The Duke’s Guide to Fake Courtship (Daring Debutantes #1)

Chapter One

D eclan was a temperate man.

He did not consider that a virtue. It was an act of self-preservation against a father and uncle, a drunkard and a wastrel respectively. Not to mention nine previous generations of vicious arseholes who all carried the Byrning name. Once upon a time, that had been an asset. The Byrnings had helped tame England and had received titles and coin in reward. But now Declan lived in a civilised time where intemperate rages were frowned upon.

His mother had declared—when he was three years old—that he would be a temperate man or she would destroy him. He had done his best to comply. What boy didn’t want to please his mother? And so no one knew the fury that seethed beneath his exterior.

Unfortunately, it was very close to the surface now. His mother was banging on his chamber door the morning after his birthday celebration and he was imagining violently ripping the door off its hinges and throwing it out of the window. Unfortunately, he knew even that show of temper would not deter her.

‘Good God! Shut her up!’ he growled into his pillow.

‘Brisley is handling it, Your Grace,’ said his valet, his words thankfully very muted.

‘He won’t last for long,’ he retorted, because his mother was nothing if not determined.

So he forced himself upright and grabbed the restorative offered by his valet. Declan doubted that it would help, but it could hardly hurt. He choked it down, then forced himself into the wingback chair next to the shuttered window. A minute later, he opened the newspaper, as if he didn’t wish himself at the bottom of the Thames.

Only then did he bid the man open his bedroom door.

‘Good morning, Mother. Have you come to wish me a belated happy birthday?’

‘I fail to see why one should celebrate the mere fact—’

‘Of living another year,’ he finished for her.

She said something to that effect every year. Fortunately, his father had been more jovial in that and every way, so there’d been happy birthdays throughout his thirty-one years. The former Duke had also been more violent and hateful, so the memories were a mixed bag. In any event, this had been the first birthday celebrated without his father, and that had made it a commemorative one.

‘Don’t interrupt me,’ his mother snapped.

‘Don’t burst into my bedchamber or pound on my door.’ He’d almost said his father’s door, but of course it was his now. ‘You don’t live here, Mother.’

And she hadn’t for several years. At present, she resided with her sister-in-law in a neat townhouse far removed from the London ducal residence.

‘But I am still responsible for seeing to the seemly disposition of the family.’

Yes, she had taken on that mantle, hadn’t she? She and his aunt had set themselves up as the moral authority over the entire extended family. And, given that they both held inordinate influence over polite society, she did have some power in that regard. But if she planned to chide him for celebrating his birthday, then she was—

‘Cedric is in trouble,’ she pronounced. ‘You must stop him.’ She pulled out a pocket watch from her reticule. ‘You have until teatime.’

He frowned—a painful act—as he set the paper aside. This unseemly display was about his cousin?

‘Where is he?’ Last he’d heard, the man had travelled to China with the East India Company.

‘You’ll find him at the docks, on a boat called The Integrity . As if naming a thing is enough to give—’

‘When did he arrive in London?’

And why hadn’t the man contacted him? Declan certainly would have invited his cousin to his birthday celebration. The two had been at school together, and though not quite the same age—Declan was older by three years—were close enough to be friends.

‘How should I know? He sent a note this morning, informing his mother of the details. He intends to bring some chit to tea today.’ She shuddered. ‘I shan’t be there, of course. It would be inappropriate for me to overshadow my sister’s tea just because she lives upon my indulgence. And besides, we have agreed that you will stop this nonsense immediately.’

Of course they had agreed. Never mind that Declan might have a different opinion. But, rather than address any of the many objectionable things she’d said, he decided to focus on the most important.

‘Cedric is engaged?’

‘Not officially, of course. That’s what you have to stop!’

Good Lord, the woman’s voice was a near shriek—and she was a woman who never raised her voice. He waited for her to continue while simultaneously hoping that she would expire upon the spot.

She did not do either. In the end, he had to prompt her.

‘Why should I stop it?’

‘Because the girl is miserably unsuitable. His mother and I have discussed this often. We have decided on the ladies who will serve the Earldom. This chit does not.’

Yes, he knew that the two women had developed lists of eligible girls for their sons. It was their favourite discussion and they never thought to involve their sons in any of their decisions.

‘Who is this woman?’

‘She’s the illegitimate child of Lord Wenshire, and Cedric is bringing her to tea.’ She made a face as if the man was bringing spoiled fish.

‘Shouldn’t you meet the woman before—?’

‘Unsuitable!’ she snapped.

He winced. ‘Yes, I heard that.’

‘Fix it.’

He waited a moment, staring at his mother’s rigid face. He wondered for a long, self-indulgent moment what she would do if he refused. There were several hundred ways she could make his life unpleasant, but at the end of the day it would merely be uncomfortable. He was now the Duke, she the Dowager Duchess. Officially, he held all the power. He could refuse her at his whim.

