It's Hard Out Here for a Duke Page 7

  Marriage. Babies. Responsibilities. James would much rather be pondering the kissability of Meredith’s lips. And her earlobes—he remembered kissing and nibbling that sensitive spot, drawing a gasp from her lips. God, he loved that sound and longed to hear it again. He might even trade this dukedom for it.

  “It is a lot to prepare for,” Meredith said. “The newspapers—and the ton—are wondering if you are all ready. That is all.”

  She glanced from sibling to sibling, smiling so sweetly. As if she really believed that a pack of half-wild Americans might assimilate seamlessly into the world of English high society.

  It defied belief, given how their lessons had been going.

  James glanced at each of his sisters.

  Bridget had her elbows on the table and was hungrily eyeing more food—the duchess had her on a reducing diet, which he thought was stupid.

  Amelia was slouching in her seat, munching on a piece of bacon in her fingers, and taking great pleasure in doing so.

  Claire had that faraway look in her eyes, like she was performing some complicated calculation in her head.

  In contrast, both the duchess and Meredith sat with their spines straight and took impossibly small bites of toast and little delicate sips of tea. They somehow radiated elegance and refinement.

  For the first time, James began to genuinely worry about his sisters fitting in here. Or rather, what it would do to their spirits if they didn’t find friends and acceptance, and if the newspapers made cruel comments about them for all of London to read. He’d never forgive himself for subjecting them to English society if it broke their spirits.

  “Your Grace, the sisters have been attending to their lessons, and I’m certain they’ll be ready by the time of Lady Tunbridge’s ball,” Meredith said. But she didn’t mention him—why didn’t she mention him?

  “Will this ball be our debut?” Bridget asked eagerly.

  “Will we finally get to go out?” Amelia added, eyes lighting up at the prospect of leaving the house for something other than a shopping trip.

  “I have accepted an invitation on our behalf,” the duchess said. “It is to be your first introduction to society.”

  “If we’re ready,” Bridget said nervously. “I still don’t know the correct way to address the younger brother of a marquess.”

  “And we haven’t exactly mastered dancing,” Amelia added.

  “To say nothing of all the other little rules that keep cropping up,” Claire added. “Such as fans. Who knew fans could be so complicated?”

  James furrowed his brow. What the devil was she even talking about? And, damn, he didn’t know how to address the younger brother of a marquess, either, or how to do all the steps to a quadrille. And a million other things, probably.

  He glanced at Meredith, feeling something like despair, and surely, there was a plea for help in his eyes. She seemed to know all the same things as the duchess, and yet he’d rather hear it from her lips. Her kissable lips. With her in his arms, he could learn all and any dance steps. With her, he felt like he could, maybe, possibly, try to pull this off.

  “You will be ready,” Meredith replied evenly, holding his gaze.

  His anxious heartbeat eased up.

  “And if we’re not?” Bridget asked, worry plain on her face. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen her so worried—except, perhaps, when their mother was ill.

  “How ready do we really have to be? One hundred percent ready?” Amelia asked. “Must we have memorized all of Debrett’s already or is it enough to just be prepared to reply properly when we meet this mythical brother of a marquess?”

  Claire looked over at him, and they exchanged the sort of glances that older siblings responsible for younger ones did. They’re nervous. They’re worried. But I am, too. How can we console them?

  “You will be ready,” the duchess declared, not mincing any words or even tempering her tone to soothe their nerves. “There is no other option. Society is already aghast that a family from the colonies has inherited one of England’s most prestigious titles.”

  Former colonies, James corrected silently to himself. He saw Claire mouth the words as well.

  “They would closely watch anyone who came into a title or wealth,” she continued. “That you all have risen so high from so . . . far . . . only intensifies the attention that will be paid to you. One misstep and—”

  She paused. Dramatically.

  There was a quick intake of breath. Waiting.

  Her words hung in the air, like a sword hanging over one’s head.

  What would their fate be, should one of them make one misstep?

  “Once lost, you will find it difficult to recover their good opinion,” she finished. “Everything you do will be watched. Every interaction will set a precedent. All of it will determine whether you succeed or fail. And it should go without saying that failure is not an option.”

  Right. Great. Thanks to the blunt prophecy of the duchess, his sisters had all gone pale.

  Amelia straightened in her seat.

  Bridget set down the piece of toast she’d finally given in and taken a bite of.

  Even Claire was paying attention. He noticed her hands fidgeting in her skirts under the table, but her attentions were on the conversation and not sums in her head.

  Just like that they had changed. And just like that James felt a spark of anger.

  It was one thing for him to come and assume all the responsibilities of the title. It was another thing entirely for the duchess to set about extinguishing the spirits of his sisters: to make them sit up straight and still, to make them go hungry to fit into ridiculous dresses, to use their brains on fans and forms of address instead of real topics of importance.

  They were already starting to change and he didn’t like it.

