Can’t Buy Me a Duke by Bianca Blythe

CHAPTER FOUR

“One, two, three, row,” Harrison’s voice barreled through the crisp morning air, unmarred by raindrops or England’s familiar blustery wind. “One, two, three, row!”

The boat moved swiftly over the Serpentine.

Strictly speaking, they weren’t supposed to practice here. Still, there was no more beautiful place in England, and until one of the princes exited Kensington Palace and explicitly forbade them, Harrison would continue.

Hyde Park was empty. Later, smartly dressed women would promenade about the park, twirling parasols they didn’t require, given the wide brims of their hats and the general absence of sun. Some men would bring their horses to Rotten Row, enjoying their elevated position, given the frequency of their smug smiles. But now, any man in possession of his own horse was doing the very best thing to do on a Saturday morning—sleeping.

No, this was Harrison’s favored time to be in the park. Privacy was something to be prized, and not simply because of a certain secret.

Harrison’s chest tightened, as it always did when he contemplated his childhood. That was behind him, though. No one would know. If someone would have discovered his secret, they would have done so long ago.

“One, two, three, row,” Harrison hollered, his voice soaring over the oars splashing through the water. “One, two, three, row.”

Something red distracted him. Red hair. Three young women sat on a blanket, evidently undaunted by the dew and the fact it was six in the morning. Nobody should be here at six in the morning, and certainly not young women.

He knew those women. He’d seen them last night. What on earth was Lucy Banks doing here? And Isabella’s sister? No glittering jewels were draped upon their wrists and necks now, but it was unmistakable. They were the Banks sisters. He assumed the third woman was their maid.

He scowled.

“Sturbridge?” Sir Augustus Sloane asked.

Harrison sighed. No doubt Augustus was confused why he had stopped counting. It wasn’t difficult to count to three, after all. Harrison should know how to do it. He practiced every morning.

Augustus glanced toward the women. “You’re distracted by those chits.”

“I am not,” Harrison said staunchly.

Augustus gave him an odd glance, and Harrison bit his lip. Perhaps it hadn’t been necessary to be quite so opposed.

“Don’t you think it’s strange those women are there at this time?”

“Perhaps they enjoy the scenery.”

“That corner is not particularly scenic.”

“They are Americans. They may consider that corner scenic.”

“There’s nothing wrong with those women,” Benedict pouted. “One of them is Aphrodite herself.”

“Not the other one,” Augustus grumbled.

Harrison frowned.

“She has red hair,” Augustus said. “It’s an impossibility.”

“Botticelli’s Venus has red hair,” Harrison said, oddly perturbed at Augustus.

“Botticelli was an Italian,” Augustus said. “Strange creatures, Italians.”

There was no retort for that.

“You’re supposed to be rowing,” Harrison said.

“Well, you’re supposed to be counting,” Augustus said.

Harrison glowered.

Augustus was right, but he was hardly going to tell him that.

“One, two, three, row,” Harrison shouted.

No doubt, the women were here to observe Benedict. Harrison shouldn’t be contemplating them. He shouldn’t muse over what the bright sun did to Lucy’s red hair and how it glimmered with extra force, and he shouldn’t speculate what her skin might look like under the shimmering sunshine. Would it have a velvety sheen to it?

He should concentrate on rowing.

“One . . . two. . .” Harrison’s voice trailed.

“You’re off your game,” Benedict said.

“I am not,” Harrison said stoutly. “I’m never off my game.”

“You’re counting imperfectly,” Benedict said.

“I said the numbers in the correct order.”

“Not all the numbers,” Benedict muttered.

Harrison glowered. “We’ve done sufficient rowing.”

“Are you certain?” Benedict asked.

“Perhaps his arms are tired,” Augustus said.

“My arms are never tired,” Harrison said. “I’m just concerned for yours.”

Augustus raised an eyebrow.

“And I need to visit my office,” Harrison said. “I might have mail.”

