Can’t Buy Me a Duke by Bianca Blythe

CHAPTER FIVE

The string quartetthe duchess had hired played in their customary superb manner, and Harrison circled about the ballroom, chatting with the guests.

“Enjoying yourself?” Sir Augustus raised an eyebrow.

“I make a point of enjoying myself,” Harrison said smoothly.

Dukes weren’t expected to be unhappy at balls, after all, and Sir Augustus gave a bored nod.

“That woman is staring at you,” Sir Augustus said.

“Oh?” Harrison glided his gaze in the direction of Sir Augustus’s. “Women have a habit of staring at me.”

“Yes, yes,” Sir Augustus said hastily. “Something about your symmetrical features.”

Harrison grinned. Sir Augustus was easy to rile up, and he stroked his sturdy jawline. “Indeed. Though she could have been marveling at my height in comparison with yours.”

Sir Augustus glowered. “I’m practically the same height.”

“When we’re both sitting,” Harrison agreed. “It’s a pity heels are no longer en vogue.”

Harrison scanned the room. Had one of the more intriguing widows decided to sit in this corner of the room? Perhaps an opera singer had managed to procure an invitation? Though Harrison stayed away from debutantes and their accompanying simpering gazes, he did not barricade himself from the pleasures of all women.

“That redheaded woman,” Sir Augustus said. “Miss Banks.”

The pleasant feeling in Harrison’s stomach disappeared. Apparently, someone had decided to shove a piece of lead there instead. A large, bulky, heavy piece of lead.

“I wouldn’t declare it an interested smile,” Sir Augustus mused. “She doesn’t appear besotted.”

No, Miss Banks appeared contemplative. Very contemplative.

She couldn’t know, could she?

Harrison stiffened and turned away abruptly. The idea was mad. If someone knew, it would be someone from Cornwall, not someone who attending this ball. Certainly, it wouldn’t be some American.

Still, unease hurtled through him, and he grabbed a champagne flute from a passing footman so Sir Augustus would not see his hands shake.

“No doubt, she’s thinking about something else.” Harrison forced his voice to be calm. “Perhaps how to multiply fractions or whatever else it is bluestockings occupy themselves with.”

“I suspect bluestockings occupy themselves with more complex equations than that.” Augustus narrowed his gray eyes. Harrison had never appreciated their steel glint before, and a wave of empathy moved through him as he considered armies being faced with enemies brandishing swords.

“Just where did you go to school?” Augustus asked.

Harrison downed his champagne, even though he always despised the hard bubbles that seemed intent on bouncing to every section of his mouth and throat. “I had tutors.”

“It is rather odd that a future duke wasn’t sent to Eton or Harrow, isn’t it?”

“Not that odd. It was my parents’ decision.”

“Surely they would have wanted you to meet other people. No one sends their children there purely for the education.”

“I was a sickly child.”

Augustus rolled his gaze over Harrison, and Harrison’s skin prickled. “You don’t seem sickly now.”

“No,” Harrison said shortly. “The convalescence was effective. I’m cured.”

“Evidently.”

Harrison raked his hand through his hair. “It’s necessary to inspect the buffet table. I’m sorry, Augustus. Hosting duties and all that. All terribly dull.”

No sooner had he approached the buffet table, then Miss Banks darted toward him, and his stomach fell. She crossed the ballroom with a speed more suited to brisk morning walks through Hyde Park, and her chin jutted forward in a decidedly resolute manner.

This was not good.

He’d seen that look of bold tenacity before. Normally, matchmaking mamas approached him with that doggedness, but he’d been suspicious of Miss Bank’s appearance in Hyde Park. If she could waylay him in a park while he was exercising at an ungodly hour, he didn’t want to contemplate what she might do here after spending the day consuming coffee.

Harrison coughed loudly, then turned to Sir Augustus. “Did I mention I wasn’t feeling well?”

“No,” Sir Augustus said flatly.

“Er—well, I am.” Harrison rested a hand over his brow in what he hoped was a delicate manner. “Not feeling well, that is. Must be that childhood affliction. Give my—er—apologies to anyone who asks for me.”

Sir Augustus scrutinized him. Harrison wondered whether his friend had ever considered becoming a magistrate. Clearly, he was in possession of the correct amount of natural suspicion.

“You’re leaving?” Sir Augustus gazed at him dubiously. “Your own ball?”

“Yes,” Harrison said, then hastened away.

*

THE NIGHT HAD BEENdisastrously uneventful. What duke left his own ball?

Lucy required a new plan—one where she could speak to him alone.