  “Remind me again why we are supposed to care what anyone else thinks,” he challenged, as his sisters all turned their heads to face him. “Are we not wealthy? Do we not have a prestigious title? Am I not one of the highest-ranking men in any given room in this whole blasted country? Surely that must count for something.”

  In perfect synchronicity, his sisters swiveled their heads away from him to the other end of the table for the duchess’s response.

  “Of course it counts. But it isn’t everything.” And then the duchess’s gaze focused sharply on him. “You wouldn’t like to compromise your sisters’ marital prospects, now would you, Duke? Any hint of scandal or uncivilized behavior will lead to questions and gossip and diminished prospects.”

  Three familiar brunette heads turned back to him.

  “I thought we were clear that there was no rush to marry them off.”

  Heads turned back to the duchess.

  “And if they should meet someone who would make a fine match? What if one of your sisters falls in love? Will you really have such a reputation that would make a respectable gentleman think twice about aligning his family with ours?”

  His sisters now all turned their heads to face him, with nearly identical expressions, all asking him the same thing with their eyes, what will you do for us, dear brother?

  The answer, of course, was anything.

  He would do anything to see them happy.

  He had promised their parents to love and protect them and ensure that they were happy. But even if he hadn’t been beholden by a deathbed promise, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for them.

  But that meant . . . he ruthlessly shoved a handful of his hair back from his face . . . fuck . . . that meant . . .

  He felt the walls closing in. His chest tightening.

  “What the duchess is trying to convey is that our reputations are all connected. We shall rise—or fall—as a household together,” Meredith explained.

  And he was beginning to understand that whatever there was between them would never be just about them—Just James and a girl he met in a tavern one night. His life would never be that simple again. And his life would never just be his o
wn.

  He would have to try at this duke business. That much was plain.

  Not because he wanted to, or because it mattered to him. He couldn’t ruin the future happiness of his sisters because he refused to be bothered with some paperwork, learning to waltz, or knowing how to properly address people, second sons of marquesses or whatever they may be.

  James swallowed hard.

  “So tell me, Duchess, what are the papers saying about us already? What must we overcome?”

  She smiled, like a general who’d just won a pivotal battle in a war. Like she could taste triumph and it was sweet. She snapped open a newspaper and began to read aloud.

  “This author has it on excellent authority that the Cavendish family arrived more than a week earlier, though they have yet to make an appearance, however informal, in society. The Duchess of Durham is keeping the Cavendish siblings hidden away—one wonders what she is hiding. Though given that they hail from a remote outpost of civilization, one must marvel at the task she has in civilizing this pack of Americans.

  “That was from The London Weekly.”

  She cleared her throat and selected a different newspaper to read from.

  “The Cavendish sisters were finally spotted! The Duchess of Durham was seen escorting three dark-haired women of marriageable age to Madame Auteuil’s salon, where they spent six hours being outfitted for new wardrobes. One presumes their attire from the former colonies is unsuitable—one imagines bearskins and Chieftain headdresses, plain homespun gowns and buckled shoes. The duchess will have quite the task of polishing these rocks into diamonds of the first water.

  “That was from the Morning Post.”

  “That is hardly fair to my sisters.”

  “You will learn, Duke, that the London press—or society—is hardly fair or kind. And they have not ignored you, either.”

  Relentlessly, she picked up yet another news sheet to read from.

  “My spies report that when the new Duke of Durham is not busy learning estate business, he is to be found mucking about with horses like a common laborer. One hopes that one will not detect the whiff of the stables on the person possessing one of England’s most prestigious titles. What a harbinger of the downfall of English society that would be.”

  “That’s enough, Your Grace,” he said sharply.

  He had begun the meal thinking of nothing more than Meredith’s kissable lips. And what opportunities might come his way to kiss, nibble, taste, and savor them.

  By the time he strode away from the breakfast table that morning, the kissable lips of Miss Meredith Green were the least of his concerns. Though they still might be the stuff of his dreams, his waking hours were now to be consumed with Becoming A Duke.

  A title is not enough. It is essential to look the part as well.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  The duke’s private chambers

  Merely possessing the title was not enough to truly make one a duke. Neither was learning the orders of precedence or familiarizing himself with the business of his various estates.

  Something had to be done about his hair. Something also had to be done with his wardrobe, from his cravat to his muddied boots. And his fingernails—something needed to be done about those, too. What man bothered overmuch with his fingernails?

  This was the opinion of the duchess, of course, not necessarily one James shared. But apparently hers—and his valet’s—were the only opinions that mattered. So much for being the most important, most high-ranking, and most powerful person in any given room. In matters of style, his opinion mattered not at all.

  James stood still, annoyed, as the duchess and his valet, Edwards—a spry, well-dressed man in his thirties—appraised his appearance. An appearance, James would like to note, that never drew complaints from women.

  “My dear Mr. Edwards—” the duchess began, while looking critically at James. And then she was at a loss for words. This was rare and thus hardly encouraging. James scowled.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Something must be done about His Grace.” She waved her hand in the general direction of his person.

  “Indeed.” Edwards murmured his agreement.

