“We do not.”
“Josie?”
“You may address me as Duchess or Your Grace,” she said graciously.
“That’s awfully formal. And we are family,” Bridget pointed out.
“Indeed we are.”
Her Grace, the duchess, not to be known as Josie, had long ago married their uncle, the fifth Duke of Durham. When he expired, the title went to his younger brother, Henry—their father, who had long ago bucked all expectations and left England to marry an American woman he’d met and fallen in love with during the war. The four American Cavendish siblings, presently ensconced in a London drawing room, were the result of that union .
But their parents had passed away, in quick succession, before representatives of the duchess had arrived searching for the new Duke of Durham.
They had come in search of Henry; instead they found James, an American man with muck on his boots from the stables, and sweat on his brow from working in the paddock with his horses. And they had bowed to him. Marcus had watched the whole scene unfold; he had just laughed and laughed.
Now James was here.
“I have petitioned the king for your sisters to be addressed as Lady,” the duchess said, and Bridget straightened. “And of course, Duke, you are to be addressed as Your Grace.”
Presently His Grace was sprawled on a spindly-legged chair that felt as if it might collapse under his weight at any second. His legs were outstretched, one boot crossed over the other. He anxiously drummed his fingertips on the arm of the chair.
“Just James is fine,” he replied, his gaze settled on Miss Green.
She bit her lip.
“It is not,” the duchess said flatly. “Among yourselves you may continue to use your Christian names. But in company, you will have to be more formal. Your Grace.”
His sisters exchanged smirking glances before bursting into laughter. He certainly didn’t chastise them because there was something about hearing that familiar, happy sound in this strange new world. If they could still laugh raucously in these opulent surroundings, perhaps there was hope that not everything would change.
The dowager duchess was less amused.
“Do you think this is funny?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” Amelia asked. Because, obviously, they thought it hysterical that their brother be formally addressed as Your Grace, or duke or anything other than simply his name.
It was hysterical that their little family from a farm in Maryland should find themselves in this monstrous drawing room in their new home in a foreign country halfway around the world. They had been commoners, and now they were aristocracy.
Yes, it was where their father had grown up, but he never spoke of this or prepared them for the day when they’d find themselves here. James thought of all the hours they’d spent together, father and son, and this—all this—was never mentioned. He could have had a damned clue. But no. And he couldn’t even ask why his father had kept this from him. He would have to figure it out on his own, the same way he’d had to figure out how to raise three sisters.
“He is Durham now. He is the seventh duke.” The dowager duchess pursed her lips and spoke with controlled formality. It had a chilling effect. Laughter died off.
His days of being Just James were over. But he wasn’t ready to bury his past self just yet. He took one more glance at her, Miss Meredith Green.
The other night she had been Just A Girl.
The other night she had returned his gaze.
The other night she had been warm and willing in his arms.
The other night he had been Just James.
Now that he was the duke, now that he was Durham, she was cold and distant. He swallowed hard, suspecting that this was only his first taste of all the rules and formalities that would keep everyone at arm’s length from him.
“It is his duty to conduct himself in a manner befitting his rank and the Cavendish family. In fact, that is true for all of you.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Claire murmured.
“Miss Green, please pour.”
Miss Green poured the tea from a gleaming silver tea set, her movements elegant and precise.
“How many cubes of sugar?” Miss Green inquired, her hands hovering over a small bowl of carefully cut white sugar cubes.
“Two, please,” Bridget replied.
“Ladies have one,” the dowager duchess said.
“Why did you even ask?” Amelia muttered under her breath.
Bridget paused.
“One, please.”
And so it began. James wanted her to have all the damned sugar if she wanted it.
“Now that you have arrived, we haven’t much time to polish you up before introducing you to the ton. People talk of little else than your arrival and are eager to make your acquaintance.”