Augustus sighed. “Most people depend on their estate managers.”

“I enjoy the work.”

That much, at least, was true.

Augustus nodded to the others, and they rowed to the embankment. 

“It is astounding you still let your mother live in your Grosvenor Square house,” Benedict mused.

“She’s always done that,” Harrison replied.

“Yes, but you’re the duke. You could host balls in your house with regularity.”

“And sometimes she does host balls,” Harrison said. “She’s hosting one tonight.”

“Yes.” Benedict tilted his head and observed him. “I’m just saying you’re an excellent son.”

Harrison gave a tight smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“He’s probably grateful his mother doesn’t make him marry someone,” Augustus said.

Benedict chuckled. “Oh yes, that probably is true.”

“Perhaps Harrison bribed her not to indulge in her matchmaking instincts so she could continue to live there.” Augustus’s laughter strengthened like a carriage speeding over the Great North Road that could not be easily stopped, and more men joined.

Harrison rolled his eyes. “I don’t like this discussion.”

“Because it’s true,” one of the men said.

It was not true.

But he couldn’t admit that to them. He couldn’t let them suspect his secret.

Harrison raised his chin. “My mother isn’t against me marrying. She simply understands I am reluctant.”

“That is remarkably amiable of her,” Augustus said. “I’ve never even seen your mother push you to dance with someone at a ball. Our mothers do that constantly.”

“Your average matchmaking mama would win any wrestling match,” Benedict observed.

“Perhaps your mother can start giving lessons on patience and restraint, all those values deacons discuss in church but are never implemented at home,” Augustus continued. “At least, when future grandchildren are concerned.”

Harrison gave a weak smile. “Truly, that hasn’t come up. She’s quite normal, I assure you.”

Benedict scrutinized him. “Lucky bastard.”

Something in his friend’s gaze made Harrison shiver. It was suddenly important to change the conversation.

“Let’s go speak with the women,” Benedict said.

“Truly?” Harrison shot a nervous look at Lucy and her sister.

“There’s not more wonderful company in all of London.” Benedict strode toward the women, and his eyes shimmered.

*

“THEY’RE COMING,” ISABELLAsquealed. She clapped her hands and shot Lord Brooke a sultry come-hither look.

Lucy swallowed hard. Since when had her sister shot sultry looks at men?

Isabella glanced at her. “Remember to smile.”

Right.

Lucy could smile. She’d moved her lips upward on many occasions.

Still, tension moved through her, and she stiffened.

The men swaggered toward them. Gone were their tailcoats and jeweled waistcoats. Their cravats were not tied with their customary flourish, and their wet shirts clung to their chests in interesting manners. Heavens, the muscular planes of their torsos were visible, and Lucy had an odd urge to contemplate what they might look like without their shirts.

“On second thought,” Isabella said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t smile.”

Right.

That was even easier.

Normally, Lucy explained how things worked to Isabella. She was the older sister. But suddenly, she felt uneasy. Men were mysterious creatures, and she missed Bath and her friends. It was far easier to speak to them than to talk to a man. Would these men expect her to speak of athletic matches?

Lord Brooke was flanked by two men. Lord Augustus Sloane and the Duke of Sturbridge. The duke strode toward them. His face had a grim expression, one she associated with people on the verge of doing unpleasant activities, such as walking a plank, and he veered away and marched toward the edge the park.

Her heart tumbled.

The man had seemed happy on the boat, at least until he saw them. She smoothed her dress, preferring to focus on alleviating creases than on observing the men.

“Lord Brooke. We meet again.” Isabella waved.

“What an unexpected surprise,” Lord Brooke said.

Isabella giggled, and Lucy jerked her head toward her sister. Had Isabella and Lord Brooke planned this?

But of course, they had. They’d danced together last night. Lucy eyed her sister’s suitor skeptically. Surely, he shouldn’t be encouraging her sister to do things that could get her into trouble? The walk to Hyde Park from Grosvenor Square was safe, but it had been early in the morning. If someone had accosted them, few people would have been present to be of assistance.

