Never Have I Ever With a Duke Read online

  Graham had considered telling David about his financial woes on more than one occasion, but the words never made it from his brain to his tongue. Graham had been the one with the highest marks in mathematics at Oxford, the one who’d stepped into managing David’s affairs, as if he’d been doing it for years. Granted, he’d been learning at his father’s side, but the transition had been seamless.

  Now, Graham was in possession of a broken-down, entailed estate and a gleaming house and parkland that he was on the brink of forfeiting. It was beyond humiliating, despite the fact that none of it was his fault.

  “Yes, it went well.” As well as could be expected upon learning your legacy was about to slip through your fingers. “I appreciate you letting me come to stay. I’ll be on my way to Brixton Park in a short while.”

  David sat in a chair near the hearth. “You are more than welcome to stay—now, anytime.”

  Graham knew that, but it didn’t change a thing. David hadn’t even been wed to Fanny a year, and they were as in love as two people could be. They certainly didn’t need him hanging about. “I would never intrude for long.” Graham took the other chair angled near the fireplace.

  “You aren’t intruding.”

  “Tell that to Fanny.” He winked, and David rolled his eyes.

  “Fanny would be the first to insist you stay.”

  Well then, he wouldn’t be able to find more things to sell at Brixton Park. It was blessed hard to try to liquidate one’s assets while at the same time trying to keep one’s financial situation quiet. He didn’t want all and sundry knowing the dukedom was on the verge of bankruptcy. If he was going to find an heiress, he’d be better off not advertising that he needed one.

  “I have plenty to keep me busy at Brixton Park,” Graham said.

  “I imagine you do. I do appreciate the time you spent with my new secretary.”

  Graham had worked with the young man, bringing him up to snuff, over the holiday season. “He’ll work out fine.”

  “What of your retainers?” David asked. “Have you been able to assess both Brixton Park and Halstead Manor?”

  “Not fully.” That was a lie. He knew enough to deduce that Halstead Manor was a neglected, run-down pile of stone, with tenants who desperately needed a landlord who cared. Brixton Park, for all its glory, was in need of some repairs and was currently operating at a fraction of its normal retainers. Many had left or retired when the former duke died. And of course, Graham couldn’t afford to hire any more. It was all so bloody overwhelming.

  He had to focus on what he needed first: money. Which meant an heiress.

  David scrutinized him for a moment. “Did I really hear you discussing marriage with the ladies?”

  “Only in a general sense. They terrified me with predictions of young misses clamoring after me.”

  David’s gray eyes glinted with humor. “You are a duke.”

  “Improbably, yes. I suppose I must consider marriage.”

  “You needn’t rush into anything. Unless you want to?”

  “I don’t particularly.” But again, want and need were not the same things. “Fanny and the others mentioned more mature women who aren’t desperate to wed. They sound more appealing than those who hear my title and swoon.”

  David laughed. “Has that actually happened?”

  “Not yet, but then I haven’t been to a Society event. Upon Fanny’s recommendation, I’ve accepted the invitation to the Thursby ball.” Graham pinned him with a probing stare. “I expect you to guide me. Do not abandon me to the wolves.”

  David’s head dipped. “It’s not as bad as all that. However, I do have to abandon you. I’m taking Fanny home to Huntwell to await the birth. I’m afraid we just decided earlier today to leave the morning of the Thursby ball.” He grimaced as he awaited Graham’s reaction.

  Graham groaned, casting his head back against the chair. “You’re a terrible friend.”

  “I know. Fanny feels particularly bad since she talked you into attending the ball.” David gave him an encouraging nod. “You’ll be fine—you like dancing and you were always the most popular gentleman at every assembly in our district.”

  Graham lifted a shoulder but knew David was right. He did like dancing, and he liked the company of women. Perhaps it was the absence of his mother—she’d died in childbirth when David was two—that had driven him to seek female companionship.

  “How’s your wardrobe?” David asked.

  Small. “If you’re asking whether I have a ball-ready costume, the answer is yes. I’m not a heathen. Though, some will assume it, won’t they?”

