Must Love Dukes (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #36)

Chapter 1

Miss Muriel Bell looked out the coach window at the passing countryside, barely listening to her stepmother’s stinging rebuke. Nora was fond of listing Muriel’s faults, of which there were many.

“Are you listening?”

“I am, Mother Nora, and I will take your advice to heart,” she replied without turning her head. “I need to be pleasant. Refrain from espousing my opinions overmuch. Try not to be odd.”

“Invitations to a house party, hosted by Lady Savorton, are highly sought after,” Father said from beside Nora. “It took a great deal of maneuvering to be asked to attend. You might be somewhat grateful.”

The only purposes of a house party, a gathering of those in society somewhere in the countryside, were to either find a match or enjoy a dalliance. Muriel wasn’t interested in either prospect.

Muriel pressed her forehead to the window, wishing fervently she was not trapped in this coach. “I am not overly fond of house parties, as you know, Father. I can count the number I’ve attended on one hand. I find them pointless and somewhat boring.”

“You see, Allred?” Nora threw her hands up in exasperation. “She spends her days creating those atrocious paintings or with her nose in a book. She shows little interest in paying calls or even attending balls unless forced.”

Paying calls on those who cared little to share tea with her was the very epitome of tedium. Balls were simply another way to parade a young lady about in hopes of obtaining a suitor. “My art is incredibly important.” She turned to face her father. “And what is wrong with being well-read?”

“Well-read?” Nora sputtered. “It is either the rather gory history of the Renaissance, filled with the Monducci—”

“Medici,” Muriel corrected. “I grant you they were rather bloodthirsty.”

“It does not matter.” Nora threw up her hands. “You are at a crucial point in your life, Muriel. If action is not taken, you might well become a spinster.” She turned to Muriel’s father. “A spinster, Allred.”

As if that was the worst fate Muriel could ever face.

She could think of many others, starting with a marriage to a man whom she did not like merely to satisfy societal expectations.

This argument wasn’t new. Nora merely rephrased things on occasion.

“I am barely in my third Season, Nora. Hardly a spinster.”

“Barely. In. Your. Third. Season,” Nora repeated.

“Do you hear yourself? We are on the precipice of disaster. Though you’ve done nothing to attract suitors at all this Season, there will be at least a handful of interesting gentlemen at the house party.

I’m sure one will gain your admiration.” Nora exchanged a look with Father.

Muriel’s stomach pitched along with the coach as it rounded a curve in the road.

As of late, the steady stream of suitors Nora had paraded by Muriel had slowed to a trickle, and she’d assumed, incorrectly, that Nora had given up.

Perhaps Muriel’s pleas to be sent abroad to study art had finally been heard.

She would be allowed to travel to Florence, the very cradle of the Renaissance, and absorb a wealth of knowledge.

Visit museums. Paint. Learn to sculpt, perhaps.

I should have known when I saw the invitation to the house party.

Not that the Allred’s didn’t attend house parties, it was only that Muriel rarely went with them. Add to it that Lord and Lady Allred were barely acquainted with the Savortons and their lavish estate, and this had all the makings of a planned introduction.

She eyed her stepmother and father.

Nora appeared…smug. Father seemed worried but triumphant.

“What have you done?” she asked.

“Nothing at all,” Nora sniffed. “I only wish to point out that many young ladies meet their matches at a house party. The atmosphere is ripe for courting.”

Which is exactly why Muriel usually avoided such gatherings, given Nora’s desire to see her wed.

Her marital prospects had never been what anyone would call extraordinary.

Few offers of marriage had come for Lord Allred’s youngest daughter, even when the suitors had been staunchly steered in her direction by Lady Allred.

The lack of interest had thus far been blamed on Muriel’s contrary nature—

I merely have my own opinions. I think for myself. I’m not a cow.

—her general lack of interest in marriage—

I’m quite happy on my own. There is nothing wrong with solitude. I relish such a state.

—and her eccentric artistic endeavors.

Which I have no desire to give up, especially for a husband.

There were likely other reasons. Her general lack of skill at charades, making her unpopular at parties due to her awkward flopping about.

She didn’t care for lamb, which always drew a glare from any hostess.

Made faces at sipping ratafia because of the sweetness.

And during her first Season, Muriel had dropped her new fan into the punch bowl at a ball. Terribly embarrassing.

“I don’t require a husband,” she stated firmly. “I’m quite happy as I am.”

