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“A-A DUKE?” MARGARET sputtered, regretting she’d taken that sip of tea. The hot liquid sloshed through her throat as she spoke, and she coughed.
Concern shown in the duke’s gaze.
“I’m afraid I misheard you,” she said. “Perhaps I developed a cold on the way home last night.”
The concern in his eyes grew.
Dukes weren’t supposed to be pleasant people. Dukes were supposed to be vile. Hadn’t their ancestors achieved their titles through a combination of battle and a willingness to slash other people’s heads off? Hadn’t dukes possessed an equal amiableness to socialize with Britain’s consistently corrupt leaders, who when there was no war, still found an excuse to kill people?
The Duke of Jevington didn’t meet those expectations. After all, he’d been shocked last night, but his face hadn’t turned purple, and his fingers hadn’t formed fists.
But what he’d said now must have been a mistake. Because it sounded as if—she shook her head. Naturally, he wasn’t suggesting he should marry her.
Even though he was a duke.
Even though she’d never met any other dukes.
“Excuse me?” she asked finally, because staring dumbly was unlikely to be considered polite.
“I said you need to marry,” the duke said patiently.
“And what did you say after that?” Her voice squeaked, and she cleared her throat, though the action did not relieve the sudden tightness in her chest.
His lips spread into their customary smile. The man was a paragon for politeness.
Perhaps the duke was accustomed to women being astounded in his presence, though it wasn’t his exquisite symmetrical features, his tallness and his manner of fitting his attire with a skill normally reserved for mannequins, that left her on edge: it was his words.
“I said I would help you,” he said gently, as if he were a tutor and she were a comprehension-challenged pupil.
She nodded.
“And then I said I would find you a duke.”
Her eyes widened. The man had said the word again.
He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “A duke.”
She stared at him.
But he’d clearly said duke. Multiple times. She’d thought her heart had quickened when she’d seen him before, but now it careened.
Perhaps he was teasing her.
Yet his eyes seemed kind, and she doubted he had any acquaintances hiding behind the chaise whom he wanted to make laugh.
Suddenly, the room seemed devoid of air, despite the generous sizes of the windows and ample square footage.
The man was so close.
Close enough to sweep her in his arms.
Close enough for their lips to meet.
Close enough...
She stepped away hastily, bumping into a sideboard. The wooden edge poked her leg, and an oriental vase wobbled precariously, sending flower petals tumbling.
He grasped her elbow with one hand, and energy thrummed through her body.
“I-I don’t understand,” she stammered finally, not wanting to glance at her grandmother, lest even her expression be filled with mirth.
Normally, Margaret understood things.
It was one of her good qualities.
One of her few good qualities.
“I thought your mother would prefer a duke. Unless, you don’t like dukes?” A hurt expression flitted on his face.
“I don’t abhor dukes.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
He beamed, and the world seemed good again.
“But there’s one problem,” she said. “How do you expect a duke to marry me? I hope you’re not planning to take inspiration from my mother and plan on sneaking me into various residences belonging to your ducal friends and tie me up to their bedposts.”
His lips twitched. “I have no attention of putting your wrists through that.”
“Oh.”
He took her hands, then traced her wrists. “Are you still in pain?”
Margaret shook her head. “Pain is the last thing I’m thinking of.”
For some reason Grandmother Agatha laughed from her position on the chaise, but she quickly busied herself by pouring more tea.
The duke dropped her hands slowly, as if remembering that touching them ranged on the improper. “They’ll fall in love with you.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. The man must be mad.
“A love match is the easiest solution to your lack of noble blood,” he said. “Don’t you agree?”
She nodded, still astounded. “But there are only seven unmarried dukes in Britain.”
“And one of them is a nonagenarian,” he said. “Not an ideal match, even for your mother. But the others are sterling candidates.”
“One of them is betrothed to my friend.”
“You’re acquainted with Lady Juliet?”
She nodded, still feeling a tinge of regret she hadn’t been able to see her at the ball. What must Juliet and Genevieve think of her absence? When they’d been in finishing school, Juliet had urged them to start a Duke Hunters Club. Juliet had been the only one to succeed. She’d also been the only one to attempt it.
Jasper scrunched his forehead. “I hadn’t realized they were still...”
Margaret looked at him sharply, and his cheeks grew ruddy.
“Well, I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“He does favor the Lake District,” Margaret said.
The duke nodded. “I suspected something might have happened between them, but clearly he just wants to spend time at his estate.”
