It's Hard Out Here for a Duke Read online

  Eventually the transformation was completed. James had been bathed. His hair shorn, his face shaved, his hands manicured. He donned his new, ducal clothes, all polished, pressed, and starched.

  When he was finally permitted to stand before the mirror, he had one thought: show pony. He was all done up like a show pony.

  As such, James hardly recognized himself. This man, with his pale breeches, silk waistcoat, snowy white linen, and expertly tailored jacket, did not clean out a horse’s stall. These manicured hands did not clean hooves. This man did not sweat, or labor in the hot sun, or make love to women he met in taverns after just one night.

  This man was refined, mannered, restrained.

  “What do you think, Your Grace?”

  “It’s not me.”

  “Yes, but it’s the man you must become.”

  Chapter 5

  Tonight society is on tenterhooks awaiting the debut of the new Duke of Durham. His Grace and his three sisters are expected to make an appearance at Lady Tunbridge’s ball, which promises to be a crush.

  —Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly

  After assisting the Cavendish siblings with their lessons, Meredith would not be present to witness their first foray into society. The duchess had no need of a companion at balls now that she had her nieces and nephew.

  Instead, Meredith watched from the stairs as they all prepared to depart, a last-minute flurry of activity involving the gathering of hats and gloves and quick peeks in the mirror.

  The ladies were beautiful, dressed in the first stare of fashion: high-waisted white dresses made with layers of silk and lace, delicate beadwork and intricate embroidery. Their dark hair was curled and styled with strands of pearls.

  The duchess had even dipped into the vault to find a piece of jewelry from the family collection for each of the girls—sapphire ear bobs from the previous duchess, a diamond necklace passed down for ages, an emerald brooch.

  If Bridget, Claire, and Amelia stood very still and did not speak, they could certainly pass as perfect English ladies.

  The duchess herself looked as commanding and elegant as always in a dark green satin gown decorated with silver embroidery. But tonight, Meredith noticed something else enhanced her look: pride.

  The duchess never had children of her own, and Meredith knew it had long been a source of private anguish, but now she had four to shepherd through society. This was the task she’d been born and raised to do.

  While her flock might not be exactly one hundred percent ready for the onslaught of the haute ton, they had come so far in their dress and manner. They at least looked the part, which was half the battle.

  And then there was the duke.

  James now looked every inch the part of His Grace, the Duke of Durham. From the tips of his highly polished shoes to the intricate and crisp knot of his cravat and the royal blue of his jacket, the man had been transformed. His hair had been shorn, his simple attire exchanged for clothes of the finest quality, all declaring that he was a man of great significance and importance. Meredith could scarcely find traces of the man she’d met in Southampton, which only exacerbated the distance she felt between them.

  Whether it was the clothes or he was simply coming into his role, there was something different in the way he held himself. Almost like . . . a duke.

  The ladies were all going to swoon.

  Meredith was glad she wouldn’t be there to watch it.

  Or so she told herself.

  James stepped aside to let the ladies exit the house first, and they did, bustling out to the carriage in a flurry of ruffled hems and girlish chatter.

  James paused and turned to look at her. Her heart ached because there was real longing in his eyes, and she was sure she couldn’t hide her own.

  “I wish you were joining me,” he said softly.

  Not us. Me.

  She wanted to say, I as well. But there were footmen in the foyer and ladies’ maids bustling about, any of whom might hear and gossip about a moment suggesting intimacy and tenderness between the mere companion and the lofty duke on the night his bride hunt officially began.

  James stepped outside, into the night, and toward his future. One that certainly wouldn’t include her.

  The butler shut the door behind him.

  All the servants carried on with their duties.

  Meredith was left alone.

  Lady Tunbridge’s Ball

  James had never felt so alone as he did now in this crowded ballroom. There was more wealth on display than he’d ever seen or imagined. Towering chandeliers of beeswax candles hung from the ceiling, everything was gilt in gold, servants glided through the throngs of people carrying trays of crystal flutes full of champagne. The crowds were full of formally dressed men and women decked in silks and satins, dripping with jewels. Somewhere, an orchestra played.

  And here he was, just a horse farmer from the former colonies.

  “The Duke of Durham,” some distinguished gray-haired gentleman announced in a booming voice, followed by the announcement of the duchess and his sisters.

  The people fell silent, save for the rustle of those silks and satins and the clink of champagne glasses, and some soft notes of the orchestra, hidden somewhere.

  The crowd turned to get their first good look at them.

  Discovery: Fancy people gawk, too.

  Oh, they did so elegantly, with lips pursed instead of mouths gaping open, like carp. Eyebrows were arched. They tried, at least, to be discreet about gossiping to their neighbors by hiding behind their fans. But it was plain to see that he and his sisters were objects of fascination.

  He flexed his gloved hand, wanting to reach for Meredith’s in order to feel some measure of comfort and security. He would have to face all this without her by his side. Correction: now he’d never felt so alone.

  He had his sisters instead, and it seemed they were as awed and terrified as he.

  “We’re not in America anymore,” Amelia said quietly.