“Goodness, Muriel,” Father sputtered. “Of course you do. Habersham would have done nicely. But those paintings you insist on creating….”

Oh, no. Not Habersham again.

“I did not care for Habersham, Father.” Muriel had declared her dislike for him on at least a half-dozen occasions. Sometimes loudly. But Nora and Father had turned a deaf ear to her complaints. “He’s…self-important. Preening, if you will.”

“Preening?” Nora scoffed. “Habersham is an earl from an old and prestigious family. Entirely suitable. A splendid match, if I’m being honest. You merely wished to be difficult. Going on about that mad Italian—”

“Arcimboldo wasn’t mad. He was a genius.”

“Regardless…” Nora flicked her wrist. “I thought Habersham exhibited a great deal of patience, given the circumstances.”

Muriel tilted her chin to take in the world outside the window once more.

Habersham was tedious. Dull. Pompous. And those were his good qualities.

He spent nearly every call paid upon Muriel reciting his achievements, of which there were few, and none were notable.

Who cared that Habersham raced his curricle faster than Lord Bannister, for instance?

Or that the sky blue of his new coat was the envy of every lord at his club?

He dropped the names of various persons in society with great aplomb, touting his connections and the fact that he danced divinely.

Muriel did not care for dancing and thus was unimpressed.

Habersham said nothing at all of substance.

He didn’t read. Not even the newspaper. Politics bored him.

As did anything of a scientific nature. He had little curiosity about the world, stating plainly that there was no reason whatsoever to leave England because there was nothing interesting beyond her shores.

Muriel dreamt of traveling abroad, especially to Florence.

“You embarrassed Habersham,” Nora said. “Which was entirely unnecessary.”

“He embarrassed himself by bragging at every instance of his close connection to the Duchess of Corkwood. How was I to know Habersham had lied about their growing up together?”

“The polite thing to do would have been to ignore his mild exaggeration.”

“Mild exaggeration? He claimed as children that they spent every summer together picking berries and flying kites. I am hardly at fault for inquiring, after meeting the duchess at a musicale, if she’d enjoyed picking berries with Lord Habersham.

How was I to know the duke was within hearing?

” Or that His Grace would take offense and consider ‘picking berries’ to mean ‘clandestine affair’.

“Corkwood nearly challenged Habersham to a duel,” Father declared. “Things could have ended badly. Which would have been entirely your fault. You spoke out of turn.”

Muriel threw up her hands. “Out of turn? Habersham shouldn’t have lied.”

“What about Lord Gates?” Nora said. “You barely spoke to him when he called upon you. He’s handsome. Athletic.”

“Smells overmuch of horse. He had hay stuck to his coat and mud on his boots.”

“He rides in the park every day,” Nora said through gritted teeth. “It is not unusual he might carry the aroma of leather and horse. Riding along Rotten Row is a gentlemanly pursuit.”

Muriel wondered why bathing was not.

“You see, my lord…” There was a self-satisfied lilt to Nora’s words as she turned back towards Father. “Muriel needs our assistance.”

“Dora wasn’t nearly as difficult,” Father said. “She never gave us a moment’s trouble. Finding her a husband barely took any effort at all.”

“That is entirely unfair.” Muriel crossed her arms. “Dora always found Lord Morrow appealing, mooning over him at balls and the like. She wanted a husband.”

Lord Morrow was a lovely gentleman. A moderately wealthy viscount who shared her sister’s love of nature. The pair were deliriously happy tromping about Morrow’s estate in Hampshire, looking for various species of birds.

“As should you, Muriel,” Nora said with a sigh. “I knew what was best for Dora.” She touched the place above her heart. “In here. Just as I do for you.”

That sounded rather ominous. “Mother Nora—”

Nora was saved from further explanation when the coach rocked abruptly as it entered the courtyard of a small inn set against a thick line of trees.

The ground was littered with the remains of carriage wheels, horse’s hooves, and booted feet, not unusual since it had rained yesterday and this was the main road from London.

“Ah, I believe I’ll stretch my legs while the horses are changed,” Father said. “Lady Allred, would you care to join me?” He stepped out of the coach, holding his hand aloft to help Nora down. “Muriel?”

“I must see to my needs,” she answered, anxious over the conversation with Nora and Father. Grabbing the sketchbook tucked into the seat, she hopped out of the coach, determined to stroll about and perhaps find inspiration for her next portrait. Drawing helped calm Muriel’s nerves. Sort things out.