What a Charming Duke (The Marriage Managing Society #1)

Chapter 1

A splendid house on a not so splendid morning

The Duke of Rivers let out a bellow of frustration, crumpled the newssheet in his very capable, very large hands, and tossed it across the room. It soared through the air like a discombobulated pigeon and landed in a heap on the brightly colored Aubusson carpet.

He stared at the paper and cursed, grabbed his coffee, and swigged it vigorously, hoping the dark brew would cheer him. It did not. And so he slammed the cup down in its saucer, causing the delicately painted dishes to rattle on the table.

He was given to such goings-on in private. In public, never. When others were watching, he was always in complete control, but right now he wanted to be anything but.

He shoved his chair back from the beautifully carved breakfast table, nearly knocking over a plate of kippers. That? He would not have forgiven himself for that. He couldn’t abide the idea of making such smelly work for the maids, but he’d reached the end of his proverbial rope.

The coffee that he usually loved so much turned acrid in his mouth and the words in the newssheet burned in his brain.

Criminal conversation.

Lord Castlebrook had divorced his wife, Lady Castlebrook.

The lady was a perfectly amicable woman.

Lord Castlebrook was a perfectly good fellow.

And yet, somehow, the two of them had made an utter muck of their marriage.

As far as he could tell, the mamas of society were failing. Utterly. Beyond dispute.

They were somehow letting terrible marriages occur. Nay, they were making them.

And he could no longer let that stand, because terrible marriages meant terrible unhappiness, and terrible unhappiness meant terrible societies.

And he had no desire to live in a terrible society because a terrible society meant that England would, instead of exporting the qualities of Englishness that he admired, continue to export misery.

No one in their right mind would want that! Though, in his experience, most people were not in their right minds. They were not in any mind at all. They were…without minds, in his general opinion.

And it was this sentiment which inspired the Marriage Managing Society to be born.

The Duke of Rivers knew that society needed their marriages managed and really, clearly, he was the only person to do it.

No one else was able. And someone had to take up the slack rope.

“Harlowe,” he bellowed.

Harlowe, a fellow who seemed to be able to be in more than one place at once, popped the breakfast room door open, glided in, and easily slid, as if the fellow were on ice skates, across the Aubusson rug.

He raised his gloved hand and coughed ever so slightly before asking, “How can I be of service, Your Grace?”

“You can bloody well help me sort things out,” he stated, pointing to the paper on the floor.

The butler nodded, his russet hair glinting in the morning light as his eyes gleamed with anticipation. Harlowe did love a mission. “Always a pleasure to do so, Your Grace.”

“Get my horse,” he said.

Harlowe arched a brow. “Which one, Your Grace?”

Rivers pursed his lips. It was a good question.

Even in town, he had a large stable and loved to ride. He rode several times a day because if he did not, he went a bit mad. Horses were splendid creatures with a great deal of energy, just like him. Though he wasn’t entirely certain he would define himself as a splendid creature.

“I think Emperor today.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Harlowe began to back out of the room.

“Harlowe,” Rivers growled, “you’re coming with, so have a horse saddled for yourself as well.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Harlowe did not look particularly pleased as he cleared his throat and ventured, “I could always take a hackney, Your Grace.”

“Come on, Harlowe,” he coaxed, his voice rumbling across the room. Harlowe was not overly fond of horses as he had not been raised riding. “You can do it. I believe in you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. It’s always nice to know that you do.”

And he did.

His butler was an extremely capable fellow. A hackney would take forever to get where he wanted to go at this particular time of day, and a horse really was the best option.

“Go change,” he instructed.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Harlowe sighed before he turned and, due to his lack of enthusiasm, paused before the door as if he was girding his loins.

But he knew his butler would come up to snuff.

Rivers eyed his coffee, which he felt had let him down, and attempted to take another drink, but no.

No, he needed to depart at once and get this sorted.

He stormed out of the breakfast room, headed down the wide stairs, and waited in the massive foyer with a scene of Olympus painted overhead.

A reminder that the Duke of Rivers was just one step beneath the gods.

He was already dressed for a morning ride, so all he needed to do was pick up his riding crop, something he never actually used on his horse, but it did feel excellent to slap against his leather boots. It gave a sort of release to the irritation that he was feeling with society.

In the last month alone, the newssheets had been filled with the disastrous occupations of married people, who seemed to be determined to make each other incredibly unhappy.

People always took lovers. It was the way of society throughout all history, but in this particular instance, it seemed to him that people were even poor at taking lovers.

They couldn’t find ways to be happy. Who wanted to live like this, with a bunch of lords and ladies sulking about, writing terrible poetry, and lamenting their star-cursed fate, when it was really just down to the poor choice of partner?

Not him.

So, he paced back and forth, eagerly awaiting his butler. And when his butler, who was quite young for his job but exceedingly good at it, stumbled into the foyer from the servant’s stairs and gave him a wavering smile, Rivers said, “Chin up, Harlowe, you can do it.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Harlowe said. “Anything for you.”

