A Deal with the Duke Read online

  Lucy’s shoulders slumped out of her fiercely correct posture the instant she realized the duke was nowhere to be seen, and she bounded to her mother’s side to complain. She’d hardly gotten more than a few words out before a man entered from a door on the other side of the room, and Savitri knew instantly that it was him. He projected an air of authority that set him invisibly apart from the other Wares.

  He, like England, was nothing she’d anticipated. She’d thought he would be an older version of his brother. Bernard was a round, jolly man, not particularly handsome, but with a boundless good cheer that made most people like him nonetheless. He had thick cheeks that turned red whenever he was enthusiastic about something – which was often – and hair the color of straw that always seemed slightly too long with a tendency to flop into his eyes.

  The duke was broad-shouldered, but the rest of him was lean, obviously powerfully muscled beneath his finely made suit. His camel-colored pants hugged long legs, ending in a pair of riding boots so highly polished that they shone. His hair was darker than his brother’s, a deep brown the color of mahogany, and his eyes were bluer. He paused briefly on threshold, his gaze sweeping imperiously across the room, and then Bernard waved to catch his attention as though the duke might not have noticed him.

  Bernard stood and the brothers embraced, their closeness only emphasizing their physical differences, then the duke quickly stepped back. Bernard kept a hand on his brother’s shoulder, though even Savitri could tell at a glance that this austere man did not appreciate such a gesture. Bernard rambled on about upcoming ball while the duke stood, tall and silent, occasionally acknowledging a comment with a nod.

  “And these are my daughters,” Bernard eventually said as he led the duke toward Savitri. “You must feel like you know them already – I’ve written to you so much about them! I’m sure you’re on pins and needles to meet the girls.”

  The duke did not look to be on pins and needles. His expression suggested that he had never been excited in his life, in fact – had never felt his blood pound or his breath race, had simply never been very bothered about anything. Savitri lifted her eyes, wanting to understand this man who was going to be so central to her life.

  “Hello, Your Grace,” Lucy and Penelope chorused, the way Savitri had taught them. Penelope dipped into a much-practiced curtsey and Lucy followed, a second too late and a little clumsy. Lady Louisa pursed her lips unhappily, but Bernard seemed not to notice.

  “Now, now, girls,” he said, “no need for such formality. This is my brother! Call him Uncle Alexander.”

  The duke himself said nothing, his gaze briefly resting on the two girls before once again nodding silently. His hands were folded firmly behind his back, his posture straight as a soldier’s, and he made no move to embrace or even touch the children. He began to turn away, but mid-movement his eyes caught on Savitri’s. Her breath stopped in her throat and as he stared at her time felt stretched out. She had never seen a more handsome man – nor one so unfriendly. Her heart shivered in her chest, and she was not sure if she was attracted or afraid. Before she could decide, the duke turned away, and the strange instant of connection was broken.

  “You can take them away now,” Lady Louisa was saying as her surroundings rushed back in to Savitri’s conscious awareness. She nodded obediently and put her hands to the girls’ shoulders, leading them out of the room and toward the stairs before anyone else noticed something unusual had happened.

  Not that anything had happened. It was only a look.

  But no matter how brief the glance had been, Savitri knew the duke would remember her. If only she knew whether that was good or bad.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alexander Ware, Duke of Clermont, looked out across the beautiful women and important men currently packing his ballroom and stifled a sigh of boredom. He didn’t like parties. He didn’t like noise – oh, he quite liked the song the hired musicians were playing, something by Haydn he thought it was, but not when it was played at the volume necessary to be heard over the chatter and laughter and hubbub of the dancers. It was too loud to engage in anything but the most insipid of small talk, which he had grown tired of hours ago.

  All of which is not to say that Alexander did not enjoy conversation. He was very fond of it, in fact – when one could actually hear one’s partner and had the time and space to engage in deep discussion of the topics that interested him. The weather, fashion, and whose cousin had proposed to whose daughter were not such topics.

