Chapter 1

Chapter One

" Y ou'll like him, I promise."

Frederick lifted a skeptical brow at his cousin as they walked down Mayfair side by side. He and Percy had grown up spending most of their childhood summers together in one estate or another, but it was only Frederick's recent ascent to the dukedom that had sent him scrambling for his cousin's company once more. It was generally expected for dukes to know their way around Town, to be the very leaders of society in fashion and thought. But Frederick found himself rather desperate for guidance more than anything.

Books and philosophy and quaint country cottages might sound humble to many—pastimes and settings hardly associated with worldly English noblemen. But Frederick would rather read a thousand pages of the classics than maneuver the politics of the London drawing room or stand for yet another round of fittings for expensive new clothes.

Did men truly need that many coats? Don't they all look the same in the end? And hearing his housekeeper talk about the need to replace all the curtains and wallpaper had him groaning more than glad.

"Come now," Percy prodded Frederick as they turned the corner, "have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Given that we haven't particularly been spending that much time together in recent years, I rather think you haven't had much opportunity to do so."

"You need friends, Burgess. I may be able to squire you about for the social events, but Parliament is an entirely different matter."

Frederick winced at the allusion to his new title. He supposed he would have to grow accustomed to being addressed so. It had been difficult enough getting accustomed to his servants addressing him as ‘Your Grace.' Now that his year of mourning had ended, he had to learn to respond to his title from absolutely everyone. It was a daunting thought indeed.

He looked up at the house they were meant to be visiting. "And you think this Rodworth fellow will help me make friends."

"You'll like him." Percy grinned. "The man is as overly serious about duty as you are."

"I am not overly serious."

His cousin's eyes glared at him while his lips seemed to stifle a laugh.

"Very well, perhaps I am." Frederick sighed. Would he ever stop feeling awkward in his fashionable new wardrobe and freshly polished boots? The role of a duke still felt like a costume on most days. "Now, pray, enlighten me. Why should the acquaintance of this particular viscount be of help?"

"Because," Percy explained as they reached the front door of Rodworth Place, "Lord Rodworth will be your political ally just as much as Lady Rodworth will be your social advisor. "

"I do not need an advisor," grumbled Frederick.

"That's not what you told me last week."

Frederick sighed. His contorted reflection frowned at him from the glistening knocker. "Asking help from a cousin is hardly the same as begging the patronage of other noblemen."

"Never took you to be so proud, Freddie."

The allusion to his childhood name softened his nerves. Frederick sighed. "I only want to avoid troubling anyone."

"Rodworth will find it no trouble, I promise."

"You paint the picture of a busy man. I do not want to intrude."

"Anyone has time for a duke."

"I dislike pulling rank."

"And what if I tell you that we have an appointment today—that we are interrupting nothing that the viscount himself has not consciously agreed to have interrupted?"

Frederick sighed. "Very well."

"Good." Percy grinned. "It is rather a little late to turn back now."

The door opened, and the gentlemen were promptly admitted to the well-appointed town home and led by the burly old butler to the study. The room was not large, not compared to Frederick's own properties, but the familiar smell of paper and ink rendered it instantly comfortable.

"His Grace, the Duke of Burgess, and Mr. Percival St. John," the butler announced.

"Thank you, Jacobson," the young viscount looked up from his accounts. A large painting hung behind his desk. The style of the artist imitated the greats of old, but the likeness of Lord Rodworth looked remarkably recent. The image blended tradition and youth in an impressively seamless way. Perhaps there was something Frederick might be able to glean from the young nobleman, after all. "Welcome. Do sit."

"Thank you," said Percy, before depositing himself comfortably onto the nearest chair. "Come, Burgess, join us."

Frederick lowered himself formally onto the chair at Percy's right. Their host offered them beverages with graceful, efficient manners before snagging a seat himself. The man did not look much older or younger than Frederick himself, though Frederick rather envied his apparent ease amidst the trappings of Town.

"Now, if I may, allow me to welcome you to the new Season," said Lord Rodworth, his voice high and crisp, "Mr. St. John has informed me that you wish to be an active participant in this session of Parliament."

"Uhm, yes, I do."

The way the viscount nodded made Frederick feel as if his measure was being taken—and it was a rather unnerving experience. Why couldn't Father, or his other heirs, still be alive? At least they were all well-prepared for the dukedom. Frederick only ever liked his cottage and his books.

"And is there any way I can be of service in this regard?" offered Lord Rodworth.

"I, uhm, well?—"

"My cousin needs an ally in Parliament," said Percy easily. "I have shown him your recent motions, and you seem to be in agreement with most of the most pressing issues."

"I am glad to hear it. And reaching out to the others should prove easy enough. I trust you are already acquainted with most of the members in lords?"

Frederick swallowed. "By name, perhaps, or in passing."

