It's Hard Out Here for a Duke(9)

“The ton of what?” Amelia asked.

The dowager duchess looked perplexed.

“The haute ton is a phrase used to refer to all the best families in London society,” Bridget answered. James vaguely remembered her obsessively eavesdropping on two obviously wealthy British women on their boat; she must have learned it from them.

“You have done your research,” the dowager duchess said with a nod of approval. Bridget beamed.

“I was hoping for some time to explore,” Amelia said.

“It is possible to arrange for some excursions to the local sights and museums, so you can familiarize yourself with the city and have something intelligent to discuss with suitors.”

James heard Amelia muttering under her breath about wanting to explore for herself, not giving a hang about suitors. His youngest sister was the wild pony of the bunch, the one who was always hardest to train and never fully domesticated. Josie was going to have her hands full with her. With all of them.

“And I would like to visit with the Royal Society. I do hope to meet those who study mathematics,” Claire said.

“I can’t imagine why,” the duchess said dryly, which was the usual response when Claire stated her interest.

James frowned. He didn’t like this. They hadn’t been here an hour, and already this duchess was trying to mold them into Perfect English Ladies, which would likely necessitate stifling their personalities. His sisters were a constant plague upon his peace and sanity, but he didn’t want them to change or give up what they loved, be it math, or exploring, or an excess of sugar in one’s tea.

Claire, however, was accustomed to this attitude. “Because I have a brilliant mind for mathematics, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“Ladies do not—”

“Yes, I know,” Claire said with a dismissive wave of her hand. She was always impatient with such a limited view of womanhood. “But I do it anyway.”

“You would all do well to focus on finding suitable husbands rather than fretting over math problems, excursions, or glancing longingly at the pot of sugar. I am given to understand that you are all, as we say, on the shelf.”

They may have traveled halfway around the world, but they still hadn’t escaped the Disapproving Marriage-Minded Matron. Their neighbors back home had always despaired of “the poor lot of motherless children without any marital prospects,” but any matchmaking attempts had fallen flat. Instead, they had each other and were free to pursue their interests.

Claire wasn’t interested in matrimony—or a man who could curtail her intellectual pursuits. Amelia was more wild than civilized. And Bridget was often infatuated with this bloke or that, but wasn’t interested in settling for anything less than true love.

None of them were interested in anything less than that.

Their father had thrown a dukedom away for love. Their mother had married “the enemy,” according to her American family. Love was the example their children had grown up with. None of them would settle for less.

James hadn’t been remotely interested in marriage, not even to get his sisters off his hands. He did mostly enjoy their company. And so the years had passed by without proposals or weddings, and now they were older than the usual age at which people wed and at the mercy of a woman who was clearly determined to see them leg shackled sooner rather than later.

The three sisters turned their heads toward James. The duke.

“I think we would all like some time to settle in before we start marrying my sisters off,” he said. “God knows, there is a plague of them, and they’ll drive you mad before breakfast. And yet, I find myself fond of them. Most of the time. And would prefer to have them around while we become accustomed to things here. And until we decide if we shall stay.”

The possibility that they might say to hell with all this was tantalizing. He held it close.

The dowager duchess opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, because this was the new duke speaking, after all. “Very well,” she said. She pursed her lips. “Perhaps you would like to be shown to your rooms and take some time to rest before dressing for dinner.”

But it was understood that this was not over yet.





Oh, bloody hell and damnation . . .


The new duke had kept looking at her. Looking at her like he knew her, had seen her undressed, and in a state of rapture, knew her. He looked at her like that all afternoon, all through dinner, and all through tea after.

Meredith was terrified that someone (ahem, the duchess) would notice.

She always noticed everything.

She must not notice this.

To be fair, it took every bit of self-control for Meredith to not look at him. Her handsome stranger who had made her smile when she was in low spirits, who had brought her to heights of ecstasy, and whom she’d fled in the night, was here.