“Estates are difficult to manage,” Margaret said, before remembering the duke was well acquainted with that fact and was managing from afar.
“Quite. No doubt he wants to make certain it’s perfect before the wedding.”
Margaret’s shoulders eased. “No doubt.”
“And—er—they will soon have a lifetime together. The others are still eligible.”
“How precisely do you mean for one of them to propose?” Margaret asked. “I can’t even get into Almack’s.”
“Few people can get into Almack’s. The proprietresses don’t want everyone to know about the horribleness of their cake.” He shuddered, and she found herself smiling.
“I don’t think that secret is very well hidden.”
“To taste it is another thing,” the duke said.
“Quite unlike your sweets,” Grandmother Agatha interjected.
“Ah, that is the work of Chef Parfait.”
“Is that his true surname?” Margaret asked.
Jasper scrunched up his forehead, giving him the appearance of a boy attempting to divide fractions for the first time. “You know... I never asked. But I find it describes him admirably. As for finding a husband for you... I will have a house party. These things normally take care of themselves after that.”
“Oh?”
“My estate is quite conducive to romance,” he said modestly.
“So, you’ll have a whole house party to find me a husband?”
“Naturally.”
The duke paced the room. Energy wafted through him, and his strides were longer than necessary for the room.
“Thankfully, it’s the end of the season, and everyone is still in town. I’ll invite them to my Dorset residence for a long weekend.” He turned to her abruptly. “Does that work for you?”
“Did you say Dorset?” she squeaked.
He nodded. “Unless you would prefer my Surrey estate?”
“Not necessarily. Where in Dorset is your estate?”
“By the coast,” he said. “So rather a farther drive. But it’s quite pretty. Appropriate for all this warm weather.”
Heavens.
Dorset was where all those wonderful fossils had been discovered.
Fossils that seemed to be of huge, wingless reptiles.
Incredible fossils.
Margaret knew she should refuse. And yet— For a blissful moment she imagined wandering the Dorset coast, and her heartbeat raced.
“Are you quite well?” the duke asked.
“My granddaughter has read about Dorset,” Grandmother Agatha said.
“Good things, I hope?” the duke’s eyes glimmered.
Margaret’s cheeks warmed, but she managed to nod.
“Well then.” The duke shot her another grin, the type that managed to send an ache through her heart as surely as if he’d stabbed it with a bow. “It’s decided. Is three weeks from now fine?”
“My schedule is free,” she said faintly.
“Excellent.” The duke ushered her from the townhouse. The man seemed to bounce when he walked. She’d never met anyone like him.
He can’t mean it.
He rubbed his hands together. “It will be jolly good to see everyone together.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
She’d come to see him, but she lacked any control in the conversation. The point hadn’t been for him to crown himself matchmaker: she’d simply asked him to dance with her at a single ball.
Nervousness fluttered through her. Spending a long weekend with a group of dukes seemed a particularly unrelaxing way to while about the time. Dukes were most likely to be well versed in the intricacies in etiquette, a trait she did not share.
She refrained from speaking. Speaking might lead her to tell him that his plan was absurd. People didn’t simply suggest she married a duke. Dukes were the very pinnacle of society. They outranked marquesses, earls, viscounts and barons. And she was Margaret Carberry. When a duke married, he would select someone similar to himself: someone with a title, someone whom people extolled for their skills in water coloring, crocheting and beauty maintenance.
The duke beamed at her. There was something so appealing in his grin that she didn’t want to say that his idea was in any manner lacking.
Grandmother Agatha rose. She’d seemed focused on her tea, but perhaps she’d been following the conversation. “It’s time for us to go. We have many engagements.”
Margaret’s eyebrows rose, but Grandmother Agatha smiled innocently at the duke.
“Ah, naturally.” The duke scratched the back of his neck absent-mindedly. “Then I will see you in Dorset.”
“In Dorset,” Margaret squeaked.
Grandmother Agatha took Margaret’s arm, and they left the townhouse. The carriage was waiting for them outside, and she helped her grandmother into it.
“What a nice young man,” Grandmother Agatha said.
“Yes,” Margaret agreed. “Though I don’t think he will truly invite me to his castle.”
“He did say he would, my dear. Honor is important to the right sort of man, and the duke is the right sort of man.”
Margaret and Grandmother soon returned to the townhouse. Margaret nodded to the butler, hoping not to enter into conversation. The sooner she could slink upstairs the better. Margaret hadn’t seen her mother since last night and she had no desire to quicken that questionable pleasure.