A thought occurred to her. Didn’t the duke use the library at his mother’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square? Perhaps she could find him there, then outline the wonderfulness of her plan in private. She could hardly march up the steps of the townhouse by herself, and this was hardly a conversation to be had in front of a chaperone, but what if she approached the library by the courtyard? Libraries were generally not placed on second or third stories, and if she could enter through a window...

Well, it was a thought. It was the best thought she had.

Lucy rapidly changed into the darkest afternoon dress she had. If she was going to sneak into someone’s library, it was vital she not smudge her dress. Her absence alone might generate questions. She didn’t need to see if any of her parents’ footmen had Bow Runner aspirations.

Lucy grabbed her reticule, poured the gold into a silk satchel, then tucked it into her bodice. The coins were cold and hard. Lucy rushed down the servants’ stairs and entered the kitchen. Maids stared at her, and she gave a tight smile. “Just—er—looking for Rose. Is she here?”

One of the kitchen maids shook her head.

“Very well then,” Lucy said brightly. She’d been fully cognizant of the fact Rose wasn’t here. Rose had her half day. “In that case, I’ll—er—just get some air.”

Lucy ducked through the kitchen door that led to the courtyard. Hopefully, the servants would merely deem her eccentric. Surely, it wouldn’t occur to them that she was attempting to break into a neighboring townhouse.

She entered the garden and surveyed the courtyard. The buildings looked distinctly different from this perspective. No Grecian goddesses graced any of the doors. The townhouses were devoid of the columns and flourishes that made the other side of Grosvenor Square so unique. Even the grass was inconsistently maintained, too large in some areas and entirely devoid of grass in others.

Lucy inhaled, but no amount of air, not even the nicely scented version prevalent in this section of Mayfair with its abundance of enticingly scented flowers and bushes, could possibly lessen her nerves.

Lucy looked surreptitiously in every direction, but the courtyard was empty.

Horses-hooves clopped rhythmically on the other side of the houses, the speed perpetually languid, as if it were impossible for people in this location ever to be late to something, ever to require a doctor with urgency, or ever need to flee.

She gazed at the neighboring townhouse. That was where the Duchess of Sturbridge lived. More importantly, this was where the Duke of Sturbridge kept his library.

If there was a time for this to work, it was now, in the afternoon, after the duke would have finished his morning exercises in Hyde Park but before he began his night of debauchery. Lucy wasn’t certain what rakes did at night, but suspected it kept them from their mother’s homes.

Lucy rested her hand against her bodice, ensuring the coins remained secure, then hastened toward the house. If anyone looked outside, they could see her. Speed was of the essence. She didn’t want to contemplate what might happen if she got caught. Would people believe she was simply one of those eccentric Americans whom people clucked their tongues at disapprovingly?

If only the Duke of Sturbridge weren’t her only hope. If only she could simply read her book.

After a few short paces that seemed to last forever, she arrived. She crept by the windows. Would he be alone? She should have brought a telescope. She peered into the room, and her heart tensed.

There, on the other side of the desk, was the duke.

Heavens, the man was handsome. Somehow, she’d forgotten. Every time she saw him, she seemed struck again by the man’s imposing presence. It was utterly unfair the world had managed to put so much perfection in a single man. His nose was straight, his shoulders broad, and his hair tousled and endearing.

She hesitated. Would he laugh at her proposal? She could still change her mind. There was time to dash back to the kitchen.

Still, this was her chance. He was here and he was alone.

She hurried to the window, then pushed against it.

It was locked.

Drat.

Still, it was not the only window in the room.

The next window was open. Joy surged through her. Thank goodness for bright sunny days and the need to open windows. She raised it further. Perfect.

The duke remained engrossed in his work.

If someone else had been in the room, she would have heard noises by now. That, at least, was good.

She glanced around. The window ledge was high. She needed a ladder or chair. Unfortunately, though there were many chairs inside the library, none were outside.

Still, she could do this. She must do this. She pulled herself up slowly, slowly, slowly. Her arms ached. Her stomach ached. Her back ached. She refused to let go.

Lucy fell and collided with the ground. Dirt and leaves clung to her dress. She heaved herself up, ignoring the sudden quickening of her breath.

This wasn’t working.

Lucy scanned the building. There was a ledge next to the window. Perhaps she could approach from that side? She hurried past the library, then climbed onto a trellis. Wood creaked beneath her, and some strips snapped. No matter.

Once she reached the ledge, she climbed onto it and spread her hands, clutching the wall as best as she could. She inched to the side and refused to topple. Finally, she reached the window.