“How nice to see you again, Miss Banks,” Lord Brooke said to her.

“Er—yes.” Her voice was gruff, and she may have been glaring.

Lord Brooke’s face lost its earlier composure. “Isn’t it a magnificent day?”

“I suppose,” Lucy grumbled. “I imagine the day will be even nicer later when the sun has more chance to warm everything.”

“Are you cold?” Concern emanated through Isabella’s voice.

Lucy crossed her arms and glowered at Lord Brooke. “I’m fine.”

“It was foolish of me to term the day magnificent,” Lord Brooke said. “After all, how can any day be magnificent when compared to your sister?”

Lucy stiffened.

“Her eyes surpass the sky, and her smile is more marvelous than the sounds of the birds chirping.”

“Are you certain her laugh isn’t more wondrous than that of birds chirping?” Lucy grumbled.

Lord Brooke’s eyes widened. “That too.” He pressed his hand against his heart. “You do understand. Sturbridge called you cantankerous, but clearly, he was inaccurate.”

Isabella cast a nervous glance at Lucy, then returned her gaze to Lord Brooke. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“Your sister understands,” Lord Brooke said.

“Where did Sturbridge go?” Lucy asked, eager to change the conversation.

Lord Brooke sighed. “He was supposed to be here. He said he had to meet with his mother.”

Sir Augustus rolled his gray eyes. “What mother is awake at this time?”

“I think he might suffer from shyness,” Lord Brooke said. “I’ve never seen him attached to a woman.”

“Never?” Lucy widened. “But he’s so—”

“—Handsome?” Isabella prompted and smirked.

Both Lucy and Lord Brooke glowered, but Isabella’s eyes only sparkled with more force.

“He’s not that handsome,” Lord Brooke said finally.

“Well, I personally am partial to blonds,” Isabella said, and Lord Brooke’s chest expanded.

Harrison had silky dark hair that tumbled over his brow in an alluring manner and matched his arresting solemn eyes. 

Sir Augustus turned away. “I think I might pay a call to my mother.”

“No!” Isabella and Lord Brooke exclaimed simultaneously. They stared at each other, then giggled.

“You must sit, Sir Augustus.” Isabella gestured toward the blanket with a confident charm that equaled the most accomplished hostess in Mayfair. “There’s a place beside my lovely sister.”

Was this Lucy’s potential husband? She glanced at him carefully. The man was handsome in a conventional manner, and no painter would struggle on how to depict him in a flattering manner. No doubt, it would be hard for Sir Sloane not to appear muscular if his chosen morning activity was rowing.

Sir Augustus sat down reluctantly. “Tell me, Miss Banks, how do you like London?”

“It’s nice,” Lucy said obediently, even though that adjective wasn’t the precise one she would have used to describe it.

“Ah.” Sir Augustus nodded as if she’d said something insightful.

“Have you followed the racing?” Sir Augustus asked hopefully.

“No,” Lucy said flatly.

Disappointment drifted over Sir Augustus’s square face.

“You must be happy to be out of New York,” Sir Augustus remarked.

“Indeed?”

“Good to surround yourself with some culture,” Sir Augustus continued. “See some paintings.”

“I assure you we have paintings in New York.”

Sir Augustus scrunched his lips together, as if to denote he found her statement highly questionable, but was too polite—no doubt, a quality he thought pertained solely to the English, to argue that point.

“You should visit New York sometime,” Lucy said.

Sir Augustus widened his eyes, and his thin lashes fluttered back furiously. “Isn’t that somewhat...forward of you?”

Drat.

Isabella frowned at her slightly and shook her head.

Obviously, Lucy hadn’t wanted Sir Augustus to visit her, but from his priggish and self-satisfied expression, that was precisely what he thought. If only the grass could promptly propagate and enshroud her in its verdant blades.

Why was this so difficult?