  “I doubt that. You have many well-placed friends, both from school and from last Season when you managed the wagering for Ware’s races.”

  That was true. Graham had met more people from Society than he could remember. “Ware can help me if I need it.”

  David grimaced again. “I’m afraid not. Ware—and Northam—are also leaving town. I’ve asked Anthony to provide you support.”

  “Wonderful.” Graham sent him a teasing glare, then smiled. “As you said, I’ll be fine.” Graham had to focus on his problems anyway, and it would be difficult to keep them from David if he were here in town.

  Graham shifted in his chair, feeling slightly uncomfortable that he wasn’t discussing his situation with his best friend. He suspected David would offer him money, but Graham wouldn’t accept anything but a loan. And right now, he couldn’t afford one.

  “I’m delighted for you and Fanny, and I better be the first person you write to after the child is born,” Graham said with a faux stern tone.

  “Of course you will. Now let me bore you with the names Fanny wants to use.” His eyes twinkled with anticipation. How could Graham be bored when his dearest friend was so infectiously enthusiastic?

  A short time later, Graham rode from London toward Brixton Park. The more he thought about it, the more he decided an heiress would solve his problems. Not just any heiress, but the one Lady Northam had mentioned: Miss Phoebe Lennox. A self-declared spinster with an enormous fortune and no desire for the Marriage Mart.

  She sounded absolutely perfect.

  Chapter 3

  “Let us have tea and cakes in the garden room,” Jane Pemberton suggested.

  Arabella looked longingly at the bookshelves being constructed in the room Phoebe was converting to a library. “You do realize I may visit your library one day and never leave?” Arabella said to Phoebe.

  “You would be more than welcome. You are more than welcome—any time.” Phoebe gave her a warm smile.

  “When you’ve had enough of the Marriage Mart, which you likely will soon, I do hope you’ll officially join the Spitfire Society,” Jane said as they departed the library and went to the back of the house to the aforementioned garden room.

  Phoebe’s first project after purchasing the house had been transforming this breakfast room into a “garden room.” She’d installed tall windows and a glass-paned door that led to the garden. The walls sported green wainscoting and a floral wallpaper so that it felt like you were sitting out in the garden instead of just looking at it. Potted plants finished the effect, and it was easy to see why it was Phoebe’s favorite room in the house.

  Phoebe was two years older than Arabella’s twenty-three, but when she’d inherited a fortune last year, she’d suddenly seemed even older. Or perhaps that was because of the confidence and serenity she now exuded. She’d escaped a marriage to a philandering gentleman when she’d left him at the altar last year—and then she’d escaped London. She’d gone to stay with her great-aunt, who’d died a few months later, leaving Phoebe everything she had.

  “I am not yet tired of the Marriage Mart,” Arabella lied. “I have great hope this will be the year I find success.” It had to be.

  Jane gave her a skeptical look as they sat around a circular table situated in the corner near the windows. “Are you certain that’s what you want? You could abandon the Marriage Mart as Phoebe and I
have.”

  “One might argue we didn’t abandon the Mart so much as the Mart relegated us to the shelf,” Phoebe said before her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Not that I mind.” She sobered as she looked toward Arabella. “I do understand preferring marriage to this. Becoming a social outcast isn’t for everyone.”

  “My mother would suffer a fit if I left the Marriage Mart,” Arabella said. And not just because of how it would negatively impact their financial situation. She found Phoebe’s spinsterhood a disappointment, and she would undoubtedly be horrified if Arabella followed her example. “She would argue that I wouldn’t be happy, that I’d be lonely without a husband. She and my father are quite in love, so she expects I will experience the same fortune.”

  Phoebe studied her closely. “You don’t sound as if you agree.”

  The butler delivered a tray with tea and cakes along with butter biscuits, which were Arabella’s favorite. After pouring the tea, he asked if they required anything further.

  “Not at the moment. Thank you, Culpepper.” Phoebe smiled up at the middle-aged butler, who inclined his head, then departed.

