It's Hard Out Here for a Duke Read online

  Her Grace took a small sip of sherry, which she usually drank after a ball, not before.

  “I’m certain that it will,” Meredith replied. “There is no reason to think it will not.”

  “Hmmph. I can think of four of them. Four stubborn reasons that speak in American accents and still don’t know how to address the second son of a marquess.”

  “They are making progress, Your Grace. Lady Amelia tells me that Lady Bridget has taken to writing about Lord Darcy in her diary.”

  The duchess nodded approvingly. “He would be an excellent match for anyone, but especially Lady Bridget. Such a pairing would take the ton by storm.”

  “It would be the talk of the town,” Meredith agreed. “I daresay Lord Fox might still pursue Lady Claire.”

  There was also a good reason to suspect he would not, but Meredith decided now was not the time to trouble the duchess with that. The couple had quite the row the other day.

  “And Lady Amelia?” the duchess inquired.

  “As long as we can keep up the ruse that she’s been ill, everything shall be fine.”

  In order to hide her disappearance, which forced the family to cancel their attendance at another ball, they had spread the word that she had been on her deathbed and then miraculously recovered—all within the span of four and twenty hours. It was a story scarcely believed, but gossip about it diverted people’s attention from the scandalous truth: Amelia had spent four and twenty hours gallivanting around London unchaperoned.

  They would all be ruined if word of that got out.

  “That’s a tall order,” the duchess said. “All it will take is one or two sightings of her around town on her little adventure for people to begin questioning our story and speculating about the truth. The only saving grace is that the duke has been courting Lady Jemma.”

  The duchess said this breezily, as if Meredith naturally shared her pleasure at the news. As if Meredith hadn’t been achingly aware of every afternoon he paid her a visit or every evening that he saw her at balls while she stayed home alone. Aching being the key word, of course. That she knew he was following his sense of duty and not his heart, which lay with her, did nothing to ease the pain.

  “She’s a bit horsey for my taste,” the duchess continued, “but I suppose he likes that about her. He could do worse.”

  “Mmm.” It was all Meredith could manage. Breathing was not working for her at the moment, and speaking was a struggle.

  “I suspect he might propose soon.”

  Meredith reminded herself to take a deep breath.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He took an interest in the Cavendish family jewels, which I had brought out so the girls might have something to wear tonight.”

  Meredith smiled tightly. It had nothing to do with jewelry and everything to do with family. She’d always been the one—the only one—the duchess had. And now the Cavendishes all had each other, all dressed in the family jewels. They would welcome Lady Jemma into their ranks, and Meredith would retreat farther and farther from the only life and family she’d known.

  But then the duchess surprised her.

  “I thought you should have something to wear as well, Meredith.”

  “Your Grace, I couldn’t possibly . . .”

  “Meredith . . . I’ve never told you . . .” The duchess took a long moment before saying anything else. Meredith watched, and waited, breath bated, as Her Grace seemed to take great care in selecting the words she was about to say. “You’re like a daughter to me. I had given up dreaming of one of my own, and then you came along. You have been my true companion for so many years now. Tonight I want everyone in my family to shine and sparkle.”

  “Your Grace . . .”

  “I know. If we were less British we might cry and hug. But then we’d be so . . . American.” The duchess shuddered dramatically, and they both burst out laughing. If one looked closely one might have detected a certain slick sheen in their eyes that someone less British might call tears. Because they were Durham and they did not cry. “Let us instead select a brooch for you to wear with that beautiful gown.”

  After some consideration Meredith selected one shaped like a butterfly, studded with diamonds and emeralds, and affixed it to her cream silk gown.

  “That was a gift to me from . . . my brother,” the duchess said with a faraway look in her eyes. “On the occasion of my betrothal to the duke. He could scarcely afford it, but restraint and prudence had never been his forte.”

  Meredith nodded. She had met the earl once or twice as a young girl. He’d died young, in the sort of drunken accident known to befall dissipated lords.

  But that was all in the past.

  Meredith glanced at her reflection in the mirror: tonight she looked every inch the lady. To look at her, one would never know she was just a commoner, just a girl.

  The Cavendish Ball

  James was glad, selfishly so, that all the bother of arranging the ball fell upon his sisters and that, as a man, he was excused. This was not fair, but it was the way of the world, and he was not inclined to change it.

  James half wondered if Amelia’s Great Escape—about which she said nothing, keeping a secret to herself for the first time in her life—was even a desperate ploy to avoid her role in this great soiree. But no, the party must go on, especially when the family had rumors to squash. Rumors and speculation that ran rampant throughout the ballroom . . .

  “Lady Amelia looks quite well for someone who supposedly spent the day abed, and ill.”

  James gritted his jaw. Amelia had been gallivanting all over London—he knew that much from Bow Street Runner reports and the pinkness on her cheeks from the sun. It was only a matter of time until someone had proof.

  And gossiped about said proof.

  And then the whole haute ton would know the truth and the Cavendish family would be ruined.

  Which meant that any hopes for him and Meredith that he may have harbored in the deepest, darkest, farthest corner of his heart were certainly smothered. He thought they had all been firmly extinguished.

