard Out Here for a Duke Page 15

  He was glad Meredith had warned him.

  James was immensely relieved for all the instruction she had given him, when he finally strolled up to the Winston residence on Berkeley Square and into the drawing room of their home. Knowing a little of what to expect—and what was expected of him—was the only thing steadying his nerves.

  That, and the thought of that boy with berry on his face, worried about his family’s future all because of James.

  “Your Grace. We are delighted to see you. How good of you to call,” Lady Jemma said as she greeted him. She flashed him that charming smile with her slightly crooked tooth as he handed the bouquet of flowers to her—which she promptly passed along to a servant.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again,” he said, bowing.

  “What has kept you occupied ever since the musicale?” she asked, resuming her place on the settee. He took a seat nearby and declined her mother’s offer for tea.

  “You might be interested to know that I have visited the stables at Durham Park.”

  Her eyes lit up. Her mother groaned and said, “Oh, Lady Jemma doesn’t care to discuss stables, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, she does,” Lady Jemma replied, smiling at him and utterly ignoring her mother. “And we all know it. Tell me, what did you think? How did it compare to your stables in Maryland?”

  An animated conversation ensued. James actually enjoyed it, and even expressed genuine interest at her invitation to visit their stables at their estate in Kent. James nodded, as if he knew where that was.

  Lady Winston looked increasingly distressed as her daughter and the duke spoke of such unglamorous topics as horses, stable design, and training methods. That is, until it dawned upon her that rather than her daughter boring the duke, she was engaging and holding his attentions. And then, oh then, did Lady Winston smile. The sort of plotting, machinating smile that made a man fearful for his freedom.

  Frankly, it made him nervous, as if he’d unwittingly walked into a trap. But it was merely a polite social call, during their calling hours, and he’d brought only a paltry bouquet that he was assured communicated nothing more than I recognize that you are alive in the world.

  The whole visit was nothing more than that. Never mind those cunning smiles from mother and daughter alike.

  Wasn’t it?

  A duke’s courtship is breaking news and will be reported and widely discussed.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  The next day

  It was not. At least, not according to the newspapers which his sisters had apparently taken to reading, as he learned the next day when Bridget burst into his study, with Amelia in tow.

  “Dear brother, you didn’t tell us you were courting someone,” Bridget declared, waving a news sheet in the air.

  “I cannot believe your own, dearly beloved sisters had to find out like anyone else. In the gossip rags,” Amelia added. “I am shocked.”

  “I am hurt.” Bridget pouted.

  “My feelings are wounded,” Amelia said.

  “This is not about either of you,” he said, which, of course, was completely insignificant. If anything, that only made it more interesting to them. “In fact, I don’t even know what you are talking about.”

  “Read this.” Bridget thrust the news sheet in his face. He swatted at the thing, then grabbed it, then read it.

  Lady Winston is telling anyone who will listen that the Duke of Durham has taken a particular interest in her otherwise on-the-shelf daughter, Lady Jemma. It seems like these two horse-mad people might have found their perfect match.

  Oh, dear God. James grimaced. Horse-mad people? Really?

  But more urgently, what would Meredith think or feel when she saw this? He had not yet reconciled his desire for her with his newfound sense of duty to the estate. He wasn’t even sure they could be reconciled, but he knew he at least had to try at this duke business. Still, his heart ached for her and for them, and he wasn’t sure what to do or say when he faced her next. Suffice it to say, this was not how he wanted her to find out.

  “What does this mean for Meredith?” Bridget asked bluntly. For a second, James was taken aback. He hadn’t realized anyone had known about them. One thing that was clear: this was not a topic of conversation for him and his sisters.

  So, he replied evasively: “What do you mean what does this mean?”

  “We all see you gazing longingly at each other across the breakfast tables, the drawing room, et cetera, et cetera,” Bridget said. “Don’t be surprised that anyone noticed.”

  “You mean everyone,” Amelia added.

  “I should think you have more important things to pay attention to than whatever or whomever catches my eye in any given room in this house. Or otherwise.”

  “Dear brother, what could be more important than your romantic happiness?” Amelia mused.

  “If I felt that you were actually concerned about it, I might be moved.”

  “I could be actually concerned,” Amelia said. “Something to do, I guess.”

  “I am beside myself with concern for the state of your heart,” Bridget said. “If you could just tell us everything, it would help tremendously. I fear I’m getting worry lines and we can’t have that.”

  Sisters.

  Dear God, sisters.

  They were relentless and impossible. And exhausting and frustrating. And tenacious.

  And he would do anything for them.

  Except explain that he was confronted with denying his love for Meredith, potentially breaking her heart, and marrying a fellow horse-mad person just so his sisters could be happy and have no scandal or constraints when it came time for them to wed whomever they wished.

  And as he looked at his little sisters—somehow, all grown up and now ladylike, but still as spirited (and annoying) as ever—he knew what he had to do. Bridget and Amelia had their mother’s eyes and mouth, and to look at them now reminded him how he promised their parents he would always, always watch out for them and fiercely protect them.

