It's Hard Out Here for a Duke Read online

  And he idly wondered just why she was so loyal to the duchess.

  I owe everything to the duchess. Everything, she had said last night, in a fierce whisper. What long, secret history existed between them that would make her forgo the attentions of the highest-ranking and most powerful person in the room?

  “So I am the highest-ranking and most powerful person in this room?” James confirmed.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “So my word is as good as command.”

  “Yes.” The duchess pressed her lips into a thin line indicating that she did not care for the direction in which he was taking the conversation. She was eyeing him sharply, but her hands and posture gave no indication that he was rattling her. She was good.

  Miss Green, on the other hand, looked nervous. Very nervous.

  “So if I were to insist that we remove all the furniture and fetch some musicians so I might dance around the room with Miss Green, everyone would have to obey my orders.”

  Miss Green looked horrified.

  The duchess didn’t bat an eye.

  “Of course you could do that, Your Grace. It is well within your rights. But it is deliberately misunderstanding your role. Such power is not bestowed so one might act like a petulant schoolboy or licentious rake.”

  She paused to give him a sharp, reproving look.

  One that made him feel like a petulant schoolboy.

  Miss Green gave him a similar look.

  One that made him feel like a licentious rake.

  Again, he became acutely aware that he was no longer Just James and she was no longer just a beautiful woman he met in a tavern one night.

  He might have been the most powerful man in the room, but he wasn’t sure how to wield that power.

  He just knew he didn’t want it.

  “Then I suppose it is also within my rights to declare that this session is over. As duke, I should like to inspect the stables and ensure they meet my standards.”

  The duchess pursed her lips, but otherwise made no outward show of exasperation. They both knew he wished to escape and go muck around in the stables, with the horses, where he might pretend this duke business wasn’t happening and where he might feel like himself, if only for one blessed hour.

  “Your Grace, it is vitally important that a man of your station set an example to others. People will be watching you for clues as to how to conduct themselves. If you disregard your station, it indicates that those below you may as well.”

  In other words: the perpetuation of this archaic British aristocratic system rested on his shoulders. His reluctant, provincial, American shoulders.

  “Once you enter society, all eyes will be on you, and they will be watching for the slightest misstep.”

  “I take it going outside to see the horses is a misstep. The things that interest me, that I care about, are missteps.” Here he couldn’t resist another look in the direction of Miss Green. She held her head high, but looked away.

  “A duke does not muck around in the stables, though if one wishes for a ride, one might request a groom to saddle a horse and bring it around,” the duchess said.

  “And how does one do that?”

  “One does not when one is engaged in important estate business.”

  James felt his temperature rise. His valet, one Mr. Edwards, had tied his damned cravat too tightly, in spite of James’s requests to do otherwise. So much for being the most powerful man in any room. He stood swiftly, nearly knocking over his chair as he did so.

  “So the first rule of being a duke is that I am not truly the most powerful person in the room. I am to devote my life to service of the dukedom, which I may or may not want, and set an example for people I may or may not give a damn about.”

  He was irate. Self-righteously so.

  James knew he sounded like a petulant, ungrateful brat. It seemed impossible for him to explain that he wasn’t ungrateful, just scared of failing in such a supposedly sacred mission, in which so many relied upon him. The only example he’d had of interacting with the dukedom was his father happily leaving it all behind and never speaking of it again.

  He wasn’t certain that he was the man for the job, and yet it now all rested upon him. Perhaps he never should have come to England.

  “Most people would consider it lucky indeed to be a duke. Many come to understand it as a great honor to be tasked with stewarding tradition, family, and prosperity from one generation to another.”

  Yes, but . . . it was just a circumstance of birth. It wasn’t because he was worthy, or qualified, to say nothing of whether or not he wished to. James had a hunch he wasn’t worthy or qualified. The idea of even trying to become worthy or qualified had him running for the stables.

  “Regardless of what you may think of the situation—and I can see that you think very little of it—you are the duke now. It is done. You may flee and shirk your responsibilities, or you may remain and make a valiant effort to uphold the Durham estate for another generation. It depends upon the kind of man you are. And given that you have so diligently cared for your three sisters, I think we both know you are capable of rising to this occasion.”

  The duchess had to bring up his sisters. She had to bring up the three reasons he was here and the three reasons he would have to try. She was good. And she, clearly, was the most powerful person in this room.

  The duchess rose to her feet. And even though he towered over her, she still managed to look down at him. Quite a feat, that.

  Without another word, she quit the room.

  Miss Green followed, though she paused before exiting. For one blessed second they were alone together. His heart lurched.

  “The bell pull,” she said, giving a tug on a gold, corded rope hanging near the door. “It will summon a servant, who will honor your request.”

  The duchess had kept her cool with the duke, but once the doors closed behind Meredith, her frustration revealed itself in a sharp huff of annoyance and the brisk pace with which she walked down the corridor. Meredith didn’t have the luxury of revealing her feelings.

  Tap tap tap. The duchess’s shoes clicked along the marble tiles.