  He wouldn’t even enjoy the food served at dinner later. Alexander’s cook was excellent, but grand events such as this called for the very newest and most fashionable cuisine: heavy sauces, turtle soup, pigeon pie, spiced venison, and, for dessert, an entire ship constructed out of marzipan with sails of spun sugar. Alexander preferred simple food. Cheese and fresh baked bread, with a plain roast for dinner: that was his idea of perfection.

  Alexander might be unhappy, but Bernard and his lady wife looked to be having an excellent time. That was what mattered, he knew, not his personal annoyance at too many social fripperies. Bernard and his family were newly returned to England and Alexander intended this ball to launch them into society where they belonged. Bernard had always been better suited to charming people than Alexander; with him back home, the Ware family’s frosty reputation might be softened.

  It wasn’t that Alexander had done anything excessively scandalous. He hadn’t lost the family’s wealth at the gambling tables, he hadn’t gotten into any duels, he was not given to drinking immoderately nor experimenting with opium. No, Alexander knew the rules of society and followed them strictly to the letter. Somehow that was the problem. He was too rigid, too formal; he spent too much time managing his estates and not enough of it flattering the right people. He had never stepped out of line, yet still he was disliked by many. The popular wags called him Clermont the Cold behind his back and thought he didn’t know.

  Alexander shook off that distasteful thought and returned his attention to the party. He’d been standing in this corner for long enough; he owed his guests the courtesy of shaken hands and civil greetings, however much he might privately prefer to hole away in his library with a book. It was the right thing to do.

  He did well enough for the first few minutes. No one tried to engage him in conversation beyond the merest polite nothings and those who knew him well limited themselves to a nod or handshake. Alexander stopped to briefly discuss a political matter with Lord Highsmith, a man he frequently worked with in Parliament. As he left him and passed along the edge of the dance floor, Nicholas Danford, a friend from childhood, caught his arm.

  Alexander looked down silently at the hand wrinkling the line of his jacket and Nicholas quickly took it away. “Sorry, sorry, good man, I just wanted to be sure that I had your attention.”

  “Well? You have it now.”

  “Come and join us for a card game, won’t you? Philip and Edward have already agreed to play, but we need a fourth to make up a table for whist.” Nicholas leaned in. “And you know Philip – he isn’t capable of winning a game if he saw everyone’s cards two rounds in advance!” Nicholas grinned, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “It’s hardly sporting to beat him, but I must say that the money makes me feel better about it.”

  “I don’t need Philip’s money.”

  Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re as rich as Croesus, we all know that. It’s still fun to win a game.” He took hold of Alexander’s elbow again and this time Alexander let his old friend pull him closer. “Do say you will, Alexander. It’s been too long since I had the chance to talk to you. You’re so busy these days.”

  “My estates –”

  “That’s what you always say! Well, hang the estates for once. What about plain old Alexander? You can’t tell me that you’re actually enjoying such a stuffy party.”

  Alexander glanced around the room, confronted once more with the sight of too many strangers, too many peo
ple he tolerated merely because they were good society. He saw no one whose company he truly enjoyed – no one, that is, except for Nicholas.

  Nicholas read his hesitation. “Come on, Alexander. You can’t pretend to me. I’ve known you too long.”

  Alexander gave in with a nod. “All right. I’ll join you. But I can’t take off just yet – I need to put in a bit more of an appearance, and then I’ll hand the reins over to Bernard.”

  Nicholas looked toward the younger brother. “Seems like he already has it well in hand,” he scoffed.

  “Be nice. You know Bernard’s always looked up to you – ”

  “ – ever since I helped him climb down from that tree without breaking his neck, yes, yes, I remember. It doesn’t make him less of a pain.” Nicholas let go of his arm and patted his shoulder instead. He’d always been a friendly sort, cheerfully ignoring Alexander’s attempts to reduce the amount of touching between them. “Go and see to your duties, Your Grace the Duke, but be quick about it, won’t you? I’ll wait for you in the card room, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold off the others. Edward is already in debt to his tailor this quarter, and is eager to begin fleecing Philip.”

