Chapter 11

Griffith liked order. He liked traditions and routines. He especially liked when those around him followed them, because predictability meant a minimum of surprises. Unlike every attempt he’d made to court Miss St. Claire, which had thus far been one surprise after another.

Never would he have guessed that he’d spend the afternoon strolling more with Miss Breckenridge than Miss St. Claire.

Or that he would enjoy it.

It didn’t make sense. Even if Miss St. Claire’s affections were already given—something he hadn’t seen coming because her name had never been publicly linked with a suitor’s—she had to know that marriage was something she needed to do. Since her father had not remarried and produced another heir to the title, Miss St. Claire would be at the mercy of some distant cousin after her father passed. Surely she was too pragmatic to leave her fate up to such questionable circumstances.

Why, then, did his attentions never seem to get him anywhere?

He took a hack—which reminded him why he so often avoided hiring hacks—across Mayfair to Pall Mall. He could have walked the distance, but the hour was approaching when people would start scattering for their evening festivities, and he wanted to catch his sister before she did the same.

And he needed to do it before he lost the nerve.

Ryland’s enormous butler, Price, filled the doorway. “Your Grace,” he said with a nod of his head. “His Grace isn’t available, I’m afraid.”

A twitch of the butler’s lips drew a smile from Griffith’s. This was exactly why the family left titles at the door when they got together. It tended to get a bit ridiculous. “I’m here to see Her Grace.”

Price gave in and allowed one side of his mouth to kick up, pulling the scar that ran across his cheek. “Of course, Your Grace.” He stepped back to allow Griffith entrance. “Her Grace is in the family drawing room.”

Griffith nodded and didn’t wait for Price to show him up the stairs. Had Miranda been indisposed, the butler would have directed him to the main drawing room to wait. The fact that he’d done nothing more than wave Griffith into the house meant Miranda was available for visitors or at least available for him.

As he approached the parlor, more than one feminine voice drifted down the passage, making him groan. It wasn’t the fact that Miranda was entertaining that distressed him—it was that all of the voices he heard were rather familiar. Were all the feminine members of his family in that room? If so, there’d be no hope of getting Miranda alone. She could have dismissed a stranger or acquaintance, but family was another thing entirely.

He couldn’t simply leave either, because Price would take great joy in making sure everyone in the family knew he’d been a coward about facing the ladies. Why couldn’t his family have any normal servants?

Griffith stepped into the open doorway of the drawing room and waited for the conversation to quiet.

His sister Miranda, Duchess of Marshington, sat directly across from the door on a sofa covered in deep blue. Her green eyes widened when she noticed him, and a large, welcoming smile alerted the rest of the women.

Georgina sat with her back to the door, while Amelia, Marchioness of Raebourne, sat to Miranda’s left in a delicately carved armchair. Trent’s wife, Adelaide, finished the circle. At least his mother wasn’t present. He had a great respect for the woman who had raised him and taught him how to be a duke, loving the land, the people, and the Lord as much if not more than he loved his country. That didn’t mean he wanted to tell his mother about his romantic inclinations.

The urge to come to Miranda had been bad enough.

“Griff! Come sit.” Miranda slid to one end of the sofa and patted the upholstered cushion next to her before frowning at the scattering of dishes on the tea tray. “I’m afraid we’ve finished the tea. Shall I ring for more?”

“Er, no.” Griffith coughed as he settled into the seat next to his sister. Ryland’s servants were nosy former spies and reformed criminals. He didn’t need to call any of them into the vicinity.

“Overwhelmed any young ladies today?” Miranda asked with a cheeky grin.

The back of Griffith’s neck felt tight and itchy against his cravat. If he was flushing from that simple statement, he would never make it through this conversation without contracting a full blush. Perhaps if he caught them off guard and shut down their teasing before it really got started he could avoid any outward sign of embarrassment.

“As a matter of fact, I did go visit a lady today. Two, actually.” Two? What was he doing bringing Miss Breckenridge into the conversation? He hadn’t meant to. She was simply Miss St. Claire’s cousin. That was all he would allow her to be.

Otherwise he was afraid she’d become a major thorn in his side.

Miranda clasped her hands in her lap and bounced in her seat until she’d turned nearly sideways on the sofa. Georgina was more refined in her response, but her excited smile and rapt attention were impossible to miss. Even Adelaide and Amelia were intent enough to move their teacups aside and lean forward in their seats.