Footsteps sounded from the drawing room, and Margaret braced herself.
“You’ve returned!” Mama said.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been besieged with worry.” Mama clasped her hands together, resembling a Renaissance pieta painting.
Margaret raised her eyebrows, and Mama’s cheeks pinkened. She turned around. “Well—you shouldn’t have left with your grandmother.”
“We just returned from a drive,” Grandmother Agatha said.
Margaret and Mama both turned to her, but Grandmother Agatha nodded firmly. “To a lovely section of London.”
Grandmother Agatha’s expression exuded innocence. White curls had a habit of imbuing one with an angelic appearance, as if one had stepped from a gossamer cloud, and Grandmother’s head was covered with them.
“Well.” Mama scrunched her thin lips. “I suppose that isn’t unreasonable.”
“Er—yes. I should go to my room,” Margaret squeaked, hastening up the steps.
Mama hadn’t spoken of last night’s adventures, and Margaret had no desire to raise the subject. She suspected her behavior had made her opinion clear.
Margaret entered her bedroom and headed for her bookcase. She perused her trusty collection of books. She needed something to distract herself. She moved her hand across the familiar spines. Even reading about the classification of birds seemed of less immediate interest than normal.
She needed something to distract herself from memories of the duke’s chiseled face and of his easy affability, something to make her no longer think of the energy that had swirled through her when he’d caught her from falling, and something to make his sonorous tenor voice no longer ring in her thoughts.
Margaret selected her favorite book anyway and turned the pages. Birds flickered over the page.
“Darling!” Mama’s voice boomed through the townhouse with a force most opera singers would envy. “You have an invitation.”
Margaret placed her book down, and her heartbeat quickened. She recalled the duke’s conversation. Was this invitation to visit him?
The thought was absurd. The duke might have convinced himself when she was there that he would assist her in acquiring a husband, but surely, at some point, wouldn’t he have changed his mind?
“Margaret!” Mama’s voice thundered. “It’s from the duke.”
“The duke?” Papa’s voice sounded from the library.
There were few things that caused Margaret’s father to remove his gaze from his business ledgers.
Apparently, this invitation was one of them.
Margaret closed her book, left her room and hurried down the corridor. She moved swiftly. This place was so new, it lacked the abundance of sideboards, vases, and oriental carpets that dotted the townhouses of the ton. Since the English forbade Scottish from wearing tartan, Margaret’s mother had dutifully tossed out all reminders of Scotland from the house. Her sacrifice proved unnecessary: the English now embraced everything Scottish, lauding Sir Walter Scott’s poetry with particular glee. No ancestors stared at her from gilt-framed portraits. Papa was the first Carberry to have made the name significant.
Mama continued to wail, and Margaret sprinted down the steps. The butler shot her a disapproving look, and Margaret slowed her pace.
No doubt the butler’s past employers had not raced about the townhouse.
No doubt the butler’s past employers had also refrained themselves from using every volume level when they spoke.
Margaret rounded the corner and found her mother in the drawing room. Part of a scarlet seal lay on the table, as if Mama had hastily opened the letter clutched in her hand.
“The man must have been so overcome by the sight of you,” Margaret’s mother exclaimed. “He has invited you to his castle for the weekend. Imagine that!”
Margaret sat on a chaise as her father entered the room. Lily strode beside him, wagging her tail, as if excited at the unexpected excursion from the library to the drawing room. Most days Lily lay curled at Papa’s feet.
“I’m certain I’m not invited there alone,” Margaret said.
Mama beamed but scanned the letter, as if to ascertain its contents. “Oh, indeed! I am invited. As is your dear father and—” she frowned, “your grandmother. Most curious.”
“Lily must come too,” Papa announced.
At the sound of her name, Lily rose. Sunbeams shone through the lace curtains, and Lily’s short white coat gleamed. Nothing else about Lily was diminutive.
Mama dropped the invitation, then hastily picked it up. “Not Lily.”
“Nonsense. A castle will suit her admirably.”
“But Lily is so...”
Papa gave Mama a confrontational glance, and she hesitated.
“Why, she’s large,” Mama said, her voice wobbling.
“I cannot come without Lily.” Papa declared and petted Lily.
“Then your daughter cannot be married. For if you do not attend, how can the duke be reassured of the pleasantness of your nature?”
“I am certain the duke has no interest in my nature,” Papa said. “He is a young man. He has other concerns. Shooting and mountain climbing and whist and such.”