  Alexander shook his head in mock sympathy. “Poor Philip. Doesn’t he ever get tired of losing?”

  Nicholas showed his teeth in a quick grin. “He can afford it.”

  Alexander laughed. It was rare that anyone could make him laugh but Nicholas had always had a knack for it. The two men shook hands and stepped apart, Nicholas heading toward the card room and Alexander once more surveying the dance floor. One dance had just ended and the musicians paused before beginning the next, taking a moment to wipe their brows and gulp the lemonade Alexander had ordered for them. The dancers spilled toward him, laughing and chatting and waving fans at reddened faces. They were mostly young: girls in their first Season or two and the men who were courting them, though a few already-married couples had also participated.

  Oh no. This was the worst moment to be standing alone on the edge of the dance floor –

  Alexander quickly sidestepped out of the crush of people, but he wasn’t fast enough to escape the fate he was dreading.

  “Duke Clermont! How wonderful to see you. It has been far too long.” The short, stout form of Mrs. Pemberton blocked his path. A few red curls escaped the fashionable turban she wore, framing her apple dumpling face.

  “Indeed,” Alexander said. “I’m afraid that I must go and check on the cook – ”

  “Oh, now, now! You and I both know that Gustave is perfectly capable of handling this dinner without any assistance from you. As though a duke knows anything about running a kitchen.” Despite looking a great deal like an old country housekeeper, Mrs. Pemberton had a sharp mind, and Alexander was absolutely sure that she knew he had been trying to escape. She beamed up at him cheerfully, but there was a glint in her eye. To tell the truth, Alexander quite liked Mrs. Pemberton. If it had been only her, he would have been happy to chat for as long as she liked.

  The problem was what stood behind her: two unmarried daughters. Neither had inherited their mother’s cleverness, though they would doubtless make good matches with her to scheme for them. Alexander wholeheartedly supported her efforts; he just didn’t want to marry either of the daughters himself.

  The violinist struck up a new song, and Mrs. Pemberton clapped her hands in delight. “A quadrille! Violet happens to love quadrilles, but she has no partner for the next song. What a shame.”

  Alexander recognized the hint – if you could call something as blatant as that a hint – but he refused to give in. He merely nodded. “That is a shame.”

  Mrs. Pemberton, however, was not to be outmaneuvered so easily. “It seems you must have invited more women than men. It is an easy mistake if one is not an experienced host. Anyone can miscalculate – take the votes for your last proposal in the House of Lords, for example. If only you had had one more supporter....”

  Alexander ground his teeth together. Mrs. Pemberton’s husband had abstained from that vote. Alexander had supposed at the time that it was simply because he didn’t care about cotton tariffs, but he should have known Mrs. Pemberton was behind it. She had just the sort of ambition that would use political votes to help her daughters’ social status.

  “I understand you perfectly, madam,” Alexander bit out, his annoyance at being manipulated so blatantly turning his voice hard as steel. “But you should understand me as well. One dance: that’s all I’m agreeing to.”

  Mrs. Pemberton seemed entirely unaffected by his angry demeanor. “One dance is all I require from you, my dear Alexander. I might have high hopes for Violet’s destiny, but I know to be reasonable. She’s not the sort to win the heart of Clermont the Cold. Nonetheless, a dance with you should make her more noticeable to the man I actually have in mind.” The dimples in Mrs. Pemberton’s cheeks deepened, and she tapped Alexander’s arm with her folded fan. “Now hurry up, before you miss the opening steps.”

  Alexander bowed stiffly to Mrs. Pemberton. He was not entirely sure which of the two girls behind her was Violet – the sisters were only a year apart in age – so he took a chance and extended his arm to the one who was slightly taller.