He really should have waited until he could have gotten Miranda alone.

“I called on Miss St. Claire this afternoon.”

Georgina arched a thin eyebrow. Trent was right. The skeptical expression was arrogant and annoying. “To see after her welfare?”

“In part.” Griffith adjusted the cuffs of his perfectly tailored coat. “I had arranged to take her for a walk.”

Silence crept across the room for several heartbeats. Miranda cleared her throat. “Arranged?”

“Yes.” He looked around at the faces displaying various levels of curiosity. “I’ve been by to visit her twice and tried to greet her at several functions this week, but there were always so many people about. So I contacted her father to make sure she would be available.”

He fell silent again as some of the ladies shifted in their seats and two of them gave a series of small coughs. Had he done something wrong? Men went for walks with the women they were courting. He knew this to be true, even if he’d never done it before.

Miranda groaned and sliced a hand through the air palm up. “And was she? Available to go for a walk with you?”

“Of course.” Hadn’t he just said he arranged it with her father? Griffith looked around the circle, his confidence suddenly bolstered. What was he worried about? If Miss St. Claire wasn’t amenable to his suit, she never would have left the house with him. A calm peace allowed his heart rate to quiet and his back to relax farther into the sofa. “She brought her cousin along as well.”

Two gasps, a high-pitched “Eeep,” and a quickly smothered laugh answered his statement.

Georgina, who had surprisingly been the one trying not to laugh, looked down at her toes to gain composure before meeting his eyes once more. “Maid too?”

“Of course.” Griffith frowned. Why wouldn’t they bring the maids? His sisters had taken their maids everywhere. “They both brought their maid.”

Another round of sighs and groans circled the room.

“Please tell me she didn’t turn an ankle. No one can ever effectively fake turning an ankle. They’re too afraid of falling to make it look real enough.” Amelia shook her head, causing the short brown curls at her neck to slowly sway in commiserating disappointment.

“No. Her strength gave out on Bond Street. She believes she’s coming down with an illness and the walk overexerted her.” Some of Griffith’s earlier peace and confidence began to waver as he looked at four amused female faces. “She fainted on me last week. I should have known her constitution was delicate right now and avoided such a vigorous outing.”

Three sets of eyes cast their gaze to the ceiling. Only Adelaide looked a bit sympathetic—probably because she hadn’t been with this group of women long enough to become comfortable with censuring a duke. She and Trent had only been married a year, and they’d spent a great deal of that year at their estate in Suffolk.

Her smile was a bit sad as she cleared her throat. “Did she turn back?”

“No,” Griffith said slowly, a thread of worry winding its way through his memory of the afternoon. “She asked to rest in a coffee shop.”

“Oh.” Miranda sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Well, that is good, actually. I’ve never understood why more courting couples don’t go to coffee shops. The conversation is ever so much closer. Did you have a good visit?”

This had been a bad idea. He’d come to get Miranda’s advice on how to most quickly win over Miss St. Claire, and instead he was dissecting a mere walk as if it were the latest measure to come before Parliament. “She insisted I continue my walk, actually, and return for her on the way back.”

Amelia’s head jerked back. “By yourself?”

Georgina wiggled her fingers at the other ladies. “No, no. With the cousin.” One side of Georgina’s lips tweaked in amusement. “Do remember Miss Breckenridge was there.”

Griffith frowned, his thick brows lowering until he could see them in the edges of his vision. “Yes. Miss Breckenridge had been intent on seeing the trees in Berkeley Square, and Miss St. Claire was very distraught at being the reason her cousin would have to wait.”

“Trees?” Amelia bit her lips together.

“Are they that remarkable? I’ve never paid them much attention.” Adelaide looked around the room as if she’d missed something.

Miranda snorted. “That’s because you’re paying too much attention to Trent’s ridiculous ice confection from Gunter’s whenever you go to the square.”

“I didn’t know Miss St. Claire had that in her. Brava.” Georgina gave three slow claps. “Rather clever workings for someone I’ve always thought a bit light in the head.”

“Georgina, that’s a terrible thing to say,” Amelia cried. Then she bit her lip. “Griffith is a wonderful man, but if her affections are elsewhere . . .”

“Griffith is a duke,” Georgina responded, “and if her affections lie elsewhere, the man has been deplorably slow in returning them and she needs to secure herself another future post haste.”

