Always a Gentleman, Never a Duke (Dueling for Dukes Book 3)

Chapter 4

Eloise pondered how soon was too soon to visit her sister Gwen in Yorkshire.

Her sister was, after all, newly wed. Did that mean a certain period of time was required to allow the newlyweds some peace to settle in and begin to know one another? Or was that precisely the point?

No one except Father knew this Yorkshire sheep farmer. He could be a horrible man, and poor Gwen was left alone with him. Eloise would be saving her from a torturous existence if only she were to visit her sister all the way up north in Yorkshire.

Or Eloise was simply trying to find a way to run from the mess she’d made of her life.

That was probably more like it.

She slouched in her seat, not caring if she wrinkled her gown. They were once more at the modiste, and her mother and Annie were once again engaged in their favorite argument. Whether or not lilac was too bold a color for Annie’s half-mourning.

Technically Annie was free from the strictly required period of mourning, but for whatever reason had chosen to wear half-mourning colors this season. It really was a pity. Annie’s coloring so favored bolder colors, and Eloise thought it a loss to see her sister in such drab as grays and lavenders.

“I don’t know why we’re wasting our time here,” Grandmother Bitsy proclaimed from the chair next to Eloise’s.

Eloise glanced over at her grandmother who poked through a plate of eclairs as though none of them suited her. She pushed aside a particularly squished one and daintily extracted one with a slick of chocolate frosting. She sniffed it and returned it to the plate.

“How’s that, Grandmother?” Eloise asked when it was clear her grandmother had lost track of the conversation.

“Annie,” she said, gesturing with another eclair, this one oozing cream from one end. “Poor Nancy shouldn’t be wasting her time on fabrics like that. Annie will be wed to Grimsby before the end of the month. Mark my words.”

Eloise sat up at this. “Grimsby?”

Gabriel Phelps, the Duke of Grimsby, was Annie’s deceased husband’s friend and confidante. The duke was a good man as far as Eloise knew. He had been kind to Annie in the days after her husband had died in a terrible accident, even going so far as to quell any gossip that may have resulted from the incident. For, in truth, Annie’s husband had died during an unsanctioned boxing match in a gentlemen’s club. Such a thing would have caused an uproarious scandal, but Grimsby had worked to conceal the truth of the matter, and the ton believed Wexford had died in a simple fall from his horse.

Eloise eyed her sister now as she pulled out a length of a particularly garish fabric in some color resembling smashed grapes.

“Has Annie indicated she might be receptive to such a proposal?” Eloise asked.

She and her sister were close, but Annie had been rather quiet since becoming a widow. They all assumed she was grieving, and Eloise, like the rest of the family, had given Annie leave to do so in peace. The result of that had meant Eloise and Annie hadn’t spoken on such delicate matters in quite some time.

“It isn’t Annie that I’m interested in,” Grandmother Bitsy said, popping a bite of eclair into her mouth.

Eloise turned her gaze back to her grandmother. “Do you think Grimsby is the interested party?”

Grandmother Bitsy waggled her eyebrows. “Of course he is, dear. Have you seen the way the man looks at her?” She raised a single finger that was bent at the tip from arthritis. “Mark my words, dear. There are not two dukes on the Marriage Mart this season as everyone claims.” She leveled that finger at Annie. “Because one of them is already smitten with our dear Annie.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?”

Grandmother Bitsy dropped her hand. “I’m old,” she said much too loudly. “I know things.” She shrugged and went back to her eclairs.

Eloise watched her until Annie appeared between them, sweat on her brow and a lovely flush at her cheeks that finally brought some color to her face, but Eloise was too familiar with the cause of such a fluster and rose quickly.

“You must ignore Mother,” she said, taking Annie’s hands into her own. “She means well, you know? It’s only she wishes to see us all make good matches, and she’s worried about you.”

