The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (16 page)

Dukes should not fraternize with anyone who is not their social equal (with the exception of earls, but no lower than that). Which means, unfortunately, that the only people to whom they can be friendly is other dukes—of which there are very few—and royalty, of which there are fewer. Dukes need to recall their positions at all times, and not get distracted by a clever wit, a friendly gesture, or a kissable mouth
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“I
f you'll just allow me, Your Grace,” Miller began. He took another cravat from the stack and put it around Marcus's neck.

Like a noose.

The previous attempts were in a pile on a chair, their wrinkles and creases practically mocking Marcus for his determination to look proper, for one evening at least. Or so it seemed.

He waited, shifting impatiently, as Miller tied the fabric, smoothing it with a practiced gesture. Marcus resisted the urge to slide his finger between the fabric and his skin to give himself more breathing room. It would mean another attempt would have to be made, not to mention that he was about to go breathless, as it were, with no breathing room at all in his life.

He was about to take his rightful place, his dukely place, in society, which he had heretofore ignored, beyond taking advantage of his position for personal enjoyment.

He hadn't cared before, but now, with Rose's future happiness at stake, not to mention his own,
he had to. And what was likely worse, he would have to do it with a smile on his face and pleasantries on his lips.

He wished he'd had more practice. With her. If he could get his lemony governess to smile, to regard him with approval, he could do anything. Of course he doubted that most young ladies were of the lemony persuasion, but neither did he think they would be as tempting to kiss.

“I believe this is the one, Your Grace.” Miller stepped aside so Marcus could see himself in the glass.

His cravat was, indeed, correct. As was everything else he had on. He looked absolutely presentable, not like the sort of man who would lure young ladies in his employ to his study to drink brandy, nor the kind of man who even have thoughts about said action.

Excellent. Now he just had to persuade every member of Society—not to mention himself—that he was truly that kind of gentleman.

Thankfully there was a knock on his bedroom door before he could tear the cravat off and haul Lily to his study for some much-needed—by him—kissing.

“Your Grace, the carriage is ready.” Thompson's eyes widened slightly and then he nodded, as though in approval.

Poor Thompson. The previous duke, according to all reports, had been one of the stuffiest men, his only oddness being his fondness for cats. Likely he even wore a cravat to sleep in, so it must pain Thompson to see him now holding the title.

“I'll be down shortly.”

He allowed Miller to brush off some nonexistent lint, gave himself one last look in the glass, and headed downstairs to his doom. That is, the carriage.

“G
lad you made it.” Smithfield cast a glance at Marcus. “And you look so presentable.”

Marcus grinned. “Don't look so surprised, I can clean up if I have to.”

“If you have to, of course. That you wanted to is what is surprising,” Smithfield replied, a dry tone in his voice.

The two men stood at the edge of the ballroom, couples whirling and dancing in front of them, a row of chaperones on the opposite wall, while servants passed nimbly throughout the crowd, handing out glasses of wine to the guests.

“I must have been an arrogant ass the night we met.” Marcus plucked a glass of wine from one of the servants' trays.

The room was filled with people, none of whom Marcus recognized. Not surprising, since he'd made it a point not to be in polite company. Present company excepted, of course.

Smithfield uttered a bark of laughter. “You could say that. I got the impression you never did anything you didn't wish to, and so to see you here—you were most vehement about—let me see if I can recall correctly—‘not changing just because I'm a damned duke'—well, to see you here being a damned duke is a surprise.”

That did sound like him. But he'd be damned—so to speak—if he'd be entirely selfish at the cost of another person's happiness.

“Are your sisters here?” Marcus took another sip of his wine.

“Of course. They wouldn't have missed this party, not when a real duke promised to be in attendance.”

Marcus cocked his eyebrow at his friend. “I can tell that event doesn't impress you.”

Smithfield laughed again. “Don't forget, I've seen what you look like dancing with a cat in a corset.” He cleared his throat. “That is, the cat was wearing the corset. Not you.”

Oh. So that had happened. Interesting. And no wonder Stripey had bolted every time he'd seen him since.

“Your Grace, Mr. Smithfield.” A small group had manifested in front of him, led by a gentleman who seemed to have been poured into his suit, it was so tight. “I am the Earl of Daymond,” he said. “I am so pleased you were able to accept my invitation.” The man bowed with an audible creaking of his stays.

Marcus reminded himself not to eat too much of the food being passed around.

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” he said without a trace of sarcasm.

He heard Smithfield smother a snort. So perhaps there was a trace there.

“May I introduce my daughter, Lady Lucinda?” The earl put his arm behind a young woman's back and propelled her forward.

She curtsied and held her hand out. “A pleasure, Your Grace.” Lady Lucinda had blond hair that sparkled in the glow of the multitude of candles placed in sconces and candelabras on the walls and throughout the rooms. Her gown was a demure white, no doubt signifying her status as an eligible young lady.

Marcus bowed.

A silence. And then Smithfield's elbow nudged him in the ribs. Oh, of course—an eligible young lady.

“Ah, yes, Lady Lucinda, are you free for the next dance?”

Another woman, not Lady Lucinda, answered. Must have been the countess, who seemed to have taken the opposite approach to food as her husband—she was so bony she might have been a model for a scarecrow. “Yes, she is, Your Grace.”

