Duchess Material

Nine

W ill gave a slow blink. Once again he stood in a crowded ballroom watching Lady Gwen dance with another man while he was supposed to patiently await his turn. He let out a sigh and shifted on his feet while his rebellious mind wandered toward thoughts of Phoebe, as it had far too often over the last several days.

Her words still stung, and if he lingered on them for too long he would feel the urge to crawl out of his own skin. But that would fade in time. Realizing just how bored he had become with his own life would take a bit longer to get over, however. Though Phoebe could irritate the hell out of him, she was undeniably fascinating. He felt a sense of excitement around her. Of unpredictability. If he wasn’t careful, he might start to want more.

And there wouldn’t be a damned thing he could do about it.

Just as a heaviness began to settle in his chest, the earl approached.

“Don’t look so morose, Duke,” he said with a devilish smile. “You know Lord Whitby doesn’t stand a chance with my daughter.”

The young baron had inherited a crumbling estate in Northumberland and a mountain of debt. He would need one of those American dollar princesses if he ever hoped to be rid of debt.

Will grunted in response. He had no real rivals for Lady Gwen’s hand. Just a few more weeks of this nonsense and hopefully they could announce their engagement. Yet the thought did not provide the expected—nay, needed —relief.

“Did you have a chance to review the draft of the bill I sent over?”

It was the very one that Phoebe had so strenuously objected to. Quite rightly, it turned out.

“I did,” Will began. “How exactly are you planning to deal with the ‘festering wound of vice’ as you put it? I didn’t see anything about the specifics.” Just a lot of ranting about the moral decay of society accompanied by some heavy-handed metaphors.

“Ah, excellent question. I’ve given it a great deal of thought and decided it is naive to think we can ever truly be rid of the flesh trade, so instead we must cut off the head of the snake as it were, and shutter the bawdy houses. Many of them are owned by women, you know. That endangers both the patrons and the tarts themselves.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”

“Women may perform the work,” he said with an ugly little snort, “but they don’t have the capacity to manage it. Especially the money some of them rake in. Besides, it’s dangerous. They could be cheated by clients or beaten.”

“That may be so, but as I understand it, many women find safety in such arrangements.”

“I’m not proposing we close all of them, mind you. I know that gentlemen have their appetites. But we must focus on those that cater to the lowest sort.”

“Because it’s fine if an aristocrat engages in vice, but not a bricklayer?”

“Exactly.” The earl did not pick up on Will’s sarcasm. “A gentleman may pay a visit to such an establishment after a long, productive day with little consequence, but a bricklayer cannot control his baser urges and thus is likely to become bankrupt.”

The man was completely serious. Rather than point out the ridiculousness of the comparison, Will tried another approach:

“But once they’re shut down, what will happen to the people who work there?”

The earl shrugged, unconcerned. “They can go to a workhouse.”

Will’s jaw hardened. “You will only push them out onto the streets, where they will lose what little protections they have.”

“Then perhaps they should have made better choices.”

“Interesting. I didn’t realize you had been given the choice to inherit an earldom,” Will snapped before he could think twice. Lord Fairbanks stared at him wide-eyed, rendered speechless for once. “Excuse me,” Will growled. “I believe I am due to waltz with your daughter.”

As he approached Lady Gwen and Lord Whitby, Will did his best to maintain a passive expression, but his thoughts were a riot. Phoebe had been right. The bill would do nothing to actually curb vice or help those in need. It was simply another way to punish the most vulnerable for the sins of the many. He could not be a part of such bald hypocrisy. But that would not put a stop to the bill, either. And though that sharp remark had felt damned good in the moment, he may have just ruined his chance to influence the earl. That wasn’t at all like him.

But it was a hell of a lot like Phoebe.

Will gave himself a little shake. He would figure out a way to solve this later. Now he needed to do some wooing.

“My lady,” Will said with a smooth bow before nodding to the baron. “Lord Whitby.”

“Your Grace,” the lad muttered with barely veiled contempt. Will had long grown accustomed to the superficial deference offered by men like Whitby, who saw him as nothing more than a very lucky upstart.

If only they knew what Will would have done to give it all back.

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company, my lady,” Whitby said as he released Lady Gwen. “I hope we can repeat the experience again very soon.”

Will narrowed his eyes at the bold remark but managed to keep his head this time.

“And I as well,” Lady Gwen replied with far more grace than Whitby deserved. Still, the young man didn’t even try to hide the wistful look on his face before leaving the floor

“You seem to have made quite the impression on Lord Whitby,” Will said blandly as he took Lady Gwen in his arms, all while reminding himself that the ability to make someone feel wanted even when they were being dismissed was a gift—and a valuable skill for a duchess to possess.