Annie shook her head, and Eloise got the odd feeling her sister was close to tears. Eloise would speak to their mother about this. Annie was simply not ready to reenter society. She still grieved her husband deeply and needed time to?—

Annie’s expression had morphed from one of aggrieved frustration to one of concerned curiosity, and Eloise followed the line of her gaze to find Grandmother Bitsy had stuck a finger into the end of an eclair only to pluck it out and suck the cream from the end of the digit. Her grandmother shook her head, disgust on her features, and put the eclair back on the plate.

Eloise turned back to Annie. “Let me speak with Mother. I’ll help her to understand you need more time.” She squeezed her sister’s hands before making her way over to her mother who had moved on to a wall of pastels.

“Mother,” Eloise began, but Nancy Bounds, Countess Stoke Bruerne, was not one to be easily swayed from her trajectory.

She spun about and held up a chiffon in buttery yellow. “What do you think of this? Wouldn’t it look splendid with your sister’s dark hair? I think I shall ask the modiste what she might do with this. Annie will love it.”

Eloise reached out a hand and stopped her mother from continuing. “Mother. You must stop. Annie doesn’t wish to leave her half-mourning.”

Nancy dropped her hands, crumpling the chiffon in her annoyance. “She must leave her half-mourning. If the dukes are to?—”

“Mother,” Eloise said more sternly. “Annie is a widow. She’s lost her husband. It’s not like tearing a hem. She needs more time.”

Her mother’s eyes skittered over Eloise’s shoulder to where Annie likely still stood next to Grandmother Bitsy. “But I want her to marry,” Nancy nearly whined.

“We all do, Mother, but we must be patient. Weren’t you always the one to tell me to hold my tongue when someone spoke ill of Gwen?”

Nancy’s eyes came back to her, memory registering in her gaze. Gwen had suffered smallpox when she was only eight years old, and the ravaging disease had left its scars on her, scars the ton were only too gleeful in pointing out. There were many times her mother was forced to stop Eloise from engaging in a physical altercation to stop the other girls from snickering about Gwen.

“That was entirely different. Girls do not fight.”

Eloise crossed her arms. “If they speak poorly about my sister, you’d best believe girls will fight.”

Nancy’s frown was swift and fierce. “You’re right. I should marry you off first. You’re far more trouble than Annie has ever been.”

Eloise dropped her arms, alarm spiking through her at the realization she’d inadvertently drawn the conversation around to herself and her own prospects on a match.

“I promise I am taking all the necessary steps in catching the eye of the Duke of Ardley, Mother. You mustn’t?—”

“Oh, I know you are, child.” Nancy replaced the chiffon on the rack with the rest of the yards of fabric with a casual flick as icy cold spread down Eloise’s arms.

“You know?”

Nancy turned a blinding smile on her youngest daughter. “Oh yes,” she said as if she’d been handed the Crown Jewels. “Ardley has asked your father for permission to court you. He’d like to take you promenading tomorrow in the park.”

Eloise would have swallowed if any of the muscles in her body continued to work. “Tomorrow? Promenade?”

Nancy frowned, a line appearing between her brows. “Yes, promenading. You know the practice. Where parties interested in one another as a possible?—”

Eloise cut off her mother. “I’m aware of what promenading is. I wasn’t aware Ardley had expressed such interest.”

Nancy’s smile returned, possibly even more blinding than before. “Oh, he certainly has.” She went back to scanning the fabrics before her. “Now do you think Madame Modiste will have time to fashion a new walking gown for you by tomorrow? We’ll want you looking your best.”

Tomorrow.

A hollow pit formed in her stomach, and she wondered if she could crawl inside of it and disappear. Because when she thought of Ardley, her terrible brain wondered if Tuck would be there too.

No. She mustn’t think like that. They had agreed to stay as far away from each other as possible. Tuck mustn’t accompany Ardley. He was likely busy securing that funding he was seeking. He didn’t have time for Eloise, and he shouldn’t have time for her. Oh drat, this was all a mess.

Was it too late to leave for Yorkshire? Perhaps she could sneak out in the morning before the house was awake.