  Arabella reached for a butter biscuit and immediately took a bite. Flaky deliciousness spilled over her tongue, and she nearly closed her eyes in rapture. After she swallowed, she asked, “If I lived here, I would ask for these every single day. Every. Single. Day.”

  Jane laughed. “Why do you think I visit so often?”

  “It’s true,” Phoebe said. “She doesn’t come for my company at all. I’ll get you the recipe so your cook can make them.”

  In that moment, Arabella was wholly and unabashedly jealous. It wasn’t just the biscuits. It was Phoebe’s complete autonomy.

  “You neatly skirted Phoebe’s comment,” Jane said. “Are you in search of a husband because you’re afraid of being lonely? You’ll always have us.” She reached over and patted Arabella’s hand.

  “Yes,” Phoebe agreed. “You are a member of the Spitfire Society whether you want to be or not.”

  Emotion pinched Arabella’s throat for a moment. “Thank you. I treasure our friendship so much. To answer your question, while independence is incredibly attractive to me, I think I might like to fall in love.” It was a lie—she didn’t think she would fall in love again, and she didn’t expect love to feature in any match she might be fortunate enough to make. However, she couldn’t tell them she wanted to marry for money without explaining why. “Again.” She said this last with a hint of a smile. She’d never discussed Miles Corbett with anyone.

  “Again?” Phoebe and Jane spoke in unison, just as one was about to take a bite of a cake and the other a sip of tea. Their eyes pinned Arabella with brazen curiosity.

  “I fell in love with someone six years ago. Alas, my parents did not approve of his suit.”

  Phoebe frowned. “How awful. What happened to him?”

  “He left England to find his fortune. He thought if he was wealthy, he could convince them to reconsider, even if he didn’t have a title.”

  “Did you never hear from him again?” Jane asked, setting her teacup down.

  Arabella shook her head. “I hoped he might return, and I managed to keep suitors at bay while I waited. However, I gave up on that a few years ago.”

  Phoebe gave her a soft smile of encouragement. “How extraordinary to have been in love, though. May I ask how it felt?”

  Arabella found it hard to conjure the desperate longing she’d felt back then. “I remember thinking he was the kindest, most handsome, most wonderful man I’d ever met. He was attentive and thoughtful. He made me feel like the center of the universe—his universe, anyway.” While she didn’t still feel a pull toward him, she realized she missed that sensation, that feeling of being in love.

  Jane sighed. “That sounds marvelous.”

  “He sounds like a singular gentleman,” Phoebe said. “I’m sorry he didn’t return to you.”

  Arabella had been sorry too, but that time had passed. “It was ages ago, and we were very young.” And foolish. She’d behaved in ways she oughtn’t.

  Even so, she would never regret it. Especially if she never wed.

  But she had to! The people she loved most depended on it. She longed to tell Phoebe and Jane the truth so that they could help her find the husband she needed. Which was absurd. They couldn’t help her. They’d no sooner go to a ball or a rout than they’d go to Almack’s.

  “Not to change the subject, but I wondered if you might do me a favor,” Phoebe said, reaching for a butter biscuit.

  Arabella nodded. “Of course, anything.”

  Phoebe swallowed her biscuit before continuing. “While the Spitfire Society may not be for you, it will likely be helpful to other young women. I plan to host biweekly social gatherings here in the afternoon during the Season.”

  “But only for unmarried women,” Jane said.

  “How lovely. I wish I could come.”

  “You are more than welcome, but I daresay these events will become known as unofficial meetings of the Spitfire Society.” Phoebe pressed her lips together in a resigned expression, then lifted her teacup. “Not that I mind. But I want you to be fully aware of your potential association with our outrageous club.” Her eyes glowed with mirth, and once again, Arabella felt a pang of jealousy. How wonderful it must be not to care what people thought or said.

  “Did someone say that?” Arabella asked.

  Jane made a face. “The Duchess of Holborn, but she’s a horrible snob. Lady Satterfield, on the other hand, was absolutely lovely at her ball.”