  Duke and valet shared A Look because the Good Lord knew that Edwards had tried. But James, the reluctant duke, had brushed off his efforts. This, then, was revenge or vindication or something of the sort. Honestly, James felt a quake of fear at the eagerness in his valet’s eyes, to say nothing of the scissors in his hand.

  “I have tried to make adjustments to his appearance, Your Grace,” Edwards said, throwing James under the carriage wheels.

  “I know you have, Mr. Edwards,” she said, consolingly. “He is a stubborn one.”

  “You do realize that I am right here, in attendance, with my hearing intact,” James pointed out.

  “I trust you to make the necessary improvements, Mr. Edwards. The future of Durham depends on it.”

  Well now, that was laying it on a bit thick, was it not?

  One look at Edwards confirmed it was not. It did seem that the state of his fingernails and the length of his hair would have serious consequences for the future of a dukedom that had lasted hundreds of years and survived actual wars.

  “I would be honored, Your Grace,” Edwards said gravely, as if entrusted with a sacred mission.

  “I trust that His Grace will be amenable to your efforts,” she said, leveling a stare at James, as if he were a mucky schoolboy who hadn’t washed behind his ears. That wasn’t fair; he was a clean person. He just happened to favor simple clothes and hair that was a bit longer than fashionable, apparently.

  The cutting commentary from gossip columns was still echoing in his brain, which had something to do with why he was submitting himself to this frank appraisal of his person and whatever else would come next. Wouldn’t do to have the future happiness of his sisters ruined because there was something wrong with his cravat.

  “Best get to work then,” James said with a sigh, pushing his hair back from his face.

  “I’ll start with the hair,” Edwards said.

  “Excellent idea,” the duchess replied.

  Until then, James had been able to order his valet to back off, in so many words, when the man made suggestions as to how he might better present himself. But now, with the duchess’s explicit orders and James’s reluctant determination to Become A Duke for the sake of his sisters’ happiness, the man was given free rein to take this horse trainer from America and turn him into a proper duke.

  His longish hair was the first to go.

  Edwards sat him down and came at him with a pair of scissors. Each snip was followed by a wince as locks fell around him. It was just hair. He wasn’t Samson and Edwards wasn’t Delilah. But damn, if it didn’t feel like his old self, his real self, was being cut away with each lock that fell to the floor, to be swept away and thrown out with the cinders from the fireplaces.

  “This cut is more fashionable,” Edwards explained.

  “One must be fashionable,” James said, because it seemed like the thing to say.

  “It is vastly preferable to being unfashionable.”

  Snip, snip, snip. Locks of hair fell around him. So much that James worried there wouldn’t be any left.

  Finally, Edwards set down the scissors. James ran his fingers through his hair, relieved to find some still left on his head. It felt so strange.

  A shave was next. While Edwards readied the accouterments, he caught James looking around for a mirror to see what the damage was already.

  “Not yet, Your Grace. I suggest that you wait until the transformation is complete before taking a look. Now please, lie back and remain still.”

  James did as he was told; it was the thing to do when a man had a razor at your throat.

  Edwards’s ministrations didn’t stop with the haircut and shave. The duke’s hands were next. James didn’t quite see the point of that, given that they would be so often clad in gloves.

  “You like to
work with your hands,” Edwards observed. It was quite obvious—James’s hands were strong, and tanned by the sun, calloused from gripping leather reins and lead ropes woven from hemp, and nicked, burned, and scarred from a lifetime of doing things. For instance, there was a round, silver scar near the base of his thumb, a relic from the day he’d helped his father build a fence in the south field.

  “You could say that,” James replied.

  “We must hide evidence of it. A man of your station would never have the hands of a common laborer.”

  “Of course not,” James said dryly. The worst a duke’s hands might suffer were ink stains from all the damned correspondence and whatnot that piled up on the desk in the study. But then again, he had a secretary to do the writing for him, if he wished it.

  “Fortunately there are things we can do. Crèmes, gloves, treatments, and such,” Edwards said as he worked, filing his nails.

  James exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He was proud of his strong, beat-up hands that accomplished things and knew how to touch a woman. If he had to hide them—fine. He would hide that part of himself, though he couldn’t bring himself to stop doing those things completely. And maybe that was the key to surviving this duke business—he could continue to be himself on the sly.

  And now Edwards was massaging his hands, rubbing in one rough potion to smooth away callouses, another to lighten his sun-browned skin, and something else entirely to moisturize. Everything stank of perfume and flowers and girl. And now he would, too.

  “Voila! The hands of a gentleman.”

  James held up his hands for a look and was relieved to see his scars remained. There, something of his true and former self that couldn’t be erased.

  “Your first set of clothing from the tailor has arrived,” Edwards continued. “I took the liberty of ordering jackets, waistcoats, breeches, shirts, and other items of necessity. The rest of your new wardrobe will be arriving in the coming days. I daresay we selected very well.”

  By we, Edwards really meant himself. James’s sole contribution had been standing still enough to be measured.