“The weather has been fine for days now. We must hope it holds out for tomorrow.” Nancy had moved to another line of fabrics. “Do you have that parasol your grandmother brought you back from Paris the last she was there?”

Parasol? What was her mother talking about?

“Mother,” Eloise interjected, attempting to follow the woman through her inspection of fabrics. “Perhaps tomorrow isn’t such a good time for a promenade. It’s so early in the season. Do we wish to indicate to other suitors that I’m already spoken for? Ardley might not be inclined to act if he thinks he has me all to himself.”

Her mother stopped her perusal, her hand frozen on a peach silk. She turned, ever so slowly, and when Eloise saw the calculating look in her mother’s eye, the pit in her stomach turned into a sink hole.

“Oh Eloise, you’re right.” Her mother let go of the peach silk. “If we’re to let on our eagerness for a match between you and the duke, he may believe he has all the time in the world to make his proposal.” She set her hands to her hips. “We must not give him such a notion.” Nancy stepped forward, her hand held out in Annie’s direction. Eloise glanced behind her to see Annie attempting to keep Grandmother Bitsy from sampling every eclair on the plate. “Annie will go with you. If you are both seen with the duke, it will stir enough confusion for others to think you’re not off the market completely. And what good that will be for Annie.” Nancy brought her hands together in delight, and Eloise felt the pit in her stomach lessen.

Should the idea of being alone with the duke be so terrible? She must remember her goal in all of this. She would be married to the man after all. The idea of being in his presence shouldn’t cause her such dread.

If only she hadn’t kissed Tuck.

She forced a smile and nodded. She must make herself be positive about this. This could be her last season to make a match with someone as lofty as the duke. She couldn’t fail, not now. Her mother would be so disappointed.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” she heard herself say, and her mother nodded in agreement, that wicked smile back on her face.

“Oh, I’m glad you think so.” She turned back to the silks. “You know, we should ask Ardley to bring that cousin of his. That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” Nancy glanced over her shoulder. “It would give Annie someone to practice with. You know it’s been so long since she’s been out, and that Mr. Ryan fellow seemed so kind. He’s just the thing for Annie to get her feet wet again.”

Eloise could do nothing but stare and hope her heart didn’t pound itself directly out of her chest.

* * *

“I don’t knowwhy I must accompany you.”

Tuck followed his cousin up the front steps of the Stoke Bruerne home, trepidation coursing through his veins. Eloise was somewhere on the other side of that door, and he must act as though he had no interest in her as anything other than his cousin’s potential bride. How could he possibly do that? He’d frozen in the middle of a crowded ballroom, in the center of the dance floor no less when he’d been struck by nothing less than her ethereal beauty.

He went to rake his hand through his hair in frustration but instead nearly toppled off his beaver hat. He caught it just in time and fixed it back into place, but Liam had noticed and eyed him suspiciously.

“Lady Stoke Bruerne is attempting to coax her other daughter, the widow Wexford, back into society and thought having her join us would be a good first step toward that endeavor.” Here Liam poked Tuck directly in the chest. “Lady Stoke Bruerne also thought you’d make an excellent promenading partner for the widow. I believe she said you were perfectly pleasant.” Liam raised both eyebrows, a grin flirting with his lips.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this. I should be at The Royal Astronomical Society trying to find a benefactor.”

Liam’s eyebrows dropped. “Oh, come now. You mustn’t be like that.” His cousin paused, and his expression was almost kind as he puzzled something out. “I think being seen as perfectly pleasant is rather a compliment.”

Tuck turned about and had taken the first step back toward the pavement when his cousin grabbed his shoulder.

“I take it back,” Liam said quickly. “I take it back.” Tuck turned only his head to eye Liam as the man lifted a hand in supplication. “I promise to take you to my club tonight for its weekly poker game. There will be a lot of wealthy men there with a lot of money they would never miss.”

“Poker?”