  He knew.

  He knew what he had to do.

  He’d known all along, he supposed.

  But that didn’t mean he was ready to declare his intentions to his plague of sisters.

  “This is all none of your business,” he said, trying out his new Ducal Voice.

  “Your point being . . . ?” Bridget inquired.

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Amelia said flatly.

  Very well, new Ducal Voice needed work. Or a more obliging audience.

  “Can’t you see that I’m trying here?” James asked, now annoyed.

  He was met with two blank stares.

  “Trying to, er, be ducal,” he explained.

  “Ah. I see, Your Grace.” Amelia swept into one of her ridiculously elaborate curtsies with all sorts of hand flourishes and swishes of her dress.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t call me Your Grace or curtsy or any of that.”

  “But now you are acting ducal,” Bridget said. “You are courting a suitable woman. But you really fancy Meredith. Who for whatever reason is not suitable. At least, not according to the duchess.”

  “I think she’s lovely. I’d love to have her for a sister,” Amelia remarked.

  “Which only makes everything more tragical,” Bridget sighed.

  “I don’t think that’s a word,” James said.

  “Shakespeare made up words,” she replied.

  “You and Shakespeare. I get your writings confused all the time,” Amelia retorted. Bridget snatched the newspaper from James and swatted her sister with it.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have important estate matters to attend to,” he said, trying again with this Lofty Duke Voice. To reinforce his point, he opened the account book on his desk and made a point of studying it intently.

  “What is that? An account book?” Bridget asked.

  “Yes. From Durham Park.”

  “Would you like us to send in Claire to have
a look at it?” Amelia offered.

  James scowled and grumbled his response of “Yes.”

  And with that, they finally took their leave, apparently having accomplished what they had come to do. He was alone with a boring account book and his newly awakened sense of duty.

  A few days later

  When another letter from Hampshire arrived, Meredith hesitated in picking it up from the silver salver Pendleton offered to her. She was never quite sure what she wanted the news to contain, and that made her feel like a wretched daughter and heartless human.

  She has been asking for you, Mrs. Bates wrote in her sharp, slanting script. On her good days, anyway. She has had just three this month.

  Her mother hardly remembered her.

  It didn’t matter whether she was there with her in Hampshire or London. Something had happened to her mother’s mind that she forgot her own flesh and blood. Imagine that—to be forgotten by one’s own mother. What prayer did she have to be remembered by anyone else then?

  I fear the worst may be near, Mrs. Bates wrote.

  But she was wrong. The worst was already here—this endless suspension between living and death. Being forgotten by one’s own mother except for a few days or mere hours, here and there, which Meredith may or may not be present for, hardly seemed something to be happy about.

  She was sitting by the window in the library, the letter in hand, trying to sort through all her conflicting feelings when James strolled into his library, in his house.

  Her heart did a little pitter-patter thing. He was the last person she wanted to see now, and yet, he was the only person she wanted to see. The trip to Durham Park had changed him—he was finally becoming more . . . ducal. He’d even called on Lady Jemma, which Meredith learned about from servants’ gossip and read about in the newspapers.

  “Meredith. My apologies if I am interrupting. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “You’re not interrupting. Don’t mind me.” She turned back to look out the window at the garden, but was still aware that he crossed the room to sit beside her.

  Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

  “What has you so melancholy?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  She could not share this with him. Not now. Her conflicted feelings about her mother’s illness were something she’d never confided to anyone. The last thing she needed now was to share more intimacy with James. A distance was growing between them; she ought to respect it.

  “Nothing? I don’t suppose that has anything to do with your mood.” He gestured to the paper, once folded and now crumpled, in her hands. When she finally stood, she would burn it. But until then, she would read it a few more times, just in case she’d missed a glimmer of good news.

  “It’s just a letter. From my mother. Or rather, about my mother.”

  “How is Mrs. Green?”

  “She is not well.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Meredith shrugged, as if to say, me, too. And she was sorry, but she’d long ago accepted that what afflicted her mother was not her fault. There was nothing she could do, other than watch. And wait. And not give the duchess cause to withdraw the funds that paid for her mother’s care. And not give cause for the duchess to send Meredith away because once her mother was gone, she would have no one.

  “There is nothing to do, other than ensure she is comfortable.”

  “If you wish to visit her, arrangements can certainly be made. I’ll accompany you. I can keep you safe from rogues, scoundrels, and highwaymen on the journey. I shall endeavor to be a comfort to you while we are there.”

  Meredith knew it was not a hollow offer—he truly would drop all his responsibilities here to go with her. They would stay the night at that inn in Southampton on the way . . . This only made her heart ache more.

  “Thank you, but it’s all right. I was just with her recently.”

  “I suppose this is your family in Hampshire you were just visiting, on a trip that took you through Southampton.”

  “How observant of you.” She smiled, a little. Because he noticed her and listened to her and remembered. It was wonderful, if a little bittersweet.