Griffith cleared his throat. “I believe there was an officer. He died in the war.”

Miranda swung her head around to stare at him with open mouth. “And you wish to compete with the memory of a dead man? My dear brother, I’m not sure even your perfect ducalness can overcome that.”

“Ducalness isn’t a word,” Adelaide murmured.

“Everyone knew what I meant, though, so it should count.” Miranda sniffed. “Besides, making up words should be a duchess’s privilege.”

Georgina frowned. “You don’t get to declare duchess privilege just to get out of admitting you’re wrong.”

“I’m happy to admit I’m wrong. Ducalness is not a word.” Miranda crossed her arms. “But it should be.”

“I think Griffith is more interested in peace and practicality.” Adelaide cocked her head to the side, her enormous blue eyes seeming to stare straight through Griffith from behind her spectacles. “I would think that of her as well, which makes the push toward the cousin interesting. Especially considering how much attention Miss Breckenridge has already garnered.”

“Her collection does not yet include a duke,” Amelia pointed out.

Miranda was shaking her head so hard the sofa shifted. “Griffith is absolutely looking for love over peace and practicality. He wouldn’t dare break with family tradition on this one.”

Griffith looked around the group as Georgina and Miranda fell into an argument about the merits of love matches over practical ones, ironic given that Georgina’s marriage was the most impractical one in the room. When had he lost control of the situation? Had he ever had it? He now had a better understanding of Ryland’s insistence on always being somewhere other than the house on Tuesday afternoons, when the ladies traditionally gathered for tea whenever they were all in Town. Apparently they didn’t limit themselves to Tuesdays. If only they were as committed to tradition and routine as Griffith was, he would be having a quiet conversation with Miranda instead of watching the downward spiral of his family’s composure.

“Just because you’re jealous doesn’t mean she’s mercenary.” Miranda leaned forward to toss the verbal dagger at her sister.

Amelia and Adelaide sat silent, looking back and forth at the sisters as the verbal battle waged.

“I’ve nothing to be jealous of, Miranda. And I only said the fortune of her beauty increased the chances of her being mercenary. She asked Griffith to take her to see trees!”

Griffith cleared his throat. “Her interest in the trees was quite genuine.”

All eyes in the room turned his way as if the ladies had forgotten he was there. Miranda often told him he was the size of a mountain, so he was rather amazed at the possibility.

Now that he had their rapt attention, he felt the need to defend his statement and defend Miss Breckenridge. “She took a piece of the bark home.”

More staring, with an occasional quizzical glance at their own fingers.

Griffith shifted in his seat. “I pulled it off for her.”

A slow smile stretched across Georgina’s lips. “You like her.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes and leaned in, as if she could smell the truth in his cologne. “You do.”

The women in his family had lost their collective minds. He had to get this conversation back on course. “Yes, I like Miss St. Claire. However, while I had intended to conduct this courtship via casual outings, she is obviously of too delicate a condition for such a plan, so I was hoping you would have suggestions for how I could make this courtship happen in a method that is both expedient and effective.”

An uncomfortable moment of silence ensued, and Griffith feared the women had no intention of following his conversational lead. Finally, Miranda cleared her throat.

“You approached her at a ball and she fainted—correct?” Miranda held up a single finger as if she were preparing to count.

Amelia nodded. “It was authentic. I was there. Miss Breckenridge assisted Griffith with getting Miss St. Claire out of the room.”

Miranda held up a second finger. “And you went to her house?”

“Er, yes.” Griffith shifted. “I had tea with her and Miss Breckenridge until she left to go see about finding me a cinnamon biscuit from the kitchens.”

“I saw you both at Mrs. Crenshaw’s card party. You sat down to whist with her.” Adelaide sat a bit taller with a smile, as if she was glad to be helping. Then her lips fell into a frown. “But then she pled a headache and Miss Breckenridge took her place.”

“Yes.” Griffith rubbed his finger along his thumb, knowing this was why they only allowed men in Parliament. The women were rehashing everything but being of no help whatsoever.

“My first suggestion would be that you ask Miss Breckenridge to dance,” Georgina said with a lift of one shoulder.

Adelaide came to Griffith’s rescue by asking the question he didn’t really want to voice. “How would that help him woo Miss St. Claire?”

“It wouldn’t.” Miranda scoffed.