“But if you bring Lily,” Mama said, “then how can the duke be charmed?”
“Lily is most charming,” Papa said.
Mama glanced at Lily skeptically.
“Besides, we’re visiting him,” Papa continued. “He should be charming us. It’s quite dastardly to not be charming after urging us to make a lengthy journey.”
“His castle is in Dorset. I would hardly describe that as a long journey. We return to Scotland each year. That is a long journey.”
Papa nodded. Even Margaret nodded, but her heart tightened oddly. Her parents didn’t know who the other guests would be. The trip would be filled with all manner of potential mortifications. Margaret would far rather stay here and occupy herself with her books on ornithology. The only consolation was that she would be in the countryside and might be able to explore the coast.
“Perhaps he will even desire to invest in my company,” Papa mused, a content expression on his face.
“You mustn’t conduct any business,” Margaret said hastily.
“I quite agree.” Mama rose. “Now you must come with me.”
“Where?”
“To prepare.” Mama grasped Margaret’s hand and yanked her up. “You must look your very best this weekend. This is a moment for Madame Abrial.”
Margaret’s heart sank.
Madame Abrial was the modiste most en vogue with the ton. Unfortunately, Margaret abhorred visiting her shop. For one so lauded, Madame Abrial seemed to take pleasure in expressing doubt about her ability to make Margaret look respectable, emphasizing that her magic had limitations.
“Must we?” Margaret pleaded.
Mama gave her a stern stare, and for a horrible moment, Margaret remembered Mama tying her to the duke’s bedposts. Perhaps that attempt had been unsuccessful, but Margaret had no desire to test the limits of Mama’s creativity.
“Very well,” Margaret said.
Mama beamed. Soon, Margaret exited the townhouse for the second time today, though this time, Mama directed the driver on where to go.
The carriage swept through London. The streets became more crowded, and finally the carriage halted before a shop.
Margaret followed her mother into Madame Abrial’s store. A dress shop was a poor use of the space’s limited size. Margaret squeezed past gowns, toward the large glass display cases for fabric. Though this was a surprisingly sunny day in January, the light that had beamed into the street, unthwarted by London’s fog, was evidently not able to pierce through Madame Abrial’s crowded display case.
A few women, younger than her, turned in her direction. Perhaps they would debut next season. They returned soon to their perusal of ribbons and lace.
“What has Madame Abrial’s become?” One of the women shook her head.
Margaret stiffened.
The woman directed her attention to Margaret. “They’re bringing in the riff raff.”
Her companion giggled.
Margaret doubted either woman had given much thought to physics before, but they must know Margaret could hear them. Surely, they knew sound didn’t stop traveling simply because one said something unpleasant.
The woman raised her chin and glanced again at Margaret. There was a cruel icy look in her eyes.
She knew Margaret could hear.
And she didn’t care.
This wasn’t the first time Margaret had been confronted with this situation. Her mother was always adamant that Margaret should be in the best places, and the people in the best places were baffled by her presence.
Margaret didn’t blame them.
Her ancestors hadn’t liked it when the English had come north either, and it would be foolish to assume the reverse was true. She felt like a foreign invader, but unlike them she wasn’t carrying a pistol.
She was simply Margaret, in clothes that were a trifle too tight to be becoming—
a symbol of her mother’s always optimistic hope she would become slimmer—and in a color that was never quite right, no matter how much her mother studied Matchmaking for Wallflowers and other journals for fashion advice.
Margaret’s mother’s face had grown paler, and her lips were tight.
She heard.
“Perhaps we can return another time,” Margaret suggested, keeping her voice low.
Mama sniffed. “Nonsense.”
Mama hadn’t grown up with money. Papa’s sudden success had been a surprise to everyone, but Mama struggled valiantly to give Margaret the same options she would have had, if Papa had come from a wealthy family.
Margaret felt the eyes of the other people on her, and stiffened. She moved her hands jerkily over the fabric, struggling to appear to ignore them. Her happiness at receiving the invitation vanished.
Nothing much had changed, and nothing would change after she visited the duke.
Another woman might take advantage of the opportunity. Her friend Emma had managed to land a marquess even though she’d had no desire to do so and had given every indication of finding the marquess’s attention inconvenient. But then, Emma was beautiful, and life for her would always be different.
Margaret sighed.
She needed to remember that even if she had received an invitation to visit the duke’s home, nothing truly had changed.