  He was wrong.

  Every time he thought he had conquered his feelings for her, something would happen to make him fall deeper in love with her.

  She was here tonight. She put so many of the young ladies to shame with her beauty, poise, and the way she would captivate him from the far side of a crowded room. When he saw her across the ballroom, saw the glow of candlelight on her skin, saw the sparkle in her eyes, she knocked the breath right out of him.

  That last ember of hope or desire flickered back to life and started to smolder.

  “Is that Lady Bridget dancing with . . . Darcy? I’m not sure which is more shocking, the sight of Darcy dancing at all, or his choice of partner.”

  Meredith pretended she hadn’t heard Lady Carrington say that to Lady Tunbridge. She also pretended she hadn’t heard the disdain and disbelief in her voice. The Cavendish sisters certainly weren’t having an easy time of it; even guests at their own party were skeptical about their prospects.

  But Meredith did sip her champagne and discreetly glance in that direction to confirm that, yes, Lady Bridget and Lord Darcy were waltzing. It may have been an unexpected sight to those who knew Lord Darcy as He Who Did Not Dance, which was most of the ton.

  But it was not unexpected to those who read Lady Bridget’s Diary, or had its contents recounted to them by Lady Amelia over afternoon tea.

  Nevertheless, it was remarkable to see those two waltzing. Because Lord Darcy was everyone’s definition of a catch—tall, handsome, wealthy, powerful, respected.

  If Bridget were to land him, then the family would have a powerful ally in the haute ton.

  It meant that a little scandal might be bad, but not utterly devastating.

  It meant that the rest of the siblings might be able to follow their hearts.

  Which is not to say Bridget and Darcy weren’t following theirs. The man positively smoldered when he looked
at her.

  It wasn’t unlike the way James had been looking at her tonight.

  Meredith glanced around the ballroom, and it was merely a moment before her gaze landed on him and his eyes locked with hers.

  It didn’t matter that the ballroom was packed with hundreds of people, just like it hadn’t mattered that the Queen’s Head Tavern in Southampton had been crowded. When he looked at her like that, she felt like they were the only two people alone in the world.

  It didn’t matter that they had every reason to stay apart. When he looked at her like that, she felt connected to him in a way that society would disapprove of and in a way that felt impossible to break.

  Much as they might try.

  And she tried. Because it hurt too much to look at him, hurt too much to see the life she could never have, the love she could never really have.

  Meredith forced herself to turn away.

  “Have you seen Lady Claire this evening? I daresay she is nearly unrecognizable. That girl has transformed from future spinster to utter sensation.”

  James didn’t know why in hell Claire had done what she had done to herself—ditching her spectacles and wearing the sort of frothy, sparkly girl dress she always disdained on others. It may or may not have had something to do with a certain gentleman suitor. She wasn’t the sort to lose her head over a man, but then again, there was a first time for everything.

  But one thing was plain: she was trying to conform to the ton’s standards of delicate, simpering femininity. And by God, she was succeeding. If guests weren’t whispering about Amelia, they were gossiping about Claire’s transformation.

  He wondered if she, too, felt the pressure to fit in so that their younger siblings could follow their hearts and carry on with their irrepressible spirits.

  Then James turned around and he saw Bridget waltzing with the Greatly Esteemed And Dignified Lord Darcy. He turned again, and this time saw that even Amelia seemed to be involved in an engaging conversation with a gentleman that James didn’t recognize.

  Everywhere he looked, the Cavendish sisters were trying.

  And then there was Meredith, standing alone along the perimeter of the ballroom, looking lovely and lonely. She was surrounded by members of the haute ton, none of whom took much notice of her because she wasn’t A Person Of Consequence . . . and so they missed the loveliness in their midst. It did something to his heart, that.

  Perhaps, with his sisters all looking and acting like proper young ladies, it was safe for him to ask her to dance.

  Just this once.

  To be polite. To be a good host. To be kind. Such were the excuses he made to himself when really, he could not stay away.

  James slowly threaded through the crowds on his way toward her, never once averting his gaze. She waited for him, poised and elegant, calm and collected.

  But he, and only he, knew what passion burned beneath that cool exterior. Only he knew what she was like when that elegance and restraint gave way to unbridled passion and pleasure. Only he had seen her honey-hued hair spread across the pillow or heard her soft sighs of satisfaction.

  James bowed before her. And then, he flashed a grin.

  “What is a beautiful woman like you doing alone in a place like this?”

  “Really, Your Grace. That line is ridiculous.” She fanned herself and glanced away—and then right back at him.

  “You must have a story,” he murmured. “Tell me your story.”

  “I do have a story,” she replied. “But I’m afraid it doesn’t end well. The scene here tonight is too lovely for a tragic tale.”

  “Shall we see if we can change that?” Before she could reply, he asked, “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  He held out his hand. Waiting. Hoping.

  Meredith hesitated, and he knew her battle was between duty to the duchess and her heart, better judgment versus the rules of etiquette that demanded a woman accept every invitation to dance.