  “Definitely not,” Claire agreed.

  “Remember what I taught you,” the duchess murmured.

  The four Cavendishes exchanged expressions of oh hell and damnation. It was probably safe to say they hadn’t learned half of what the duchess had taught them, and at least half of that had fled their brains at the moment.

  He remembered one thing, though.

  One thing that Meredith had taught him, impressed upon him, reminded him time and again, in all those duke lessons. You’re the duke now.

  It was what she’d been trying to tell him that night on the servants’ stairs; he’d thought it was just a rejection, but it was also a gift. He was the duke now.

  Everyone present—from the fancy folks gawking at them to his sisters fidgeting nervously by his side—was counting on him to play the part of powerful, high-ranking, and supremely self-assured duke. The truth of it was a weight on his chest, impressing on him how he had to conduct himself. In other words, stifling his urge to turn on his heel and flee.

  He imagined that if Meredith were here, she would give him A Look. The kind that said, I know you know how to take charge. I know you know what to do. Think of them as a pack of horses and be you.

  He straightened his shoulders and said, “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Now that they’ve had a good look at you, it is time for introductions,” the duchess said, smiling graciously at the crowd before her. With that, she swept forward with four Cavendish siblings trailing in her wake. The night had only just begun.

  Meanwhile at Durham House . . .

  There was nothing but silence in the house. Any activity was taking place below stairs, where Meredith wouldn’t hear it from her modest bedchamber in the family’s wing.

  It weighed on her, that silence, as she closed her eyes to imagine the luscious sounds of an orchestra, the sparkling of women’s laughter, and the clink of champagne glasses and all the other sounds of a ball.

  Meredith wanted to bel
ong.

  She wanted to be herself, but still belong. As it was, she didn’t quite belong anywhere.

  Meredith opened her eyes and, for the first time, looked around her chamber with the point of view of James. She saw not the luxury and privilege that she was lucky to experience, but something akin to a cage. As long as she inhabited this world, she had to abide by its rules—rules that cared little for the contents of her heart or aspirations. Rules that kept her quiet and in her place at home, not whirling around a ballroom.

  Just as James had to follow the strict rules set out for dukes. He had a duty to his family, the title, the dukedom, and those who relied on it for their livelihood. He was never to be hers.

  She had her duty to the duchess. Meredith reminded herself of this as she sat at home, alone, while the family was out at a ball and she was left behind. She was never to be his.

  It could be worse: she could be shut away in that little cottage in Hampshire, tending to her mother, and lacking other company. It was almost funny—she was considered “too lofty” by the townspeople she’d grown up with and not sufficiently suitable for the haute ton, both because of her position.

  She didn’t belong anywhere except here, in a position that she didn’t dare lose. A position that kept her tantalizingly close to the man she shouldn’t love.

  Meredith couldn’t sit still. A novel lay open on her bed, flung aside when she couldn’t concentrate on Pamela’s repeated efforts to rebuff Lord B’s advances. Her embroidery was left unfinished, with needle and thread dangling precariously.

  The reason, of course, was James.

  No, His Grace.

  It was excruciating to think of him flirting and dancing with fancy ladies while she sat at home reading silly novels about servant girls snaring the master of the house.

  All the fancy, suitable ladies.

  The ones with titles and lofty ancestry. The ones with vast tracts of land and hefty dowries. Meredith knew her education and manners rivaled any of theirs—the duchess had seen to that. But as the daughter of commoners, she didn’t have status or pedigree.

  She would never be considered a suitable bride.

  And as long as James was still his authentic, humble, and honest American self, who didn’t care about such things, she might have a chance.

  But Meredith saw him transforming before her eyes, learning the ropes and learning the rules of being a duke. Tonight he was stepping more into the role.

  She may have looked and acted the part of devoted lady’s companion, but tonight, the cracks started to form.

  Lady Tunbridge’s Ball

  They may have looked the part of wealthy, powerful duke and his family, but James could tell their manners and knowledge of the rules still left something to be desired. The pinched lips hiding smirks of disapproval proved it.

  The duchess performed introductions, and at least one of the Cavendishes managed to bungle it. Every time.

  “And this is the Marquess of Ives.”

  “I thought we already met the marquess,” Bridget whispered a touch too loudly. “Or was that a different one? How many marquesses are we going to meet anyway?”

  “How charming,” said marquess remarked dryly.

  Or they all failed another conversation:

  “And how are you finding London?” some lord inquired politely, a well-dressed and coiffed lady hanging on his arm. The correct answer was It’s splendid! It’s incomparable!

  Amelia did not provide the correct answer.

  “I’d like it more if we might visit the sights instead of learning how to pour tea and address all the fancy folks here. Say, are you the second son of a marquess by any chance? I did look up how to address him, whoever he is.”

  “I’m keen to visit the Royal Society to further my study of mathematics,” Claire said. “That is one area in which America does not yet compare to London.”

  Her attempt to be diplomatic and offer some sort of compliment failed.

