The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior

T
o Scott, who is the best husband and gin-wrangler a woman could have. Thanks for going for long walks and eating ramen with our son so I could write this book.

Thanks to Louise Fury, my amazing agent, who is everything I am not. We make a great team, lady.

Thanks to Myretta Robens, who might have read this book more than I did, and told me to keep writing every time I freaked out. Which was often.

And thanks to Lucia Macro, my editor, who totally gets my writing and has given me an incredible chance to share it with readers.

Dukes, like generals, butlers, and other men in charge, should never be seen actually
doing
anything. Dukes are here for the ordering of others, and while they should not abuse that privilege, they should exercise it enough to ensure full understanding of it from all nondukes
.

They can therefore do whatever they want by not doing anything
.

—T
HE
D
UKE
'
S
G
UIDE
TO
C
ORRECT
B
EHAVIOR

At the bottom of a brandy bottle
Two-thirds of the way through a brandy bottle
A duke's ballroom
London, 1840

M
arcus felt his lip curl as he surveyed the signs of debauchery in his ballroom. Which was not, he knew full well, used for parties, balls, or social events of any kind.

Empty brandy bottles lingered to the sides of the chairs at random angles around the room; various articles of women's clothing were scattered around, including one cleverly placed corset on a statue of one of his very male ancestors; a few plates of half-eaten food were on the tables, one of the cats that refused to leave (or more correctly, that he didn't have the heart to make go) nibbling delicately on them while a second cat twined about his ankles.

“So you were saying how difficult it is to be a duke?” Smithfield's tone was as dry as—well, as his own throat felt.

He could fix that. He drained his glass, then
attempted to scowl at Smithfield, one of his two new boon companions. The other, Collins, was currently fast asleep on one of the sofas, the results of imbibing a substantial amount of the brandy one of Collins's ships had brought in. Marcus himself had fallen asleep earlier, so he wasn't entirely exhausted. Not entirely, at least.

“It sounds ridiculous,” he said, then felt himself smile as Smithfield looked at him pointedly. “It
is
ridiculous. I am a duke, I have no financial issues, I am unmarried, in prime health, and can do nearly whatever I want.”

“But?” Smithfield said as Marcus paused.

“But all that is required of a duke is that we wed properly and start fathering little dukes-to-be, and that particular scenario is enough to make me want to wrap that corset,” he said, gesturing to the statue, “around my throat and strangle myself. Bad enough I have to live a life I had never planned on; to do it at the side of a woman I would, in the best case, amicably dislike, and in the worst case utterly loathe, is not to be considered.”

“That is terrible,” Smithfield replied, still in that dry tone. “To have to marry and swan about being a duke when you could—well, what did you do six months ago, before you inherited? Or better yet, what would you rather be doing?”

Disappearing. Leaving. Being free of all responsibilities and cares. Never having to answer to anyone
. “I used to walk a lot, just . . . walk. That made me almost happy.” Marcus knew, in the back of his mind, that he wouldn't be talking this frankly if it weren't for the quantities of Collins's brandy he'd
drunk. But Smithfield was asking, and maybe if Marcus were lucky, neither one of them would recall just how he'd bared his soul so pathetically. Again, thanks to Collins's brandy.

“Is that what you did before inheriting? Walk?” Smithfield's tone was now . . . less dry. As though he understood that what Marcus was saying was nearly important. Even if it still felt as though it wasn't really what Marcus wished to say.

But that would require that he knew what he wished to say, Marcus thought, which would require him to know what would make him happy. He could say, with certainty, that it was neither drinking, gambling, nor fornicating. Even before he'd come into the dukedom so unexpectedly, he had searched for satisfaction through drinking, gambling, and fornicating. He'd traveled to other countries, where he'd drunk, gambled, and fornicated. He'd returned to London where he'd at least had the comforts of his own home while he drank, gambled, and fornicated.

Except for the quality of the brandy, and the soft, luxurious fur of the inherited cats he seemed to have grown fond of, he'd been disappointed.

“Walking, yes,” he replied, then glanced over to Smithfield. Who had fallen asleep. Marcus shook his head, drained his glass, and reached out to scratch the black and white cat on the chin. The cat was far more interested in the food on the table, however, which left Marcus to his own devices. As usual.
As he preferred
, he assured himself.

“I used to walk all the time, just on my own, with no one looking for me, no one worried about
me, no one caring for me,” he said, speaking to the uninterested cat. The dukedom had included the cats, whom the previous duke had acquired. Sometimes he thought they were the best part of inheriting the title. He poured another measure of Collins's brandy in his glass, but didn't drink. “Until my father told me to stop ‘wandering about like a vagabond,' that it wasn't suitable, even for me.”

He took a sip. “And then my father died, and my brother died, and suddenly I was next in line to inherit when the duke died. A man I'd barely met. And here I am, living in his house, with his title, with his cats, spending his money.” His throat tightened. “I don't even feel as though I belong here, even though there is nowhere else I belong better.”

The cat, wisely, did not respond.

He felt a surge of anger—at what, he wasn't entirely certain, just as he didn't know what he wanted.

But meanwhile he knew what he did not want, and that was for the two sleeping men in his ballroom to be there any longer. The cats could stay.