She let out a delicate laugh and patted his shoulder. “Not to worry. His lordship is only a friend.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he answered truthfully. The fact that Whitby wouldn’t dare act so brazenly in front of her other suitors was another matter.

Lady Gwen preened a little as she flashed him a coy smile. “Your Grace.”

But as he stared down at her, Will couldn’t help wondering if she thought him beneath her as well. Though he may have inherited a title, for many that still didn’t excuse his middling roots. She could simply be going along with their courtship to please her father—or because she didn’t have a choice. It was a disquieting realization. And one he should have considered sooner. She certainly looked contented enough, but then would he even be able to tell? In any case, Will would need to ascertain the truth before they were betrothed, as he had no desire to force her hand no matter what the earl wanted.

In the meantime he should tell her to at least call him Margrave. Yet the words remained caught in his throat. It was hard to imagine any woman but Phoebe addressing him that way now.

Damn.

“What were you and Papa discussing? He… he didn’t look pleased.”

Lady Gwen’s question was asked lightly enough, but Will noticed the tightness around her eyes. She worried that they had quarreled about her.

“Only some business about an upcoming bill,” he assured her.

She immediately relaxed and flashed him a genuine smile half the men in the room would kill for. “Of course.”

As Will took her through a turn, he observed several guests admiring her form. She was dressed in a silver gown covered in gold embroidery. The very picture of sophistication and good breeding.

“Do you ever talk with him about his work?”

It could be nice to have a confidant at home. Someone who understood the complexities of Parliament. Someone who would be supportive rather than simply point out all the ways he was wrong.

The image of Phoebe with that disapproving little frown of hers forced its way into his head—and Will forced it right back out.

“Heavens no,” the young lady said with another laugh. “I think politics are better left to men like you.”

He instantly pictured Phoebe rolling her eyes. “I see.”

“But I’m sure my mother has, on occasion, discussed such matters with my father,” she hastily amended at the disappointment he had failed to hide. “I’ll ask her to advise me.”

Will managed a tight smile in the face of her apprehensiveness. “Of course.”

Lady Gwen then spent the rest of the waltz complimenting him on everything one could possibly discuss in polite company, while Will did his best to appear flattered, but the look of unease never left her completely. She knew she had erred, but Will wasn’t in the mood to reassure her. Perhaps he did want someone who wasn’t afraid to tell him when he was wrong, not a sycophant. Someone who challenged him to do better. But only one badger of a woman came to mind. And she was certainly not duchess material.

He bid Lady Gwen a good evening and headed for the exit. The ball was in full swing, but Will couldn’t spend another minute here. He needed to think.

Will slipped out a side entrance into the cool evening air. Though he had arrived in his coach to keep up appearances, he hardly ever bothered to leave a ball in one. It was far faster to simply walk home.

Higgins, his butler, who absolutely did not approve of this little habit, greeted him at the door.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “Shall I warm some brandy for you?”

It was his usual ritual after returning from a night out. Something to help relax his nerves before bed.

Will let out a sigh. He had become so utterly predictable. “I suppose.”

He then picked up the pile of post and calling cards that had arrived while he was gone and began riffling through them while he walked toward his study.

Then he came to a dead stop at an envelope simply marked M . His heart thudded in anticipation as he tore it open.

Margrave,

I owe you an apology, which I would prefer to deliver in person. If you are amenable, meet me outside that disreputable music hall tonight at eleven o’clock.

Yours,

Atkinson

Will’s neck craned to read the face of the massive grandfather clock behind Higgins. It was already ten thirty. He let out a curse and thrust the rest of the mail at Higgins.

“Ready the brougham.”

He needed something discreet and the landau with the ducal crest would not suffice.

Higgins looked appalled. “Your Grace?”

But Will hurried down the hall. “Quickly!”

Phoebe glanced at the pocket watch tucked into her waistcoat and let out an impatient sigh. Just five more minutes. She couldn’t wait for Will any longer than that. It was nearly eleven. Either he wasn’t coming or he was out at a ball somewhere too busy wooing Lady Gwen to bother with her. The thought made the edges of her heart curl. But she had no one to blame but herself for the way they had parted.

She shoved aside a vision of Will looking stern and devastating with the elegant Lady Gwen in his arms and leaned back against the cool brick wall. Across the street a group of men entered the bustling music hall. The jubilant notes of an accordion floated through the air, along with raucous laughter. Phoebe swallowed hard. She had never been inside such a place before and the thought was as thrilling as it was nerve-racking.

You’ll go in, locate this mysterious Maude woman somehow, and ask her a few questions. Then you’ll leave.

Phoebe reached to check the time again but stopped herself. Enough dawdling. She had to do this for Alice. Just as she pushed away from the wall, a coach pulled up nearby. Phoebe hung back and waited as a man descended. As soon as she caught sight of his broad shoulders, the tightness in her chest loosened with relief.