  “How funny! She wishes to study math!” Lady Whoever said, laughing. “You both must take a visit to Bond Street. Such shopping is unrivaled anywhere in the world, perhaps even Paris!”

  “Duchess, didn’t you say there were three sisters? Where is the other one?”

  They all turned, looking around the ballroom for Bridget, whom they had apparently lost in the crush, only to watch her slip and fall right on her backside, in the middle of the dance floor.

  James winced and started toward his sister.

  “No, wait.” The duchess held him back, and they watched as two gentlemen—young, presumably titled and suitable gentlemen—rushed to her assistance.

  Matchmaking at its finest.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that ladies love dukes. LOVE THEM.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  James Cavendish never had much trouble attracting women. He had the hair that fell forward into his sparkling blue eyes, a mouth that tipped up into one hell of a smile, and a kind and charming manner. As the new Duke of Durham he had even less trouble.

  The haircut and fashionable clothes didn’t hurt. Neither did his young age, or the fact that he had all of his teeth—which could not be said of many other eligible lords. Taken all together with his title, and the promise of prestige and riches that came with it, and the women swarmed.

  They swarmed like flies around horseshit.

  There was Lady Isabella Bradford, a petite blonde with flushed cheeks and bright blue eyes, who seemed very eager to meet him.

  “Good evening, Your Grace. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  She batted her eyes prettily. Her fat, blonde curls shook as she giggled and tilted her head . . . prettily. Unfortunately, she reminded him of one of Bridge’s toy dolls from ages ago—before Amelia took it on an extended camping adventure. That thought put an end to any potential romantic inclinations.

  But her brother, the Marquess of Wickham, was overheard to say, “Well, he cleans up better than expected.”

  “I’ll pass your compliments to my valet,” James murmured, leaving Lord Wickham red-faced.

  There was also Miss Nigella Banks, a statuesque brunette beauty with full red lips, a striking contrast to the white gown she wore. All the debutantes wore them to signal their virginal status.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” she cooed. “I look forward to properly welcoming you to London.”

  Nigella bit her lip and gazed at him. For a mere second James was almost taken in by the combination of virginal innocence and minxish flirtation. Almost. But he knew women like that were nothing but trouble.

  As James walked away, he overheard someone laugh about catching “a whiff of the stables in the ballroom.”

  He wanted to say the stench was actually a big, stinking pile of bullshit, which is what this whole societal farce was, in his mind. But he knew better; there was no eau de anything wafting through the ballroom.

  Just one American who happened to outrank them, and who happened to think this ranking business was stupid.

  He also happened to be swarmed by all the eligible ladies in the ballroom.

  It was clear to anyone and everyone that James could have his pick of these women. And by God he would, if the duchess had anything to do with it.

  Since the duchess did have everything to do with it, he danced.

  There was the girl who peppered him with questions about America. There was another girl who kept making faces at her friends. When he pointed out that he could see her, she turned a bright, beet red and he was sorry for embarrassing her. Some ladies were flirty, and a few were excellent demonstrations of that English reserve he had heard about.

  None of them were Meredith. None of them brought out the duke in him, or made the waltz into a devastatingly erotic and frustrating dance around the room, as she had done.

  He was dancing with a horse-faced girl when he caught his sisters laughing at him from the sidelines of the ballroom. Frankly, he couldn’t blame them.

  He
should probably say something to this girl.

  But he could feel her noxious mix of disdain for him (dancing with a horse breeder, how crude!) and wanting (a duke!).

  James Cavendish never had any trouble attracting women, and when he did, he knew they wanted him for him.

  James the duke knew why these women were after him: the title, and only the title.

  Chapter 6

  The fate of the dukedom often rests upon how His Grace conducts himself in society.

  —The Rules for Dukes

  Later that night

  It was late when the family returned home and Meredith went to see to Her Grace, carrying a glass of sherry on a tray. It was their evening ritual. Tonight, she half wanted, half dreaded to hear a report on the evening.

  She saw immediately that the duchess wore her expression of I-would-despair-if-it-weren’t-such-a-low-class-thing-to-do. Meredith knew right away that the evening hadn’t gone well.

  “I can take over now, Betsy,” Meredith told the duchess’s lady’s maid.

  “How was the ball, Your Grace?”

  “It was a disaster.”

  Somehow, the duchess managed to sip sherry through tightly pursed lips.

  “It could not have been that bad,” Meredith replied. The duchess had exceedingly high standards; to fall short of them was still to do well. But Her Grace gave a sharp look in the mirror to indicate that it was, indeed, that bad.

  “Lady Bridget fell and lay sprawled upon the floor. Lady Claire could not hide her boredom if her life depended on it, which it does, though I cannot seem to impress it upon her. She already has a reputation as a bluestocking, which will hardly serve her well. Lady Amelia mentioned riding astride on their farm, so now everyone thinks her a hoyden at best. That one will be the death of me, I am sure of it.”

  This did sound bad. And it did, to be sure, sound like the Cavendish siblings as Meredith had come to know them: exuberant, straightforward, refusing to dissemble.