The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (20 page)

A duke must maintain his distance from all others, so as not to encourage false intimacy
.

A duke should be able to do what he wants
.

—T
HE
D
UKE
'
S
G
UIDE
TO
C
ORRECT
B
EHAVIOR

T
he room looked about the same as the Earl of Daymond's ballroom had, which doubtless meant he should be thinking of things to say about it, at least things more than “This is a large room” and “Oh, look, there are windows.”

But already he was fresh out of remarks on the room. Perhaps he should inquire more fully of Miss Lily what he could possibly say about something so unopinionworthy as a room.

He was interrupted before he could figure out what to say about the statues of coy-looking children placed in each corner, besides
Those are hideous
.

“You're out again, and even suitably dressed. I'm impressed, Your Grace,” Smithfield said in a mocking tone.

Which made Marcus unsure whether he should pop his new best friend in the nose or merely bow in response.

He thought it would probably serve him better not to pop Smithfield in the nose, even though he was tempted. So he bowed.

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head. “I am taking your advice to heart, you see, appearing in public as my proper ducal self, nary a cat in a corset in sight.”

“I have heard you have even paid a few afternoon calls. That takes far more fortitude than waltzing with a feline.”

“Only one, and it was definitely more difficult to navigate those steps. Do all ladies say one thing when they mean entirely something else?”

Smithfield cocked an eyebrow at him. “When it comes to unmarried dukes, I'd be surprised if any young lady would tell the truth.”

It wouldn't matter if you had warts and were bald. Any young lady would be cowed in your presence
. Except for her. She was the one person—well, adult person, he thought, perhaps Rose would be the same—who wouldn't be intimidated by him, or more correctly, by his title. She didn't demand anything of him.

Except when Lily had said,
Marcus, I want this
.

“So if what you are saying is true, I should suspect all young ladies of lying? That is discouraging, to say the least.”

“Not all ladies,” Smithfield said, nodding to a young lady who was dancing by them in the arms of an elderly gentleman. “My sister's guest, Miss Blake, could not lie if her life depended on it.”

“Nor could she state an opinion,” Marcus added.

Smithfield chuckled, and nodded in assent. “That is certainly true. But at least you would never run out of conversation.”

“Because she would be debating the various merits of each and every thing she might decide upon.”

Smithfield nodded toward a young lady in the distance. “Lady Lucinda is a pleasant woman.”

Marcus spotted her as well, noting her trim figure and calm expression. “She is that.” A thought struck him, and he turned to his friend. “You are not interested in her, are you?” Smithfield's quick response cut off his words before he could continue.

“No, of course not, and besides, her father the earl is aiming much higher than someone in my position.” His tone sounded rueful, and Marcus felt some emotion—he wasn't sure what it was—that made him not wish to pay the lady any particular attention. “Will I be wishing you happy, then?” Smithfield said in a terse voice.

“No, it is far too early for anything of that sort. Besides which, you've pointed out I've just made my first foray into Society. I don't wish to decide anything until I know what I might be in for.”

Smithfield glanced at him, his gaze seeming—as it had the first time they'd met—to see through to his very soul. “I hope you find what you're looking for, then.”

It was an eerie echo of what he had said just before Rose arrived into his life. He wanted to say that he'd found what he was looking for, a small child of perhaps four years who needed him. But that wasn't all of it, was it?

He knew that wouldn't be enough. Not for Rose, and not for him. He wanted someone to love
her as he already did, someone who would care for her, and oversee her instruction . . . and take care of him, somewhat, as well.

Someone who would say what they meant, so he wouldn't have to always be deciphering what she truly wanted.

Someone who wanted both him and Rose.

Someone very like Lily.

The thought struck him before he could shake it off, and he wanted to growl his frustration out loud, but no doubt Smithfield—as well as all the other guests at the party—would think he was unfit for polite society, when he was working so hard on appearing as though he fit in.