But that was the response of a child, not an adult, and certainly not one of a duke. His cousin’s choice of wife was significant, not simply because Cedric was a future earl. Cedric stood shoulder to shoulder with Declan as leaders of their respective branches of the family. A wife would influence the family for better or worse in very significant ways.

Declan owed it to everyone to meet the girl.

‘Very well,’ he said as he set aside the paper unread. ‘I will go.’

His mother nodded with a self-satisfied smile. ‘I knew you would rise to the occasion. I hope you see now how intemperance one night makes the next morning nearly unbearable.’

He gritted his teeth. Damn the woman for being right. Several caustic words burned on his tongue, but he swallowed them down. She was still his mother, not to mention a duchess, and therefore deserved some respect. Also, cutting into her for her overbearing, supercilious, condescending attitude would be like scolding a dog for having fur. It was simply who the woman was, and he had ceased tilting at windmills some time in his early adolescence.

He did arch his brows at her, in an attempt at ducal arrogance. ‘I cannot dress with you here,’ he said. ‘And therefore I cannot depart for this boat.’

She sniffed, as if his words had an actual smell. ‘First you will deal with your cousin, and then I should like you to attend Almack’s this Thursday. There are several girls I have selected who will make excellent duchesses—after my instruction, of course. Select one this week and you can be well on your way to filling a nursery this time next year.’

He didn’t bother interrupting her. The woman rarely stopped speaking even when interrupted. So he waited in stiff silence until she was silent. Then he gave her a single, hard word.

‘No.’

‘What—?’

‘No.’

She rolled her eyes, then abruptly decided on a gentler approach. She settled herself in the chair opposite his and spoke calmly.

‘Declan, think. If you are to avoid the legacy of your name, you need a wife who is calm, who doesn’t invite rages, who is unimpeachable in character and lineage. There are precious few of those around. Indeed, I have inspected every one within a decade of your age.’

He shuddered to think of how that process had gone.

‘Mother,’ he said dryly, ‘you will not be selecting my bride.’

‘Well, of course not!’ she snapped, her softer tone gone. ‘I have just narrowed the field—’

‘I will select my own bride. Soon. You will not dictate that. Do not even try.’

She tsked deep in her throat. And then her brows went up and she took on that tone. The one she’d used all through his childhood. The one that told him exactly what she was about to say now.

‘You are too mercurial to make this decision. It is the Byrning legacy, you know. High temper, irrational actions. It will destroy you as it destroyed your father.’

It was true. It was the dark spectre that hung over his family. Not just his family tree, but his own flesh and blood.

His father’s unbridled rage at a servant had caused his sister’s death. His little sister had stepped into the fray to protect her nanny, only to receive a blow herself by accident. It had killed her. His father had become a drunkard that day, choosing to become insensate rather than succumb to the Byrning legacy again.

That had been his father’s solution. And it hadn’t worked.

The man had had many rages afterwards, but mostly he’d been too drunk to harm anyone. In the end, he’d stumbled into the Thames and drowned, leaving his son in charge of the Dukedom.

‘I have not had a rage since my adolescence,’ he reminded his mother. ‘My faculties are well in hand. I will find a bride of my own choosing.’

He said the words, but in his heart he knew his mother was right. All those qualities she listed were exactly the ones he needed. He must marry someone of even temperament and impeccable manners. She would help him remain calm and soothe over any missteps he might make along the way. And he would need to find her soon because he was an unwed duke who needed an heir.

And now, as he did every morning, he rededicated himself to staying rational, calm, and completely unaffected by emotion. And if he failed in that mission here was his mother, personally invested in keeping him in line.

‘Do try to be logical,’ his mother pressed. ‘You need an heir while I am still young enough to ensure he is raised properly.’ She leaned forward. ‘So I can be sure the Byrning curse does not take root again.’

‘It has not taken root in me!’ he snapped.

She pursed her lips, then raised a single brow. That was all it took and once again he was a dirty boy with raised fists and a burning shame that his temper had once again made him go too far. Back then, he’d fight anyone who said a cross word to him. He’d found fights, he’d created fights, and he’d usually won them. Because he was heir to a dukedom and no one—even young boys—wanted to hurt him.

Time and constant admonishments from several people in his life had taught him to control his rage. He now buried his temper beneath logic and constant vigilance. He was not slipping now.

He took a long look at the mantel clock and arched a brow back at his mother. ‘Do you want me to meet Cedric’s bride or not?’

She clucked her tongue in disgust. She was not subject to the Byrning legacy of rage, but she certainly had her moments of annoyance. Her pinched face, however, did not move him.

‘Very well,’ she said as she pushed to her feet. ‘We will deal with Cedric first.’

As if she would do anything now that she’d set him to the task.

‘Then I expect you to choose a bride immediately afterwards.’

‘Good day, Mother.’

After a long-suffering sigh, she spun on her heels and departed. Which meant Declan had no excuse to remain seated in the dark as he nursed his sore head.

Damn his father for dying. This really ought to be his problem.

With a sigh, Declan rang for his valet and prepared to meet a ‘miserably unsuitable’ woman.