Liam waved a hand dismissively. “It’s an American game. Much fun. You’ll enjoy it.” He moved that hand now to press against his chest in earnest. “I just ask this one thing of you.”

“You already asked me to dance with Lady Eloise,” Tuck pointed out.

Liam dropped the hand, blinking. “I suppose I did. But that was to get your opinion of the girl. That was very important to me, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the sacrifice.”

“She isn’t a girl.” Tuck didn’t know why he said that or why he said it quite so loudly and with such conviction. He shut his mouth and averted his gaze but not before he caught a curious look on his cousin’s face.

“I see,” Liam muttered. “Then you’ll accompany me?”

Tuck stepped back up onto the stoop and waved a hand. “Get on with it then.”

Liam’s smile was not unlike that of a tomcat who caught his mouse. Tuck clenched his fingers into a fist to keep from knocking off his hat again trying to run his fingers through his hair.

The butler opened the door of the Stoke Bruerne home before Liam’s knuckles had even touched the door. The servant bid them enter and informed them the ladies Stoke Bruerne were waiting in the drawing room.

Tuck took one last deep breath of fresh air and plunged in after his cousin. Perhaps Lady Eloise wouldn’t be quite so enchanting in the light of day. He’d only ever seen her under circumstances that were by design overwhelmingly romantic—beneath a blanket of stars or the glow of a thousand chandeliers. Perhaps it wasn’t quite a thousand, but it had certainly felt like it.

Maybe when he saw her in a perfectly ordinary drawing room in daylight she herself would appear perfectly ordinary as well.

Yes, that was just it. He needn’t worry in the least. Everything was going to be?—

His first glimpse of her as he walked through the drawing room door behind his cousin stole his breath. He had always thought the phrase a silly one, but just then he knew it to be true. His breath lodged in his throat, nearly choking him as she rose to greet him.

She stared right at him. Not at Liam as she should have done. But him. Tuck. A simple mister.

Her eyes found him so swiftly, he thought she could find him anywhere, the connection between them too strong to ever be severed. Oh God, this was a very bad idea.

“Mr. Ryan, I can’t thank you enough for joining my daughters today. It is such a fine day, is it not?”

It was a moment before Tuck realized greetings had been exchanged, and Lady Stoke Bruerne was addressing him. He was still trying to determine how that green frock Eloise wore could make her eyes shine like jewels, make her hair glow like sunshine. It must have been an illusion, a trick of the light, or?—

“Yes.” The word came out garbled, and he cleared his throat to try again. “Yes, it is a particularly fine day.”

When he’d first learned he was to accompany Liam today, he had wished for rain, a monsoon really, but the day had dawned bright and clear with the gentlest breeze to keep a promenader from growing overtaxed. It was particularly perfect, blast it.

Lady Stoke Bruerne smiled and clapped her hands together. “Well, please don’t let me keep you from your exercise.”

There was the general commotion of gathering wraps and parasols then as their party moved back into the foyer from the drawing room. But before they could reach the front door, a small hand descended on Tuck’s arm. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he was so consumed by the anxiety of facing an entire afternoon with Eloise, and he wasn’t prepared for someone to suddenly touch him.

He looked down to find a stooped old woman holding his arm. While her back was hunched and her hair was a brilliant white, her eyes were bright and worse, they were focused on him. She tugged at his arm, drawing him down so she could whisper in his ear.

“My granddaughter seeks adventure. Only you can stop her from being trapped in a drawing room.” The woman’s voice was brittle with age, but her words were sure and precise. She said nothing more. She didn’t even look at him. She simply released his arm and turned about, ambling down the corridor into the bowels of the house at a sedate pace.

Tuck watched her go, the trepidation that had been boiling inside of him suddenly stilling as curiosity overtook it. Her granddaughter sought adventure? Did the old woman—Tuck must assume the woman was the Stoke Bruerne grandmother—refer to Eloise? And what sort of adventure? Why must Tuck be the one to save her? Save her from what?