  “Only when it comes to you.”

  His blue eyes were doing that thing they did—gaze at her with a loving sparkle, like he was the luckiest man in the world just to be able to look at her.

  She smiled, halfheartedly, because it hurt too much to smile all the way.

  “See—and now you’re smiling. I think you might need me, Meredith, for whenever you are feeling melancholy.”

  Truth be told, she thought she might need him, too.

  As long as her mother was alive, in this wretched state, both she and Meredith were dependent upon the duchess’s largess. It was her support and duty to her former lady’s maid that kept her mother in comfort and dignity, instead of in a madhouse. It meant Meredith had a home. It also meant that the burden of caring for her mother was lifted from her shoulders. It was as much a relief now as it had been when she was just twelve and the duchess swooped in to take care of the situation.

  “The duchess ensures that my mother is well cared for.”

  “How noble of her.”

  “You may only see her determination to see you all married against your wishes, or to see that the estate succeeds. But she is tremendously kindhearted and dedicated to the people in her life.”

  “I am beginning to see that,” he said softly. “I saw it when we visited Durham Park.”

  “I am forever indebted to her, James, for the care she has shown my mother and me. Especially when no one would have faulted her for turning us out, or discreetly providing some necessary funds. Instead, she has taken me in and raised me as a daughter.”

  He didn’t say anything, but she could see that he was adding everything up in his brain. He was beginning to understand. But Meredith needed to make sure he understood completely that she was sorry for tempting him and would be keeping her distance from now on.

  “I forgot, for a moment there . . .” That moment being when they kissed. “But this letter has reminded me. So if I am melancholy, it is because I regret that kiss. And that we were seen. And that she has cause to question my loyalty.”

  He had his duty and she had hers.

  Chapter 12

  A duke MUST have a legitimate heir, preferably one with some sense and decency.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  For all of the duchess’s talk about the necessity of James siring an heir, it so happened that James already had one—some distant cousin, from a remote country village, in some nearby shire. One Mr. Collins.

  They were at breakfast when James learned he would be visiting—a particularly torturous breakfast in which Meredith would not look at him, not that he could blame her after their painful encounter the previous day.

  “Tonight we shall dine at home as a family before attending Lady Belmont’s ball, as we will have a very important guest with us,” the duchess announced from her place at the head of the table.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, Josie,” James drawled from the other end.

  She scowled, as she always did when they addressed her as Josie. But she had at least stopped correcting them.

  “It is your heir, Your Grace.”

  “My heir?”

  Bridget giggled at his alarm, but it wasn’t funny at all. How he’d managed to sire an heir was beyond him.

  Because if he already had a bloody heir then why . . .

  James glanced again at Meredith. She was very focused upon sipping her tea.

  “Your cousin, Mr. Peter Collins. It’s very important that you meet him and perhaps take him under your wing.” The duchess took a sip of her tea and said, very pointedly, “Just in case something should happen to you.”

  “Is my life in danger?” James inquired. “Did this duke business just get life threatening and thus, interesting?”

  “I most certainly hope not,” the duchess said passionately.
>
  “If we are dining as a family, will Miss Green be joining us?” Amelia asked, innocently enough.

  James tensed. He knew his little sister probably had some notion of matchmaking. He also knew his little sister had no idea the extent of what existed between him and Meredith—or what didn’t. Not anymore.

  He dared a glance at her; she was diligently avoiding his gaze. Still. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “She may join for a portion of the evening,” Her Grace said.

  “Not the entire evening?” Bridget inquired.

  “It is not customary that a woman of her position would join for the duration of the meal.”

  “But our guest is hardly of a lofty position himself. A village vicar you said?” Amelia challenged.

  She meant well. But Amelia’s sudden interest in whatever she was trying to accomplish was only making things worse. Meredith had given up trying to sip her tea and was staring intently at an invisible spot on the tablecloth.

  “Ah, and what is this sudden interest in the hierarchy of British society?” the duchess inquired.

  “I’m interested in including Miss Green. Besides, if we have to suffer through dinner with Mr. Collins, why should she get out of it?”

  “There must be some perks to my position,” Meredith remarked pleasantly enough, but James winced.

  “Who says dinner with Mr. Collins will be something to suffer through?” Claire asked.

  At that, both Meredith and the duchess sipped their tea and chose not to comment.

  “Ah. I see,” Claire replied.

  “Mr. Collins is, shall we say, provincial in his attitudes,” the duchess said.

  “How I look forward to making his acquaintance,” James said dryly.

  “You shall see why I wish you would put another heir in place,” the duchess replied. And why she’d gone through all the bother of tracking down the long-lost American duke.

  That evening

  They’d hardly completed the first course when James saw exactly why the duchess was so keen for him to wed and sire an heir and a spare. Upon meeting Mr. Collins, it became quite clear that any wishes for James’s continued good health may have had as much to do with an affection for him as despair at the prospect of Mr. Collins inheriting Durham.