He came.

Will scanned the area, passing over her at first, but then immediately returned when she gave a little wave.

He squinted as she approached. “Phoebe?”

“Hello there,” she said cheerfully and touched the brim of her cap.

Will openly gaped at her. “What are you wearing ?”

Phoebe automatically looked down, though she very well knew the answer. “You’ve seen me in trousers before.”

She and her sisters had worn them often enough in the country, as it made nearly everything easier. Her parents didn’t mind as long as they didn’t have company, and back then Will hadn’t counted.

But he still looked shocked. His gaze traveled down her body before returning to her face. Then he raised an eyebrow. “And how do you explain the mustache?”

Phoebe grinned. She was quite proud of her whiskers. “I help the drama club at school. Last term we put on Romeo and Juliet , so there were a few pairs left over.”

“Depressing choice for a school play,” Will grunted.

“It was, yes. The girls had great fun during the fight scenes though. Our Mercutio was particularly inspired. Here.” She rummaged in her coat pocket and pulled out an envelope with his own set of false whiskers.

Will looked indignant. “I’m not wearing those.”

“Well, you can’t go dressed like that.” She gestured at his elegant evening suit. “You look like a duke.”

And far too handsome. It was distracting.

“I am a duke.”

“Not in there.” Phoebe pointed across the street. “Remember what the inspector said: you’ll stick out. We’re trying not to be noticed.”

Margrave rolled his eyes. “And you think you won’t?”

“I fooled you, didn’t I?”

“Only for a moment,” he grumbled as his gaze tracked down her form yet again, but with more deliberation this time. Phoebe felt oddly exposed. And warm. Very warm. She brushed past him and addressed the coachman, who had been politely pretending they didn’t exist.

“Excuse me, sir. May the duke borrow your coat?”

The coachman immediately gave her a bewildered look. “Miss?”

“Come down here a moment,” she said as she crooked her finger.

“See? You didn’t fool John,” Will murmured by her ear as they waited for him to join them on the pavement.

A delightful shiver ran down her neck, but she kept her gaze forward. “Only because he heard you call me Phoebe,” she explained as John dutifully shucked his coat and handed it to her. “People see what they expect to see. And in a place like this it does not include a man in a cashmere topcoat. Isn’t that right, John?”

He shot a nervous glance at Will. “It’s true, Your Grace.”

Phoebe then held out her hand expectantly.

“I don’t suppose that includes a girl in trousers and a false mustache, either,” Will said.

“Exactly. Now stop stalling.”

He gave her a dark look before he let out a huff and began unbuttoning his coat.

“Yes, I know this is a terrible inconvenience for you,” Phoebe drawled, attempting to lessen the unexpectedly heady effect of watching him undo the buttons with his long, leather-gloved fingers.

“It’s a waste of time.” Will pulled off his coat and handed it to John. “Here. Wear this.”

The man’s eyes widened as if Will had handed him the crown jewels. “Your Grace, I couldn’t—”

“Just take it, John. It’s cold out.”

The man obeyed and gingerly placed it around his shoulders. “I won’t want to pop a stitch,” he explained.

Will huffed in response and put on John’s coat, which was both too short in length and too wide in the shoulders. He shot Phoebe an exasperated look. “Is this acceptable?”

“Yes. Now your shoes.”

Will looked down. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re too nice. You need to scuff them up.”

John gave a helpless shrug in response to Will’s incredulousness.

“My valet will have my hide,” he grumbled, but then set about scuffing up his shoes. “There. That has to be enough.”

“It is. But you can’t wear that.” She pointed to his top hat. “It screams toff.”

“Fine,” he grumbled as he took it off and handed it to John.

“Just one last thing.”

Will let out a resigned sigh. “Do what you must.”

She reached out and moved her fingers through his perfectly styled hair, mussing the silky strands a little. The rich, woody scent of his pomade tickled her nose. He went quiet as his dark eyes remained on her face, watching her with an intense gaze she couldn’t quite meet.

Phoebe wasn’t used to commanding the attention of men—both because she didn’t want it and they didn’t seem much interested in bestowing it. Yet Will always kept his focus solely on her whenever they were together, and she rather enjoyed it.

“There,” she said with a slight rasp as she pulled her hand away.

Will straightened and a lock of hair fell rakishly across his brow. “How do I look now?”

Phoebe’s breath caught. Like a rogue. Like the kind of man you wouldn’t mind meeting in a dark corner. And so much like who he might have been, had the dukedom not fallen to him.

“Very… ordinary,” she lied.

“Excellent,” he said with a wicked little smile that made her knees wobble. “I’ve always wanted to be ordinary.” Then he swept his arm toward the music hall. “Lead the way, Atkinson.”