  “I would be honored, Your Grace,” she replied, finally, accepting his offered hand.

  The orchestra began to play the opening notes of a waltz. He swept her into his arms. They started to move.

  This time James didn’t need her to tell him to hold her more tightly, or to move with more purpose, or to take control of their movements. He did those things. And when she slipped her hands in his, he held on like he never wanted to let go.

  It wasn’t because he’d had practice with what had felt like nearly every “suitable” lady of the haute ton. With Meredith, he could do this. Whether it was a waltz or running an estate or whatever he was called on to do, with her in his arms or by his side, he could do anything.

  She made him strong.

  But she was also his weakness.

  When James held her, he imagined a future with her—one of love, passion, laughter. He did not think much about his family, the estate, and his duty to both. But he did think of his father; finally, now, he was beginning to understand a love so powerful it would make a man forgo title, family, king, and country.

  James knew that soon, soon, like his father before him, he would have to decide: duty or love.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about a match with Lady Jemma and the duke. Look—he’s dancing with the duchess’s companion for a second time this evening. Once is polite. But twice is verging on scandalous.”

  Meredith should not have consented to the first waltz with James, or the second one a short while later. She had many excellent reasons for saying no: it would cause people to talk, the duchess would disapprove of it, it made her heart ache, it would be more temptation than either of them needed.

  But there was also the simple fact that it was Not Done for a woman to refuse a man’s invitation to waltz. Meredith suspected this particular gem of etiquette was merely to preserve the delicate egos and emotions of men for whom fear of rejection would keep them from inviting a woman to dance.

  Meredith knew The Rules. She would have to say yes to James’s invitation because otherwise the people standing nearby witnessing her refusal would talk, and the duchess would disapprove of violating such a basic tenet of good ballroom behavior. Besides, it would make her heart ache to refuse him, and she could not resist temptation.

  She could not win either way, and so Meredith chose pleasure. She danced with James a second time.

  This did not go unnoticed, or unremarked upon.

  And it did make her heart ache to dance with him, to feel his arms holding her, to have him gaze into her eyes like she was the only woman in the world. It all made her imagine what life could be like if they lived in a world where their love could flourish, nurtured by family and friends rather than stifled by widespread condemnation.

  Meredith couldn’t quite disregard the snide little looks and comments floating around the ballroom. It was impossible to forget that what she and James shared could never be more than this.

  “The rumors about Lady Jemma and the duke must be true. He has sought her out and now they are deep in conversation.”

  James had already learned that very little escaped the attentions of Her Grace, the Duchess of Durham, especially when it concerned the dukedom. The duke dancing twice with her companion was notable. And, in the eyes of the duchess, regrettable.

  “You may not have noticed, being so distracted with my companion, but Lady Jemma and her family have arrived,” Her Grace said pointedly; her disapproval of his action was abundantly clear.

  James took her point. The duchess disapproved of his waltzing with Meredith—once could be passed off as being polite, but twice was nearly tantamount to announcing a betrothal, which was, of course, unthinkable. He wondered if she also happened to notice that something between them—the heat and passion, love and heartache—that wouldn’t cease.

  This, he knew, was not ballroom conversation.

  Or a conversation he wished to have with the duchess in any room.

  “I shall seek Lady Jemma,” James replied. Because of duty. Because of
that ten-year-old boy at Durham Park. Because of his sisters.

  “See that you do, preferably before the toast at midnight.” The duchess snapped her fan open. “And James—” She never called him James. “Do try to remember what matters most.”

  “It is never far from my mind,” he said dryly.

  “I am glad to hear it,” the duchess said, leveling him with a pointed stare. “Sometimes it does seem like you’ve forgotten.”

  Sometimes being every glance, every word, every moment he shared with Meredith. But even then, he didn’t forget so much as completely ignore it.

  “I should go greet Lady Jemma and her family.”

  James didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that the duchess wore an expression of satisfaction. He set off into the throngs, intent on finding his intended.

  His intended, Lady Jemma.

  James tested out the words in his head. And felt . . . nothing in the region of his heart. Not a pang or a skip of a beat or even a clench of agony.

  When he stood before Lady Jemma herself, his heart was still unperturbed. This was not a surprise; he liked her, they shared common interests, on paper they were a good match, what with their titles and nearby estates and mutual interest in horses. Love and lust had never entered into the equation.

  Nevertheless, he wondered about the state of her heart when she smiled broadly upon seeing him. Did she fancy herself in love with him, or did she also find him an agreeable prospect simply because they were both “horse-mad people”?

  “Good evening, Your Grace. This is a splendid affair.”

  “Thank you. I shall pass your compliments on to the duchess and my sisters. They are the ones who have done the hard work of planning this ball.”

  “And somehow you escaped the endless discussions on décor and whatnot,” she teased. “How lucky for you.”

  “I had important ducal matters to attend to,” he said gravely. He strove to keep his attentions focused on Lady Jemma.

  “Of course you did,” she teased. “I don’t suppose they were taken care of at the club and involved drinking, card playing, and wagering.”