“Get up,” he said sharply, walking over to poke Collins in the chest. The man frowned, brushed Marcus's finger away and emitted a loud snore. Marcus poked him again, this time in his soft belly, and he bolted upright, slamming his feet onto the floor, which echoed in the cavernous space of the ballroom.

“I'm up!” he said, brushing his fingers through his hair. “What's happening? Did Smithfield die?”

“No, not that I'm aware of.” Marcus spared a glance toward Smithfield. Still breathing. He returned his gaze to Collins. “But you both need to leave.”

The good part about being a duke, he'd discovered, was that he didn't need to explain why anything had to happen. He could just say it. “You need to leave.” Or, “I want strawberries,” in the middle of winter. Or, “Swap out all the furniture from one side of the house to the other.” He hadn't said either of the last two, not yet at least, but it was a possibility if it seemed that it might, at last, bring him happiness.

He was reserving that last order for when he was well and truly desperate.

“D'ya have someone visiting?” Collins asked, apparently not understanding that being a duke means never having to explain himself.

Marcus didn't bother to answer, he just went to Smithfield's sofa and poked him. Unlike Collins, Smithfield's belly was flat and hard, but it had the same effect; he sat up and blinked, his disheveled hair sticking up in a few gravity defying directions.

“Out.”

Smithfield nodded and swung his long legs over the sofa to the floor. He stared at the floor for a few seconds, then stood up, wobbling but at least not falling over.

He strode to Collins's sofa then and held his arm out. Collins took it and stood also, both men now at least upright.

Smithfield regarded Marcus with a cool, steady
gaze. “I hope you find what you're looking for, Your Grace.” He didn't wait for any kind of response.

Good thing, too, because Marcus didn't have one, knowing that if he did, he'd damned well be off doing that. Instead, Smithfield just took Collins's arm and led him toward the door.

They all halted, however, at the sound of a firm knock.

Now what?

“Enter,” Marcus said, turning his back to the door as he spoke. Cats couldn't knock, and that was about the only creature he would tolerate seeing.

And when did he become such a grouchy creature himself? If forced to, he could probably pinpoint the exact moment—he'd been about eight years old, and he'd overheard his father talking about him, saying he wished he was more like his brother Joseph. Less like himself.

One would think that wouldn't sting as much twenty years later, with everyone but himself gone from this world. One would be wrong.

Marcus heard the door open and his butler clear his throat. That was something, at least; Thompson did not clear his throat for any but the most interesting of reasons. He turned his head and felt his mouth drop open.

This was definitely an interesting reason.

A girl. A little girl with dark hair, a grimy gown, and the hugest eyes he'd ever seen on a human stared back at him.

“This,” Thompson stated, “is Rose Dosett.”

“Get out,” Marcus said before Thompson could continue, but winced as the butler placed his hand on the girl's arm as though to escort her away. To God knew where. “Not her, them,” he clarified, gesturing to the two standing men without taking his eyes off the girl.

Who had not, as it happened, taken her eyes off him, either.

The men walked swiftly to the door, only knocking over one bottle as they went. Marcus heard the soft drip of the brandy's dregs drop onto the floor as he and the girl continued their mutual observation.

Thompson cleared his throat, then spoke. “Your daughter, Your Grace.”

T
he girl's face was relatively clean, at least in comparison to her gown. What he could see of her shape was thin, but not emaciated. And her face—her eyes were unblinking, solemn, huge.

He felt a pang of something, he had no idea what it was, flicker through him, like a half-remembered emotion that was pleasantly poignant. Like a dream where it was very urgent he do something, and yet he couldn't remember what it was. But he wasn't required to do anything. He could do whatever he wanted, now that he was him. Or more specifically, his title.

He hadn't done anything, and he already felt lacking. But that had been true since he was young, so why was he reminded of it now?

He shook off that feeling of urgency, as best he
could, and realized that just as he was staring at her, she was staring at him, as though she suspected just what he might have been up to. And didn't trust him not to do it again, in her presence.

Although that could be his own guilt talking. The cats looked at him that way, on occasion. But— “Dosett, you said?” he asked. Still without removing his gaze from the girl.

“Dosett, Your Grace,” Thompson confirmed. “Her mother . . . well, her mother . . .” He trailed off as though aware that the girl was right there. Unspeaking. Unmoving. Unnerving.

Fiona Dosett. Marcus had nearly forgotten. She'd conceived when they'd been together, and he'd settled an annual sum on her and her offspring. He hadn't even known what gender his issue had been. Hadn't wanted to know, in fact.

Suddenly, regarding the small, still girl in front of him, that struck him as terribly wrong.

“Shall I place her in the blue bedroom?” Thompson asked, as though she were an unwanted package that just needed putting somewhere. The truth of which made Marcus wince, inside.

The girl—Rose—squeezed her eyes shut as Thompson spoke, making Marcus's chest tighten. That look she had on her face. He knew that look. The look of loss. He'd seen it in the mirror when he was younger, albeit his face was a lot less filthy. That look that said “I don't need love or caring because no one is here to love or care for me.”

Although that could be just what he thought he saw.

“No, not in the blue bedroom,” Marcus replied,
trying to soften his voice. Something he'd had little to no experience with. “Miss Rose and I shall take tea in the second salon.” And he held his hand out to her until she reached forward and placed her small fingers into his.

Feeling, as she did so, that he had been given something that could prove extraordinary. If he could figure out what it was and what to do with it.