“Not to see me obviously,” Lucy said, and Isabella shot her an approving smile. “After all, I am in London, and you would be thousands of miles away.”

That was a blissful thought, and she smiled.

Sir Augustus scowled. Perhaps he thought her rude to imply she would be happy if he were many miles away. Well, she didn’t care. That would be an improvement.

Isabella sighed, perhaps reading her mind. “It’s unfortunate Sturbridge had to depart.”

“I think it’s damned odd,” Sir Augustus said. “He should be living in the townhouse or purchase another one. Duke shouldn’t reside in clubs. I suppose it’s a financial issue. Incomprehensible, the whole thing.”

Lord Brooke shot Sir Augustus a warning look, and Isabella hastily remarked over the loveliness of the flowers.

The duke had financial difficulties. How unexpected. Lucy contemplated Sir Augustus’s statement as Lord Brooke gallantly compared Isabella favorably to each and every flower in their vicinity. Evidently, Isabella’s blue eyes surpassed the splendor of the bluebells, her elegance exceeded that of the peonies, and her poise outshone the orchids.

*

ONCE THEY RETURNEDto their townhouse, Lucy paced her chamber. She required an idea. Any idea would do, provided it was brilliant.

She did not desire to stand between her sister and her sister’s chance of finding happiness with a handsome, if somewhat dull, viscount.

Lucy needed to be courted and she needed her parents to be so convinced a betrothal was forthcoming that they would permit her sister to be wooed. It was the only way.

Isabella might consider it simple to find a man. Clearly, she thought all one had to do was to smile prettily into the middle distance and wait for some man to offer his undying affection and promise to take financial care of her for the rest of their lives.

Lucy knew it was not that easy. She was older than Isabella, and no man had ever approached her bearing compliments and declaring an intention to forever join their lives together in this world and the celestial one, even if suitors constantly sprung up around Isabella. A swarm of men always swooped around Isabella as if she were the light and they were, well, gnats.

Lucy sighed. If she couldn’t find a man with actual amorous and marital intentions, she required a man willing to enter a faux relationship.

She tapped her hands against a sideboard and pondered.

This man naturally could not be seeking a wife. Such a thing was impossible. After all, the worst thing would be if she entered into an arrangement with him, and he promptly tumbled in love with someone else. If Isabella was correct, and it only took a glimpse at someone to tumble into love, then danger lurked everywhere. No, she needed a man who did not want a wife.

In other words, she needed a man like Harrison James, the Duke of Sturbridge.

After all, Benedict had told Isabella that Harrison was a perpetual bachelor. Moreover, even though he was a duke, he still stayed in the Robertson’s Gentleman’s Club. Perhaps most people weren’t talking about the duke’s evident poverty, but Sir Augustus had more than implied that the duke must be devoid of the overflowing coffers that so often accompanied vast estates. After all, why else would the duke stay in a Gentleman’s Club?

At least Lucy possessed vast wealth. Papa’s success on Wall Street was unrivaled. He didn’t mind when Mama dragged them all to Paris to buy lavish gowns, then ushered them to London to display them in glittering ballrooms.

Lucy scrunched her lips together. She could pay the duke for his efforts. Perhaps that would be sufficient to overlook the inconvenience of being viewed as being smitten with her. Besides, the duke’s best friend was Lord Brooke. The duke might be sentimentally inclined to assist for his friend’s sake, if for nothing else.

Of course, the duke wasn’t fond of her. She knew that. His eyes never gleamed when he saw her, despite the enthusiasm with which her mother had initially attempted to place them together.

Still, this was a business arrangement. Personal taste and sentiment had no place in any decisions.

Tonight there was a ball at Harrison’s mother’s house in Grosvenor Square. She would be able to tell the duke her plan. She would make it so appealing he could not refuse.

Lucy smiled, then walked to her wardrobe where she kept her gold coins and put them carefully into her reticule. Tonight would be marvelous.