He was prevented from getting lost in the cryptic information from Eloise’s grandmother as the group departed without him, leaving him to trail after them down the front stoop to the pavement below. Eloise had taken Liam’s arm as she should have done, and Tuck took his place beside Lady Wexford who as of yet had not spoken a single word. She wore mourning clothes, although not as severe as some he’d seen. Her gown was a muted lavender, and her bonnet was trimmed with dark velvet and shrouded her face.

Was Eloise speaking a little too quickly? Were her gestures a little too animated? Perhaps he was simply comparing her to the mute Lady Wexford, and such a comparison was by its nature extreme.

He swallowed. “It is a rather fine day, isn’t it, Lady Wexford?”

The poor woman stumbled the smallest bit, and her head snapped up as if no one had ever asked her a question. He reached out instinctively to break her fall, but she jerked out of his reach, almost like an involuntary reaction.

He nearly stopped walking, concern for this poor woman rising inside of him. Her eyes were huge in her face as she blinked at him, and he saw real pain in her expression. Liam had said Lady Stoke Bruerne was attempting to get the woman to reenter society, but standing there, Tuck believed she was not ready to give up her grieving.

He held up both hands and gestured for her to continue walking. He didn’t say anything more.

The walk to the park was uneventful. Traffic was light, the walking paths not overcrowded, and the breeze gentle against his face. It was all so damn perfect. Eloise and Liam continued their chatter, each exchanging anecdotes followed by polite laughter until Tuck thought he might be sick in the bushes.

They only stopped occasionally in their promenade when they crossed paths with an acquaintance. Pleasantries were exchanged, and their party continued, Liam and Eloise happily bubbling along while Tuck tried very hard to keep Lady Wexford from shrinking entirely into herself.

Liam and Eloise were several steps ahead of them now, and he swallowed, drawing a careful breath. “I once lost someone very dear to me,” he said. “It was quite a long time ago now, and I wish I could tell you the pain goes away, but it doesn’t.” He gathered his courage and glanced at Lady Wexford to find her staring at him. Her eyes were still wide, but it was as though she were absorbing him rather than afraid of him. He went on. “I wish I could say one day you’ll wake up and not have that one moment where you believe everything is all right until you remember that it’s not.” He paused, watching a flock of birds suddenly take flight from a far-off tree, swooping into the sky in perfect formation. “But that doesn’t happen. Time only wears away the edges of grief. It doesn’t wear it away completely.” He glanced at Lady Wexford again, and he found her expression had softened. “Your grief may not disappear, but you will learn to carry it more easily.” He smiled, hoping to ease his words, but then Lady Wexford did the oddest thing. She smiled.

“I believe my mother is right about you, Mr. Ryan.”

Tuck worked to keep his expression from showing the very real fear that gripped him. “How is that?”

Lady Wexford’s smile brightened. “You are perfectly pleasant.”

His smile was forced and only half what he meant it to be, but he was saved from having to respond when he realized Liam and Eloise had stopped. At some point in his awkward exchange with the widow Wexford, they’d arrived at the Serpentine, and Liam stood on the lakeshore, gazing out over the water.

“Do you know I think it’s a perfect day for a water excursion?” He turned back to their group, his smile not unlike the time he suggested Tuck join him in sneaking out of the nursery in the middle of the night to watch a meteor shower. “What say you we hire a pair of rowing boats for an hour?”

Tuck risked a glance at Lady Wexford, sure she would faint dead away at this suggestion, but again, she surprised him by saying, “That would be wonderful, Your Grace. I should think the conditions are absolutely pristine for such an endeavor.”

Liam’s smile broadened. “Splendid. I shall see to it at once.” His cousin spun about and down to the dock where the boat hire was, leaving Tuck with the two ladies.

As soon as Liam departed, Eloise’s animated expression vanished, and she turned wary eyes on him. He stared right back at her. It wasn’t as though this was his doing. He had meant it when he agreed to stay away from her. She’d been right after all. They had no business pursuing this connection that had sprung up between them. It wasn’t practical.