  Wrong guess. The girl he hadn’t chosen frowned fiercely at him and stepped pointedly in front of her sister, who was turning a spectacular shade of red at her mother’s rudeness and Alexander’s obvious disinterest. For a moment Alexander considered holding out for the first girl in an attempt to preserve some vestige of his pride, but Mrs. Pemberton clicked her tongue in annoyance.

  “Not that one! I have plans for tonight and you’re stomping all over them.”

  Before he could react, the girl he now knew to be Violet extended one slim hand and took hold of his, tugging him away from her sister. Alexander acquiesced to this turn of events and took the lead as they moved onto the dance floor, joining the last square that still had room for them just in time. The music ended the opening bars and moved into the first steps. Just as well, Alexander thought, I won’t have to make small talk if I’m busy dancing.

  Violet was pretty enough, he acknowledged. She wore a silk gown of mint green that complimented her blond hair very well, bringing out the few coppery strands her mother had passed down to her. She was no great beauty, but she moved gracefully through the dance, and once she had recovered from her annoyance at his choosing her sister, she had an open, friendly face. Alexander was sure that she would be a beautiful bride.

  She just wouldn’t be his beautiful bride.

  For a time they danced in silence. Alexander kept his spine ramrod straight and marched through the steps, declining to engage in the little hops or kicks that some men added to their dances to show off their legs. He considered this to be like any other task: he had a goal and he intended to reach it as efficiently and swiftly as possible.

  The dance brought him and Violet side by side once more, and she glanced timidly up at him. “I must apologize for my mother’s behavior, sir. I – I would not have forced my presence on you in such a way.”

  “Don’t aggrandize yourself. Your presence is as tolerable as any other young woman’s.”

  That apparently was not the right thing to say, because Violet’s expression grew angry once more and she ceased trying to speak to him. The rest of the dance passed slowly. She refused to give him her hand for the turns, which made several of the movements rather clumsy, but if she did not wish to touch him, Alexander had no interest in forcing her.

  He recognized the closing bars of music with a feeling of welcome relief, but before he could make his final bow to Violet he was distracted by a commotion on the other side of the dance floor. He couldn’t see what was happening, but it was impossible to miss the multitude of heads all turning toward the same point, the sudden rise in the volume of conversation.

  He moved out of the dance pattern, causing Violet to stumble when he did not give her his hand to escort her back to
her mother. The rest of the dancers in his square reacted in different ways, some halting in place while others moved forward to cover his gap, resulting in several collisions and many confused glances. Alexander ignored them all as he strode across the dance floor, determined to see what was causing the problem.

  He found two women with their heads bent close together and furiously whispering, the taller one maintaining a firm grasp on the other’s arm despite her attempts to discreetly wrench it away. The older woman was clearly trying to pretend that nothing was wrong and offered bystanders a somewhat strained smile. The younger one was equally obviously determined to have her way no matter what sort of scene she caused.

  Nothing but an argument between two women. Alexander would not have cared, except that the younger one was his niece and the older was the stunningly beautiful woman he had glimpsed earlier in the drawing room.

  Penelope caught sight of him and went pale beneath her inexpertly applied makeup. “Uncle Alexander,” she said falteringly, with another attempt at a sweet smile. “I thought that perhaps I would join the party, just for a little while. You don’t mind, do you?”

  She had prepared for this, he could tell. Other than the makeup she wore – and God alone knew where she had gotten that – her dress was probably the best she owned and looked newly-made, and her hair seemed to be mimicking the elaborate styles he saw on many of the other young women in the room. But despite all of these efforts, to his eyes she looked like nothing so much as a little girl playing dress-up. She was far too young to attend a midnight ball, and no smiles or polite requests would make him change his mind.

  “You were told that this is a ball for adults,” he said.

  Penelope’s smile trembled at the edges, then vanished entirely. “I am an adult! I’m sixteen, you know!”