And he knew Harlowe meant it.

Rivers was deeply grateful. He didn’t know what he’d do without the man who was nowhere near his status but possibly the closest thing he had to a friend.

They headed out into the morning air.

Rivers’ house was smack in the middle of the most central and important part of West London.

His house was old. He liked old things. Old things were predictable.

New things made him slightly nervous, though he did love science.

Science was the only thing that made him feel a bit of peace because, quite frankly, he liked the idea of categorizing things.

When one was able to categorize things and people, then analyze them, everything worked out—or at least it should.

“Where are we going, Your Grace?” Harlowe dared to ask as he warily approached the gentle gelding named Buttercup that had been brought out for him.

“Fennyman’s,” Rivers stated as he bounced down the steps to where Emperor, his sixteen-hand-high dappled gray stallion, awaited.

Harlowe’s brows popped up, nearly meeting his dark pomaded hair. “Fennyman’s?” he repeated. “Aren’t they closed at this time of day?”

“Of course they’re closed.” Rivers tsked. “I’m not going to gamble, Harlowe. I’m going to sort out society.”

Harlowe nodded as if this made perfect sense before his brow furrowed. “Oh, can you sort out society at Fennyman’s, Your Grace?”

“Yes, you can.”

“How terribly clever, Your Grace.”

Rivers strode to his horse, who pranced, full of energy. He took the reins and easily mounted, waiting for Harlowe to follow.

Harlowe looked as if he was going to war, a sentiment which would always make the horse ill at ease, but Buttercup was a patient old soul who seemed to be rolling his eyes at Harlowe’s foolishness.

Harlowe could climb up on a horse, but it was always a bit of a show. The man managed to get up onto the riding block, stick his foot into the stirrup, and pull himself atop the animal. He gave the duke a nod, looking positively seasick. “Ready, Your Grace.”

“Wonderful, Harlowe. I salute you, and I appreciate your discomfort to serve my dictates in this particular happenstance.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said.

And with that, they made their way through the incredibly busy streets of London, heading south towards the bridge, which would take them over into the den of thieves and iniquity that was the gambling center of London.

Rivers didn’t particularly like games of chance himself.

Actually, he didn’t like the south of London very much.

He loved to read about the south of London.

Who didn’t? But he didn’t like to go there.

It smelled, there were too many people, and, frankly, he didn’t care for debauchery.

He was perfectly capable of debauching people, of course, but it was rather tiring and, frankly, after years of doing it, rather boring.

And so when they reached Fennyman’s, Harlowe ran up to the cobalt blue door, grabbed the golden knocker, and rapped loudly.

It was no surprise that when the door opened, the man looked past the rather piqued-looking Harlowe and gaped.

Everyone knew who he was.

He was the Duke of Rivers. It was impossible to go anywhere without people knowing who he was.

His likeness was always in the papers. His portrait was in many places.

And quite quickly, the man, who was dressed in a surprisingly elaborate coat of red and gold, allowed both Rivers and Harlowe inside.

After handing his stallion off, along with Buttercup, to a groom who appeared almost out of thin air, showing the efficiency of the place, he entered.

“I’m here to see your master,” Rivers declared as he drew off his riding gloves. “Is he up, or is he recovering from last night?”

The man cleared his throat, eyed Harlowe, and then swung his gaze back to the Duke of Rivers. “My master is up, sir. He barely sleeps. He doesn’t need it.”

“Ah, we have something in common,” the Duke of Rivers said, striding forward and looking about, wishing he knew exactly which way to go. Like Emperor, his energy always felt as if it was unbridled, ready to take off and cause mayhem. “Take me to him at once. It’s the only thing to be done.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said. “This way.”

Without question, because people never questioned him, they headed off down a hallway that was surprisingly full of light. He was surprised by the whole place.

He knew about the man who owned Fennyman’s. The place bore his name and anyone with good sense knew of him. He was two-faced. There was the face he gave the public, and then there was his real face, which was hidden from all society. Rivers understood that because he was exactly the same.

When the footman opened a set of double doors and announced there was a visitor, Rivers wasn’t entirely certain what he was expecting, but he certainly wasn’t expecting a man standing in front of a set of books.

He was going over them carefully with an intensity that really mirrored Rivers’ own whenever he went to work, and he worked a great deal.

“Not now,” the man called. “These books are not quite right. I fear that one of my people is—”

Rivers slapped his gloves against his opposite palm and cut in. “I am sorry if one of your people is not doing as they should, but this is something that requires immediate attention.”

Carter Fennyman lifted his searing blue gaze. The only sign of his surprise was a quick blink and the closing of his book.

“Your Grace,” he said in shockingly polished tones. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? I take it you are not here to gamble.”

“You are quite correct, Fennyman. I am not. As a matter of fact, I am here to do the exact opposite of gambling.”

“And what is that?” Fennyman asked, straightening his broad shoulders.

Rivers smiled slowly. “I am here to fix the results.”