Heavens, she’d done it.

Joy was quickly halted by apprehension, but she ignored the manner in which her chest squeezed. Lucy poked her foot inside the library experimentally. Yes, the window was definitely open. She crouched on the ledge and gazed into the library.

The Duke of Sturbridge gawked at her from the other side of the window. His eyes widened, and his mouth formed a circle. With her luck, she would be featured in a Matchmaking for Wallflowers column, under the title “Awful American” or something similarly uncomfortable.

Lucy moved her finger hastily to her mouth.

“Shh,” she hissed.

He rubbed his eyes as if, for a moment, he thought he had concocted her in his mind.

She smiled. She could almost take that as a compliment.

He inched toward the bell pull.

Fiddle-faddle.

She needed to stop him. Now.

Lucy tumbled into the room face first, bottom up, skirts . . . Well, she didn’t want to think about her skirts. Thank goodness for drawers.

She scrambled up, conscious her face must be red. Her locks tumbled from her chignon despite Rose’s skills with arranging her thick red hair. Evidently, Rose had not anticipated she would be diving into rooms headfirst.

Lucy lifted her chin and tried to convey some decorum.

“Miss Lucy Banks,” the Duke of Sturbridge said finally.

“Yes, Your Grace.” She flicked some leaves and twigs from her dress.

He narrowed his eyes. “I hope you didn’t destroy the trellis outside.” 

“I shall pay for that,” she assured him.

“What are you doing here?” His hand crept toward the bell pull.

“I wouldn’t pull that if I were you.”

“No?”

“No. If someone comes in, I’ll tell them you were compromising me.” 

His eyes widened even further. “You wouldn’t.” 

“I would.”

His face whitened. The man didn’t need to look so horrified at the prospect.

Lucy inhaled. “I have something to tell you, and you are going to listen.” 

“What do you have to tell me?” his voice creaked.

“I have a plan.” 

“Indeed?” 

“A plan that will benefit both of us. An excellent plan.” 

“And what does that plan entail?” 

“It entails you courting me.”

He blinked.

“A false courtship.” 

“Only a false one?” 

“Of course,” she said hastily. “I wouldn’t expect you to actually court me.”

“Marriage with you is something I absolutely do not desire,” he said. 

Somehow the words hurt more than they should have, but she squared her shoulders, as if he’d said nothing more inflammatory than expressing a distaste for stewed fruit. He was being practical. She had to respect that.

“And I doubt I even like you,” she replied.

That much was indeed true, no matter how handsome he was.

“I must enter a faux courtship,” Lucy continued. “My sister requires me to appear to have an eminent betrothal.”

“You broke into my library so your sister will be allowed to have a suitor?” His tone was wondrous.

She nodded. “Indeed. Once they become betrothed, we can halt our understanding.”

He scrutinized her.

“My parents won’t want the scandal of a broken engagement with her,” she explained.

“People might suspect you’re not untouched,” the duke said finally.

“Nonsense. We’ll always be chaperoned.”

“I’m a very virile man. They might suspect I found a way.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped, then she arched her chin. “Then there will be gossip. So be it. This is still the right thing to do.”

“And I am your ideal candidate?” 

“Yes.”

“I am most people’s ideal candidate,” he said grumpily, but he did not tug the bell pull. That was good. There was hope. “You want me to propose to you?”

“Of course not.”

Sturbridge’s forehead did not move. “Every woman wants me to propose.”

On another day, Lucy might have rolled her eyes. This was not that sort of day. This mattered too much.

“You’re handsome,” Lucy said.

Sturbridge shot her a smug look.

Lucy narrowed the distance between them. “But you also do not possess funds.”

Sturbridge blinked, and his sun-kissed skin suddenly appeared pale.

“Poor enough to consider marrying someone,” Lucy continued.

“And how do you know—?” The duke halted abruptly, and Lucy sighed. Clearly, the man could not even utter the word poor. The man’s masculinity was evidently in full force.

“Denial is not helpful,” she said in a soothing manner.

“But how—”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “You live in a gentlemen’s club. Clearly, you can’t afford to purchase another home for you or your mother. That counts as money-deprived for dukes.”

“Nonsense.”

The last word seemed emphasized with unnecessary flourish. Lucy’s heartbeat tightened, and she wished she had not insisted on standing.

“I’ll ensure you’ll never have to marry anyone.”

“That’s impossible,” Sturbridge muttered.

“No.” Lucy removed the bag of gold from her bodice and flung it on the desk. “It’s not impossible.”