“No, but it would declare his intentions toward Miss Breckenridge, and many of her horde of admirers would scatter. Not all, of course, but enough to make them less of a nuisance. As we have already stated, Griffith is a duke, and most men aren’t going to want to compete with such a quality.”

Griffith sighed. “But I don’t want to woo Miss Breckenridge.”

“Yes, you do,” four voices said at the same time.

“Dismissing part of the crowd should give you enough time to come to that conclusion yourself.” Georgina used a finger to pick through the biscuits remaining on a small plate before selecting a ginger one.

“You might as well,” Miranda said, snagging one of the biscuits Georgina had passed on. “Unless you’ve decided you actually do want a loveless marriage. Because Miss St. Claire is most certainly not interested.”

The hinges of her bedchamber door emitted a soft squeak, pulling Isabella from the edges of sleep. A light rustling preceded a dip in the mattress, and Isabella shifted to the side to allow Frederica to snuggle in under the covers.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask you earlier.” Freddie angled her body so their heads shared a pillow, just like they’d done on those summer nights so many years ago. “How were the trees?”

Bella laughed and turned on her side to face Freddie. Sleep still tugged at her consciousness but she didn’t want to miss these precious moments. Everything had been so strained since she came to London, but here, in the dark, she could pretend she was home, that things had never gone wrong.

“The trees were nice,” Bella murmured sleepily. She gave a tired laugh. “The company was nice too.”

“Handsome.”

Bella smiled as her eyes drifted shut. “Yes.”

Sleep had almost taken Isabella when Frederica spoke up once more. “Do you ever wonder?”

“Wonder what?” Isabella turned her head and yawned into the pillow. She was managing to stay awake, but opening her eyes again was impossible.

“What it would have been like? If things had been different? If this were really your first Season, our first Season?”

When they’d been thirteen they started making plans, dreaming of spending their first Season together. Isabella hadn’t thought of those late-night conversations in years. Life had taken those dreams and blown them away like so much dust, trampling them under the death of Freddie’s mother and brother and her father’s subsequent refusal to allow her to visit a remote area without access to proper medical care. Burying them under a rock slide so much like the one that had crushed Isabella’s father’s leg.

“We’d have danced.”

Frederica sighed. “You would have, anyway. And we’d have spent nights just like this, talking about all the men we’d met and whether or not they were worthy of our attentions.”

Isabella eased one eyelid open, seeing for the first time what she’d never seen in Freddie’s letters. She had been lonely. No one had taken the place of confidante that Isabella was supposed to have held.

“Lord Vernham trips over his feet whenever he has to cross the square in a quadrille.”

Freddie’s head jerked to face Isabella. “He does not.”

Isabella nodded and snuggled deeper into the covers, cocooning their heads like they’d done as children. “Not always when he has to go left, but every time he has to go right. He trips.”

“I heard Lord Ivonbrook has the breath of a horse, but I’ve never been close enough to him to verify. Is it true?” Freddie’s wide smile was interrupted by a yawn of her own.

Isabella laughed as her eyes slid shut once more. She wasn’t going to be able to hold off sleep much longer. “Absolutely not. Or if he does, he uses tooth powder liberally to mask it. No, I’m afraid his physical appeal is genuine and thorough.”

“Is he the most handsome man you’ve danced with?”

“I don’t know.” Isabella sighed. “I try not to think about it. What about you? Who is the most handsome man you’ve ever danced with?”

Silence fell between them for a moment. Long enough for the darkness to creep along the edges of Isabella’s mind.

“Lord Trent Hawthorne danced with me once,” Freddie said quietly. “Before he was married, of course. He was nice too.”

“Handsome and nice,” Isabella mumbled. “A dangerous and rare combination.”

One his brother shared. She couldn’t imagine any of the other men taking a woman they hadn’t intended to go walking with on an outing to see trees. But the duke hadn’t made her feel like an interloper or an obligation, even though he had to find the whole thing frustrating.

“I probably should have said Arthur, shouldn’t I?” Freddie grumbled.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Bella whispered, thankful her cousin had interrupted Bella’s line of thinking. “Good night, Freddie.”

“Good night, Bella.”

Isabella drifted off to sleep, snuggled close to her cousin, dreaming they were running through the fields of Northumberland once more, with Arthur, the duke, and an enormous purple hedgehog running alongside.