The lady herself, Lucinda, met his gaze and smiled, a hint of wryness in her eyes. “It appears I am, Your Grace. Thank you for the invitation.”

And then the pack of them moved away, apparently having satisfied the courtesies and gotten the duke to dance with the daughter of the house.

Marcus exhaled. “Thank you for that, by the way,” he said in a low voice.

Smithfield nodded. “Figured you were out of practice with this sort of thing.”

Practice. He definitely needed more
practice
.

“T
he room is very nice,” Marcus said. “Has your family owned the house long?”

Lady Lucinda nodded. So much for that conversation.

They were parted in the movements of the dance as Marcus racked his brain for more noncontroversial conversation, but something that would require more than a head shake or nod.

“And is this your first Season?” he asked.

A shake this time. Damn it.

“Do you prefer chocolate or lemon ice?”

This time he got another one of those wry smiles. “You are determined to engage me in conversation, Your Grace.”

Well. She was certainly direct.

“Lemon.” And decisive. That was good.

But now there was nothing else to say.

He couldn't allow himself to think that this might be what marriage to an eligible young lady would be like.

Damn it. He'd thought it.

“And which do you prefer, Your Grace?” She tilted her head back to regard him. She had brown eyes, very pretty brown eyes, actually.

He preferred hazel. It was a good thing she hadn't responded with her own question about the most attractive shade of eyes.

“Chocolate.”

She smiled. “Our first disagreement.”

“Likely not to be our last,” he replied without thinking. Damn.

She laughed. Thank goodness—he hoped he wouldn't have inadvertently offended her.

He really needed that practice. As in right now.

Unfortunately, he was at this party, and he had
to stay for at least another hour and dance and mingle and make idle conversation.

“I apologize for being so quiet, Your Grace,” Lady Lucinda said as they turned and made the walk up the line of people to the next movement of the dance. “You see, I know that my parents will wish to hear every word we've said, and I don't have a good memory, so I thought if we limited our conversation it would be easier later.”

“Perhaps we should write out our conversation in advance, so as to be better prepared?” He hadn't expected anyone here to be amusing. That was his own prejudice, one he had to admit to.

Not that he wished to marry Lady Lucinda on the basis of half a conversation, but at least it wasn't entirely painful.

She laughed again. She had a nice laugh, but it wasn't— Damn it. It wasn't hers.

They finished the dance in silence, no doubt so Lady Lucinda could accurately report what had been said. But it was a comfortable silence, at least.

He escorted her back to her parents, excusing himself as he saw Smithfield and his sisters.

“Your Grace,” one of the sisters said. “You're here!” As though it was the most wonderful thing she'd ever seen.

No, probably the most wonderful thing she'd ever see would be Miss Blake making a decision. That lady was here as well, standing to the side and frowning as she viewed a tray of wineglasses. She had to be figuring out which one to take.

He couldn't bear it. He strode forward and took
a glass off the tray, handing it with a bow to Miss Blake.

“Th-Thank you, Your Grace,” she said.

“It is nice to see you again, Miss Blake,” he said. “May I ask if you are free for the next dance?”

“Of course she is,” one of the sisters said. It seemed no young lady was capable of answering such questions themselves. In Miss Blake's case, he could understand that.

“Yes, I am,” she confirmed, taking a sip from her glass. “Oh, this is good! I am not certain it is as good as the tea we had this afternoon, but I do like it.”

Well, he was glad that was settled.

“I don't believe you've met my other brother-in-law, Mr. Haughton,” Smithfield said, gesturing to one of the gentlemen. “He was unable to attend dinner the other evening.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Haughton,” Marcus said as he grasped the other man's hand.

“The pleasure is mine, Your Grace.” The man looked as though he wished to say something else, but his wife—who was taller—nudged him and he snapped his mouth closed.

The music started up again, and Marcus knew he had to face the inevitable.

“This is our dance, Miss Blake?” He held his arm out to her, not giving her the chance to pick which arm she should take, and she hesitated only a moment before placing her hand on his sleeve.

He escorted her out to the middle of the dance floor, grateful that the movements of the dance would not allow for much conversation.

Yes, his first foray into Society was going spectacularly well.

“How is your Miss Rose?” Miss Blake asked, when she had a chance.

Rose. Her little face when she was talking so earnestly about cats, and how she stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth when she was drawing, and how she'd held his hand on their walk.

“She is wonderful,” he replied, knowing it was the most honest thing he'd said the entire evening.

“I know the children liked having her over. Miss Lily said perhaps she would come over again. Would you accompany them?”

He'd have to decide that, wouldn't he? And suddenly he understood some of what Miss Blake must go through in her every waking moment.

“I will consider it,” he said after a moment.

He didn't have a miserable time after all, he reflected as he sat in the carriage a few hours later. But it hadn't been precisely fun; perhaps he would have to practice that as well. Having fun.

The thought of practice made him think, naturally, of her; not that he hadn't been thinking of her all evening.

And he wanted, no he
needed
, to see her. Now. That was a decision he didn't have to ponder.

A duke should treat a lady as though she were a lady. That is to say, as though she were a delicate flower, unable to deal with passion, strong emotions, manhandling, and cavorting of any kind. A lady who wishes to be treated otherwise must indicate her preferences to the duke in question
.

—T
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