So why then would Eloise’s grandmother tell him about her granddaughter’s desire for adventure?

“Shall we?” he said, gesturing to the path that led down to the docks. By the time they reached the platform, two rowing boats had been drawn up and tied securely for the parties to enter them safely.

Liam finished his dealings with the boatman and returned in time to help Eloise into the boat, saving Tuck from having to touch her. Except Liam didn’t help Eloise. Instead, he reached for Lady Wexford’s arm.

“Lady Wexford, would you do me the honor of joining me? I think your sister deserves a break from all my chattering, don’t you?”

Lady Wexford smiled again and took the duke’s arm. “I would never suggest you’re one to chatter, Your Grace, but I shall be honored to join you for a turn about the lake.”

She was nestled into the boat with Liam removing the ties before Tuck could utter a single word in protest.

“Happy rowing,” Liam called back to them as he jumped lightly into the boat, pushing it from the dock. He smiled at Tuck and waved a jovial hand in departure, but there was nothing jovial about it. Tuck recognized that look in Liam’s eye. It was the same one that had gotten Tuck to engage in all manner of things, usually ones which required a stern lecture from his father afterward.

“What is he doing?” Eloise hissed beside him.

“He’s being Liam,” Tuck answered, taking her arm. “Get in the boat before we attract attention.”

She did as he bid, lifting her skirts to step swiftly over the edge of the boat before lowering herself to the bench. He tried not to think about how long it had been since he’d touched her—four whole days—or how she smelled of soap and fresh linen as if she were comprised of all things good and wholesome. He untied the boat and hopped in, picking up the oars to push them away from the dock and into the lake proper.

He focused on rowing, following in the general direction of Liam and Lady Wexford’s boat while keeping enough distance to not appear suspicious.

“This is very bad,” Eloise said when they were far enough from shore not to be overheard by other patrons of the park.

“I promise to keep my hands on the oars,” Tuck muttered, keeping his voice low.

“It isn’t that,” Eloise whispered back. “If people see us like this, there will be talk. We must appear to be having a terrible time.”

His focus snapped at that, his gaze flying to her face. “I don’t think it’s possible to have a terrible time with you, Eloise.”

She’d been about to say something else, but she stopped at that, her lips forming the words she never spoke. It was several seconds before she looked away, her eyes scanning the lakeshore. He forced his attention back to the rowing until she spoke again.

“Tell me something about your research. Why the aurora borealis? Why telegraph communication?”

He didn’t move his gaze from the oars and where he was steering them, not trusting himself to look at her. “Why do you wish to know?”

“I’m hoping the topic is terribly dry and boring. Dry and boring could never be construed as romantic.”

“I have never been accused of being romantic,” Tuck muttered.

Eloise turned her head at this, and he caught the smile she tried to hide. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I scared away a vicar the other day,” he said and felt the tension ease from his shoulders as they fell into a less perilous conversation.

“A vicar?”

“I was attempting to explain the reasons for my expedition.”

“To study the aurora? I should hardly think that a frightening prospect.” She tilted her head, catching a ray of sun over the brim of her bonnet so it lit her face like a spotlight. She was so damn pretty it hurt.

“It was to the vicar.”

She adjusted on the seat, and he noticed she clutched her hands in her lap as if she were trying to keep herself from touching him. “Tell me about your reasons for your expedition, Mr. Ryan. I am certain I shall find them terrifyingly boring, and all romantic notions we might have had will vanish entirely.” Her tone held a note of teasing, but there was some truth in her words. If he spoke only of his professional pursuits, there could be no room for romantic entanglements.

Except when he looked at her, the sunshine lighting her face, the smallest of breezes lifting the mossy green ribbon of her bonnet, he found himself saying the thing he had sworn never to say.

“I wish to study the effect of the aurora borealis because in the Carrington Event of 1859, telegraph communications were interrupted by the solar storm, and my brother Harrison was killed because he did not receive a telegram containing critical information that might have saved his life.”