  Thump thump thump. Meredith’s heart was still pounding from the anxiety that, at any second, the duke would give her away with one of his smoldering glances or an offhanded remark. In her defense, she hadn’t known who he was then—but that excuse would hardly hold sway with Her Grace. Especially when she was in a mood like this.

  “That was more of a trial than I had hoped. It was not unexpected, though still exasperating,” the duchess said. “Any man in England would be beside himself to inherit a dukedom, but no, the title must go to an American who could not care less.”

  “He may just need time to adjust to this dramatic change,” Meredith replied.

  She spoke from her own experience. Meredith remembered being a young girl coming from a simple life to live with the duchess and suddenly being expected to dress, speak, and behave a certain way. She was supposed to learn French and embroidery and a dozen other things that girls like her were never expected to know.

  She hadn’t been sure if she could do it and had been overwhelmed by the prospect of even trying. The duchess was so exacting.

  She suspected James the duke felt the same way.

  The difference between them was that he had the liberty of rejecting the lot of it. He could go back to America, an ocean away from all of this.

  Of course, Meredith was free to leave at any time, too, but her alternatives were far less alluring—and she had confirmed that on her recent trip home. She recognized that staying with the duchess as her companion was her best opportunity for a secure, comfortable, and interesting life.

  “We don’t have time for him to adjust,” the duchess continued sharply. “The estate needs a firm hand and guidance soon. The gossip columns are already rife with speculation about him and his sisters.”

  “Never mind the gossip columns, Your Grace. This is only his first da
y. Perhaps you’ll make more progress with him tomorrow, or with his sisters this afternoon. We have a modiste appointment with them shortly. Soon they’ll look the part of perfect English ladies, and you have said that is half the battle.”

  The duchess sighed. “I fear your optimism may be misplaced, but I do like how you hope for the best.”

  The duchess paused, troubled, as she considered something. Meredith could read her well. She waited, patiently, for Her Grace to speak.

  “I will need your assistance, Meredith.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “He seems like he responds to you,” the duchess said.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. No one was supposed to notice or to know. But nothing ever escaped the duchess, now did it?

  “And Lord knows his sisters will keep me occupied,” she added with a sigh. “I need you to help me turn him into a proper duke. I’ve taught you well, Meredith, and now it’s time for you to help me teach him.”

  Thump. Thump. Crack.

  Heart, still pounding. Heart, starting to break.

  Meredith, who had vowed to avoid him, found herself saying yes.

  Chapter 3

  Being the highest-ranking, most powerful, and probably the most handsome and charming man in the room, the duke should always take the lead. Including, but not limited to, dancing.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  Days passed with Meredith catching only glimpses of the duke. He spent his hours behind closed doors in the study, consumed with the demands of solicitors and estate managers, and some of the late duke’s colleagues in parliament.

  Was he coming around to the idea of this duke business?

  Perhaps.

  Perhaps not.

  These sessions were inevitably followed by a visit to the stables, doing whatever it was that one did in the stables. She learned from his sisters that he would spend an hour or two brushing down horses or saddling one up himself and going for a ride and then grooming the animal afterward. In other words, servant’s work.

  In spite of the duchess’s request that Meredith work closely with him, she hadn’t had the chance. For this she was glad, because it also meant fewer encounters to tempt her.

  His Grace had obeyed her wishes not to say a word about their night at the tavern and to not even try to seduce her once more. No heated glances, no secret half smiles, no brushing of hands as they passed on the stairs or in the hall.

  This was good. Excellent. It proved that he was a decent gentleman. It kept her free to focus on attending to the duchess, and assisting her with the duke’s sisters because oh . . . Lud . . . the duke’s sisters were something else entirely.

  On Tuesday, they had spent hours learning to curtsy. Well, moments learning and hours practicing, until Bridget snuck off to the kitchens, Amelia wandered off to find her, and Claire shrugged at the lot of them and retired to her room to focus on her studies. That one was always studying.

  There were trips to the modiste in order to outfit the girls with complete wardrobes as befitting their new rank. There were trips to the milliner as well, the bookshop, the apothecary, et cetera, et cetera.

  And there were lessons in pouring tea and table manners, pianoforte and letter writing, elocution and English geography.

  Meredith remembered her own crash course in becoming a lady. She’d been merely twelve and had gone from keeping house for her parents to standing with books on her head and reciting all the kings and queens of England in chronological order until her accent was more like the duchess’s and less like her mother’s. She, too, had learned to quiet her inner wild spirit girl and learn to look and act Like A Lady.

  Today the lessons for the Cavendishes continued with dancing.

  This time, the duke was there, too.

  “Will you play one more time, Miss Green?” The duchess sounded only slightly exasperated to make the request. Again. She didn’t look nearly as frazzled as Monsieur Bellini, the dance instructor, a small spritely man, supposedly from Paris.

  Meredith gave a pleasant smile that gave no indication of her fatigue at playing the same bars of music again and again. And again.