Why couldn't she have been Lady Lucinda? Or any lady, actually, a woman of his own class where his interest in her wouldn't be scandalous?

Why did he have to be a duke, of all things, a personage so regal that everything he did was put under scrutiny and analyzed, as though he were a specimen under a microscope.

But it didn't matter how much he questioned, the answer was always the same: she was not, and he was. They could not be, not as they were, not together.

He excused himself and went to ask Lady Lucinda for a dance.

“I
t looks like rain.” The duke peered out the window, a cup of coffee in his hand. Lily knew it was specifically coffee because he'd snarled at John when the poor footman tried to give him tea.

Rose hopped out of her seat and went to stand beside him. “No walk, then?” she asked in a sad, soft voice.

The expression on his face when he turned to her was fierce. Warm and caring, but also fierce. “No walk, but we will find something fun to do. Won't we, Miss Lily?” he asked, tilting his head up to look at her.

Her breath caught. “Of course, Your Grace, I am certain there are some indoor games we can play.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, just a bit, just enough so she could see them, but she doubted anyone who wasn't looking would. Thank goodness. “There are cards in the library.”
Their
library. “Thompson can find them, and I might be able to remember how to play Snap. Or not. Do you know how to play, Miss Rose?”

Rose shook her head. “No. But Miss Lily can teach me, she's a good teacher.”

The compliment along with the assumption that she would know how to do something warmed her heart, and she felt the prickle of tears come to her eyes. Silly, maudlin Lily, so very far from the prim, precise, methodical woman she was striving to be.

“It's settled, then. I will go find the cards, and we will convene in the drawing room—the pink room, that is,” he said, “later this afternoon. Say around two o'clock? I have a few appointments before then.”

Appointments, doubtless, to visit with young, eligible ladies who might be suitable mothers for Rose. Young, eligible ladies whose most
unfortunate mishap would be losing a glove or having their hem stepped on as they danced. Not women who'd had to work in unfortunate places to make an unfortunate living, nor who had to hide their pasts to ensure their futures.

Nor women who would likely appreciate the duke's rough charm, or his inability to get a close shave, or wear a cravat, or ever wear his nightshirt to bed.

H
e would much prefer Miss Blake's inanities to this. This being listening as his various employees briefed him on the essentials of his estate; his finances, holdings, tenants, properties, and obligations. His whole ducal entirety summed up in three egregiously long hours.

Not that the hours were longer than regular hours; it just felt that way. He'd have taken any kind of treatise on agricultural practices or even the “Joy of Cat Dancing” to this.

But this was what he needed to do if he wanted to truly become the title he had assumed so reluctantly. And as he listened to the various dronings about crops and annual rents and repairs and investments, he realized that he now knew what being a duke meant. Still, if he turned his back on all of it, he would be an irresponsible coward.

He was many things, but he could not tolerate being that.

So he pasted a halfhearted smile on his face, took a few notes, nodded at what he hoped were
the appropriate places, and knew that all of this was worth it. Not just to him, or to Rose, but to all the people who depended somehow on the Duke of Rutherford's vast dukedom.

“And if we convert some of the acreage from farms to industrial holdings, you will see a vast increase in your profits. After a few years, of course.”

This droner, Marcus thought he recalled, was Mr. Waldecott, the estate manager. He'd been speaking for nearly an hour, and he held his hat clutched tightly in his hands as though Marcus were going to snatch it from him at any moment.

He nearly had, just to see what the man would do, but then remembered he was supposed to be more responsible, not more reckless. Damn it. He much preferred reckless.

Mr. Waldecott was the last of the trio of droning men to speak, thankfully. He'd already heard his banker Mr. Mitchell (tall, thin, wispy moustache, wan speaking voice), and his overseer Mr. Bird (plump, bald, a frantic way of speaking), make their statements on what the Duke of Rutherford—that was him, of course—had in the way of holdings.