  Arabella recalled that, for she’d been there too. Lady Satterfield was immensely popular and didn’t possess a cruel or supercilious bone in her body as far as Arabella could tell.

  Phoebe set her cup down. “If you encounter anyone you think might enjoy attending my events, please let me know so I may extend an invitation.”

  “I’ll do that. You’re incredibly thoughtful and kind.”

  Culpepper returned. “Miss Lennox, you have a caller. I tried to tell him you were occupied, but he insisted on delivering his flowers in person.”

  It was Jane who answered. “He?”

  “The Duke of Halstead,” Culpepper replied.

  Phoebe looked at Jane. “Is he the one who just inherited?”

  Jane nodded. “I met him last Season at Ware’s races. He was the Earl of St. Ives’s secretary.”

  Arabella had heard about Halstead, but not that he’d been a secretary. “Now he’s a duke? How did that happen?”

  Phoebe’s eyes sparked with curiosity, and her mouth tipped into a mischievous smile. “Should we ask him? Normally, I would send him away, but this sounds like a good story.”

  “Oh yes, invite him in,” Jane said, already rising from the table and moving to the seating area in the center of the room.

  Phoebe looked to her butler as she rose. “Send him in, Culpepper.”

  With a nod, Culpepper turned and departed. When he returned a moment later, Arabella had taken a place on the settee, while Phoebe and Jane were in chairs that flanked it.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Halstead,” Culpepper announced.

  Arabella’s eyes widened. He was the swordsman.

  He looked different now that he had all his clothes on, and she wasn’t entirely sure it was better. His dark hair was neatly styled, his cravat blindingly white and stiffly starched, his ebony boots gleaming.

  His gaze fell on her, and the mutual recognition was instantaneous. Would he say they’d met before? It would be scandalous, for she’d been without a chaperone and she’d misled him about her identity. However, neither Phoebe nor Jane would care. In fact, they’d likely find the tale delightful.

  To his credit, however, he only bowed to all three of them. “Good afternoon, ladies. Thank you for accepting my call, Miss Lennox.” His gaze drifted with curiosity from Jane to Phoebe and finally to Arabella. She realized he didn’t know who was who.

  “Allow me to introduce my fri
ends,” Phoebe said, gesturing first towards Jane. “This is Miss Pemberton. And this is Miss Stoke.” She swept her hand in Arabella’s direction.

  “It is my pleasure to meet you all.” He bowed again, then stepped to Phoebe’s chair, where he handed her a gorgeous bouquet of daffodils. “These are for you.”

  “Thank you.” Phoebe looked past him to where Culpepper still stood. “Please put these in a vase?”

  The butler came forward and took the flowers, then left.

  “Please sit,” Phoebe invited.

  He could either sit next to Arabella or in the other vacant chair. He chose the settee.

  Arabella’s spine tingled in spite of the six inches that separated them.

  He cast her a sideways glance, and she suddenly realized he was a duke. A duke. She’d met a duke that morning and hadn’t even realized it. What’s more, she’d led him to believe she was a servant. He could be the answer to her family’s prayers, and she’d probably bungled any chance she had.

  “It’s rather bold of you to pay a call on me,” Phoebe said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” It wasn’t clear to Arabella whether Phoebe had been aware that he didn’t know who she was, but perhaps she was trying to find out without embarrassing him.

  “Haven’t we? I was sure we’d met last year during Ware’s races. I managed the wagers.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “I didn’t attend them. I’d left town by then. Perhaps you aren’t aware I abandoned my betrothed at the altar.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I’m somewhat of a pariah.”

  “Well, I think that makes you interesting.” Was he flirting with Phoebe?

  Phoebe’s eyes sparkled as she laughed softly. “You went from being a secretary to inheriting a dukedom. That makes you fascinating. Please do tell us how that came about.”

  Halstead shifted slightly, and Arabella had the impression he wasn’t enthusiastic about answering that question. “It’s not a very fascinating story, I’m afraid. I was distant cousin to the former duke, and when his son and my father died, I became heir presumptive. I scarcely had time to adjust to that role before the duke joined his son in the hereafter.”