  She dared a glance at the siblings over the pianoforte. James was taking turns leading each of his sisters; each one was a disaster in her own way. Bridget stepped on toes in spite of staring at her feet, Amelia was too jubilant in her movements, Claire was too stiff. James was too wooden.

  Meredith longed to have someone else play, so she might have a spin around the ballroom, feeling pretty, weightless, and glorious with her skirts swirling around her and her heart racing. She wished to put her hours of dancing lessons to use. But she rarely had an opportunity to dance, even when she attended balls. Because dancing was courtship and impoverished companions of duchesses were not courted.

  And so Meredith had been stuck on the sidelines, being a companion.

  Or, today, stuck on this bench, plunking out the same chords and melodies again and again. And again.

  At least the duke was a terrible dancer. That was her only comforting thought. Her visions of being swept around a ballroom in his arms would not happen. At least, not anytime soon, and not without hours and hours of practice.

  But the memory of being in his arms . . . she remembered the soft click of the door shutting behind them, the rustle of her dress as she lifted it off and dropped it to the floor, the heat of his body against her bare skin as he enveloped her in his arms and found her mouth for a kiss . . .

  “Miss Green?”

  “I’m sorry. I missed the chord.”

  “Try again. Everyone.” The duchess paused. “Actually, Miss Green, why don’t you demonstrate with the duke as your partner? Monsieur Bellini, you can play for this one.”

  “Of course,” Meredith murmured.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Her heart was pounding as she stood and stepped from behind the pianoforte.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  James’s eyes locked with hers and he stepped toward her.

  His eyes were blue. A deep, dark blue like the sea or the night sky. She remembered the thrill that had coursed through her when their gazes first locked across that crowded tavern and the thrill at the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at her. He had thought her pretty. He had thought her special.

  He saw her. For a woman who lived in the background, it was like stepping into the sunshine after weeks spent indoors while it rained.

  “Now, girls, watch their steps,” the duchess said. “And watch how Miss Green comports herself with restraint and elegance.”

  Restraint: not throwing herself into his arms and demanding that he carry her off to bed so they might start up where they had left off.

  Elegance: maintaining the proper placement of hands, steps of the dance, moving with grace, and observing all the rules.

  James reached for her hands.

  “No, you mustn’t forget the protocol,” the duchess cut in. “Though it may seem like an unnecessary extra step, it is all part of the ritual. One wouldn’t just pounce on a woman, would one?”

  “The answer to that better be no,” Claire remarked with her sisters giggling in the background.

  Like the perfect gentleman, James bowed before her. In spite of his longish hair and informal dress, it didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to envision him resplendent in evening clothes, bowing to a beautiful, gently bred woman at a ball. She felt a pang of longing.

  She foresaw hearts beating faster, flirtations, and swoons. There would be a run on smelling salts.

  Meredith curtsied in return. She had but this moment, in an empty, day-lit ballroom, wearing a simple morning dress, with an audience of family and an exasperated dancing instructor looking on.

  “May I have the honor of this dance?” His voice was low, and strong. And in the wrong accent, but one that sounded pleasing to her ears.

  “I would be honored, Your Grace,” she replied politely, in the correct accent.

  Monsieur Bellini struck u
p the chords. James clasped her hand and pressed his other palm on the small of her back.

  “Stronger,” she urged in a low voice. She felt his muscles engage. He stood taller, chest out, shoulders thrown back. “You must hold me tighter.”

  His grip tightened.

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, like that.”

  His eyes flashed.

  The music played: one, two, three, one, two, three. He held her like a man claiming his possession—keeping her close, his grasp strong. Together they moved, but she still controlled the direction.

  “As duke, and as the man, you must take the lead,” she said. But then she remembered his resistance to all that. So, dropping her voice lower so the others wouldn’t hear, she added, “Do with me what you will.”

  Her words had the desired effect. James took the lead, determining where the steps of the dance would take them. Her own movements softened as he took more control of their direction and she let herself get swept away.

  It was like that night . . . she remembered falling back onto the mattress. His arms, tense and strong as he lowered his weight onto hers. He took the lead in their lovemaking, nudging her legs apart and settling between them. She had softened, giving herself up to him . . .

  “Don’t look down, Your Grace. Your eyes can’t guide you. You must feel the rhythm of the music and move to that. A strong, steady, relentless rhythm.”

  James’s eyes darkened.

  She wasn’t talking about waltzing and he knew it.

  “Look at me. Drink me in.”

  He did, oh, he did. And she almost lost her own footing, except his had become sure, steady, and relentless. His grip on her was strong, his command of their performance complete. Every touch, every movement let her know, in no uncertain terms, that she could surrender, and he’d catch her.

  But this was just a waltz. Just a practice spin around the ballroom. Even if it felt like they were on the verge of making love. Even if it felt downright indecent to have an audience.

  “That is quite enough,” the duchess declared sharply. Her eyes were narrowed. Her Grace was no fool, and that made Meredith nervous. “Excellent demonstration, thank you. Monsieur Bellini, do stop the music.”