He was very, very wealthy. He knew that much. But with all that wealth came an equal amount of responsibility, and he was determined to manage it all. Not just for Rose, although her arrival was the impetus, but for himself. To prove the man who was the Duke of Rutherford could be just as admirable as the title he held.

It was an even more terrifying a prospect than
having to be a good father. At least the latter job came with the promise of tea parties.

“I
t's you!” Rose popped out of her seat and ran toward the door, clutching the duke around his knees.

He looked over her head and smiled at Lily. “I am so grateful I am here, ladies. You don't know the horror of what I've been doing.”

His courtship was going that well, then? Lily tried not to be glad.

“This way,” Rose said, taking his hand and walking him back to the table. “You sit there,” she commanded, pointing at the seat he'd taken last time.

“Yes, my lady,” he replied with a grin, bending his long legs so he could sit in the too small seat. He should have looked ridiculous, but—no, he did look ridiculous, but he also looked so endearing, trying to accommodate his daughter's wishes.

“We found cards, Your Grace,” Lily said, picking the pack up from the bureau at the side of the room. “Or rather, Thompson was able to locate cards.” And had apparently been charmed enough by Rose not to completely glower when Lily asked him for help. Not completely.

“What will we be playing again?” The duke looked at her and Rose, his eyebrow raised in what Lily now knew was benignly questioning, not his arrogant commanding raised eyebrow. Not that there was that much of a difference.

“Snap,” Rose asserted, her face revealing what she thought about him forgetting so quickly.

“Remind me how to play? Or actually, tell me how to play. I don't think I ever have before.” His mouth tensed, briefly, and Lily added another item to her increasing store of knowledge of how sad the duke's childhood had been.

All three of them had been orphaned in their own ways, hadn't they? No wonder they got along so well. It felt . . . it almost felt as though they were a family.

Lily hastily picked up the pack of cards before she could follow that train of thought much further. “Of course. Do you wish to explain the rules, Miss Rose, or shall I?”

“You can,” Rose said in a regal tone of voice.

“Snap!” An hour later, and Lily felt her sides were going to split from laughter. She hadn't won—Rose had won five of the six hands they'd played, with the duke managing to win the sixth—but she didn't know when she had enjoyed herself more.

Well, she did, but she wasn't supposed to be thinking about that anymore.

It had taken him some time—he said—to learn how to play, which meant that Rose got to lecture him on what he was doing wrong and how he could improve his play. Lily didn't miss the warmth of his smile as he regarded his daughter while she discoursed on the importance of shouting as soon as you see the match, and he'd caught her eye a few times, grinning at her in a way that melted her heart.

The two of them were so similar, it was remarkable to think that they'd only met a week or two before. From the raised, haughty eyebrow to the assumption that they were right and others were . . . less right, to the direct emotion they conveyed with just a change of expression.

She was looking at a family.

“Miss Lily? Are you all right?” His low voice sent shivers pulsing through her body, forcing her to shake away her memories of what had never been. He'd taken his coat and cravat off, of course, since it was just him at his own house and apparently that meant he needed to disrobe.

If only.

It certainly was a good way to get her mind off things she would rather not think about. There was that, at least.

Especially since he'd rolled his shirtsleeves up, exposing his muscular forearms and strong wrists. Really, how did someone like him stay so fit? What with lolling about and attending parties and just generally being a pampered duke?

She had no idea, but the fact remained that he
was
fit. She knew that firsthand from sliding her hand on his back and that his chest felt hard and strong against her.

“Yes, Your Grace?” She sat up straight in her chair, as though proper posture would somehow make her more proper.

“Miss Rose was asking if we could draw again.”

“Since you did so well last time?” she asked, a teasing note in her voice.

He smiled in recognition of her jab. “I might
bow out this time, but Rose can draw while you and I talk.”

Her stomach tightened. Talk about what? About sending Rose away and letting her go? About where she came from and that her references were false? About how she really, really wished there would be a heat wave in March in London so he would have to remove his shirt?