Duke of Moonstone (Dukes of Decadence #5)

Chapter 1

“Iam in love!”

Alexander set down his quill.

He did not look up immediately. He had learned, over years of managing estates, creditors, and one very dramatic younger sister, that a pause was often more effective than an immediate response.

He let the silence linger between them for a moment then raised his eyes to where Eleanor stood in the middle of his study, her cheeks flushed and her hands clasped together as if she had been rehearsing this entrance since breakfast.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“I am in love,” Eleanor repeated, and the way she said it the second time, slower, clearer, as though he were the one who needed help understanding, made the muscle in his jaw tighten.

“With Malcolm, the schoolmaster. And before you say a single word, Alexander, I want you to know that I have thought about this very carefully, and I do not care what society thinks.”

Of course, she does not.

He rose from behind his desk because this conversation was clearly not going to be a short one, and it seemed wrong to have it sitting down.

He moved to the window and looked out at the street below where a pair of footmen were carrying in fresh flowers for tomorrow evening’s preparations.

Everything was as it should be. He turned back to his sister.

“A schoolmaster,” he said.

“Yes.”

“A commoner.”

“He is not a commoner. He is educated and principled and—”

“Eleanor.” His voice was not raised. It never was. “A schoolmaster is a commoner. You are the sister of a duke. I trust you understand that these two facts present something of a difficulty.”

Eleanor’s chin came up in that particular way it always did when she was preparing to be unreasonable. She looked so like their mother in that moment that it caught him somewhere behind the ribs though he did not allow it to show.

“Other people have married for love,” she said. “Lady Lavinia married Tristan, and no one thought the worse of her for it.”

“Tristan is the Duke of Evermere, and she is the daughter of an earl. That is a rather different circumstance.”

“It is no different at all. She chose happiness over expectation, and she is better for it.”

Alexander folded his hands behind his back and regarded her steadily. She was twenty years old, and she believed the world arranged itself around feeling.

“I will tell you what I have told you before,” he said.

“You are the sister of the Duke of Whitestone. The name you carry opens doors, secures alliances, and protects you in ways you do not yet fully appreciate. If you throw that away for a man who cannot provide for you, who cannot move in our circles, who has no title and no estate and no means—”

“He has enough means.”

“—then you will spend the rest of your life watching doors close rather than open. And I will not allow that to happen.”

“You will not allow it?” Eleanor’s voice had gone very quiet which was, in Alexander’s experience, a far more dangerous sign than shouting. “You speak as though I am a piece on a chess board, Alexander. As though my feelings are simply inconvenient obstacles to your arrangements.”

I speak as though I am responsible for you. He did not say it. He had learned that saying it only made her angrier.

“I speak as the head of this family. And as the head of this family, I am telling you that this attachment cannot continue.”

“Cannot or will not be permitted to?”

“In this instance, Eleanor, it amounts to the same thing.”

She looked at him, and he could see the struggle behind her eyes—the hurt, the anger, and beneath both, a grief she was desperately trying not to show. He was not entirely unmoved by it.

“The masquerade is in three days,” he said, his voice gentler now though still firm.

“I have invited half of London. There will be any number of suitable gentlemen present, Eleanor, men of good family and good character. I am not asking you to fall in love with a title. I am asking you to give a proper match a chance.”

“You are asking me to forget Malcolm.”

“I am asking you to remember who you are.”

Eleanor pressed her lips together. She remained silent for a moment, and Alexander had the unsettling thought that she might simply agree, nod, and leave the room, and that her silence could signify something far more troubling than another argument.

Then she said, “And if I cannot?”

“You will.” He held her gaze. “I expect you at dinner tonight, and I expect you at the ball. That is all I am asking of you at present. The rest will follow.”

She looked at him for one long moment then turned and walked out of the study without another word.

Alexander stood very still after the door had closed behind her.

He turned back to the window, watching nothing in particular, and let himself breathe.

She would come around. She always did, eventually.

She was young and feeling, and she would come to see, as he had, that a life built on duty was steadier than a life built on hope.

He picked up his quill and returned to his task.

His mother’s room was quieter than the rest of the house when he opened the door and stepped in several hours after his argument with Eleanor.

She was sitting up against her pillows which was a better sign than yesterday, when she had barely been able to lift her head.

She is smaller than she was a year ago. He noticed it every time, no matter how he tried not to.

“Alexander.” Her face changed when she saw him, not dramatically—she did not have the energy for that—but something in it softened and settled, and she lifted one hand toward him.

He crossed the room and took it, pulling the chair close to her bedside and sitting down. Her hand was thin, with skin looser than it should be for a woman of four-and-fifty, and he carefully wrapped both of his around it.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I am perfectly well.”

“Hmm.” She studied him in that particular way she had, the way that made him feel seventeen again, caught in some small deception. “Eleanor?”

“We spoke this morning.”

“And?”

“And we disagreed as we frequently do.” He paused. “She will be at the ball. She will behave herself.”

His mother did not look entirely convinced, but she did not press it.

She turned her head slightly toward the window, and for a moment, they simply sat together in the quiet.

These were the visits he valued most, not when she was well enough to worry over him, not when she had advice he hadn’t asked for, but these still moments when it was enough to simply be present.

“How is the child?” she asked at last.

“She is well.” He kept his voice even. “She wants for nothing.”

“That is not quite what I asked.”

He met his mother’s eyes and found them patient and steady and far too perceptive for his comfort. “She is cared for,” he said. “She is safe. The governess writes regularly, and the reports are satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory.” His mother repeated, the word in a tone that made it sound considerably less reassuring than he had intended. “She is a little girl, Alexander, not an estate account.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Are you?” She did not say it unkindly. She never did anything unkindly. “You ought to bring her here. To us. She should not grow up in the countryside with a governess for company when she has family who could—”

“She has every comfort.”

“Comfort is not family.” She shifted against her pillows, and he adjusted them behind her without being asked. “You need a duchess, my dear. You have needed one for some time. Bring the child home, find a good woman who will love her, and allow yourself to—”

“I will marry when Eleanor is settled. That is how it ought to be done. The younger sister must be established first.”

“That is not a rule, Alexander. That is an excuse.”

“It is a convention, and conventions exist for a reason.”

She looked at him for a long moment with an expression that was equal parts affection and exasperation.

Then she let out a small breath and squeezed his hand.

“You are very like your father,” she said, “in all the ways that I loved him. And very unlike him in all the ways that I did not.” She paused. “I only want you to be happy.”

“I am content.”

“That is not the same thing.”

I know, he thought, but did not say. Instead, he lifted her hand briefly and set it back against the coverlet then rose to straighten the curtain that had slipped slightly on its rod.

“Rest,” he said. “I will come again this evening.”

“What about the ball?” she reminded him.

“I know you want the ball to be perfect, and so do I, but I shall see you in the evening.” He glanced back at her from the doorway.

She was watching him with those quiet eyes, and the expression on her face was one he had never entirely learned to read.

He gave her a small nod and pulled the door closed behind him.

In the hallway, he stood for a moment, one hand still on the door handle.

The child is well. Eleanor will come to her senses. The ball will go smoothly. Everything is in order.

He let go of the handle and walked on.