Rodworth frowned. "Certainly, having been raised the son of a duke?— "

"My cousin has always preferred more private, temperate pursuits," Percy explained. What Frederick would give to have his cousin's open manners right now! "His brother being fit and healthy, not to mention already having a son with the potential promise of more, has rendered such a line of succession for the dukedom rather unexpected."

Again, the master of Rodworth Place seemed to study Frederick's profile. It was a different sensation from being ogled by ambitious mamas at a ballroom, but Frederick did not particularly care for either.

"I see," said the viscount. He settled back against his chair, his trim figure doing little to minimize his command of the room. One would think that a duke was always the most important person in the room. Alas, one could be wrong. "So, it is your desire then, that we establish some personal ties for you as we stand on the threshold of a new Parliamentary session."

"Yes," said Frederick. "That sounds rather helpful."

Rodworth nodded. "That should not pose too much of a challenge. Lord Beckham and Sir Ogden are set to dine with us this week. I can request my wife to include you in the party."

Frederick nodded, his throat tight. Socializing was a terrifying prospect. "I would be much obliged."

"It is a pity your father did not survive to make the latest vote, but I assume that you hold onto the same views as the late Duke of Burgess regarding the agrarian code?"

Frederick nodded again. "That I do."

"Good. We shall get along splendidly then. Far be it from me to presume that a son ought to position himself entirely the same way as his father."

"Hear, hear," said Percy.

Once more, Frederick felt oddly out of his element, despite being the highest-ranking person in the room. Why did privilege need to come with such a heavy mantle?

"There has been a recent call for certain changes to the code, changes that some consider drastic while others consider necessary," said Rodworth, "it would be my privilege to discuss the particulars with you, Your Grace."

"Of course." Frederick nearly sighed with relief. Intellectual discussions he could do. "While my experience in estate management might yet be limited, I do believe in lending my vote to any worthy reforms."

"Good."

"Burgess here also needs a wife," blurted Percy, being of no help whatsoever. Frederick glared at his second cousin, who only grinned. "What? But you do."

"Not desperately."

"Unless you wish for the Burgess line to dwindle into nothing."

" You can be the duke."

"Me?" Percy laughed, and Rodworth along with him. "Oh, please, do not even tease about that. Sarah's mother might get fanciful ideas."

"Perhaps it might help your suit?"

"I am wholly content to leave all the duking to people who have been raised by one, thank you very much. Besides, would it not be helpful for you to have a partner through all of this? To at least host your dinners, if nothing else."

"I suppose."

"Your cousin is right." An almost mischievous expression passed the viscount's features, suddenly reminding Frederick of how young the fellow nobleman was. "A good wife can be a most valuable asset in almost every aspect of life."

"I suppose," said Frederick again, this time with a sigh .

"As for finding you said wife— that would be a task for mine."

A visit to the drapers was, by all counts, an errand entirely beneath the Duke of Burgess. He had a housekeeper and a butler, a valet and a secretary, a steward and a man of business, a half dozen footmen and even more maids. And even if anyone immediately under his employ proved unavailable, he could easily request a hired hand or a friend to settle the said accounts for him.

There was no reason whatsoever that Frederick had to visit the small shop on the unfashionable, if still genteel, side of London to order more fabric for his new curtains and to address an outstanding bill. Given how he nearly had to beg his housekeeper to let him see to the task himself reflected just how ridiculous he was being.

But he so direly needed a moment away—away from the trappings of the opulent townhouse, away from the stream of callers leaving their cards, and away from the curious stares of people passing his way.

There had been times during his years as nothing more than Lord Frederick St. John that aspiring mothers and more desperate spinsters had tried to catch his eye, but those times had passed quickly once his brother had married and sired his own heir. It was both tragic and daunting to have to face it all again, and this time with the knowledge that he would have no relief unless and until he secured himself a bride.

A murmur of noises greeted him as soon as he entered the drapers. The owner, occupied with another customer, sent an apprising, surprised look his way. He supposed that even his plainest new suit was a little too eye-catching for this side of Town.

Frederick sighed. At least here, he would at most be considered an affluent customer, not the latest vote to recruit or the latest husband to catch. He supposed there were worse things to be thought of.

"Pardon me." He approached the counter where a scrawny young assistant, most likely an apprentice of some sort, received him. "May I please peruse the items set aside under Mrs. Flambert?"

"Very good, sir." The young boy nodded nervously before scurrying away to retrieve said samples.

Frederick tried his best to appear nonchalant as he waited, lest he draw even more attention to his person. After years tucked away with his scholarly pursuits, he rather felt that being forced to operate in regular society was as cruel as insisting that a fish learn to live on land. He was simply not cut out for the role. And while plenty a nobleman might think a dukedom entitled him to do whatever he wanted, even if it were to spend the rest of his life rusticating like a hermit, Frederick was rather too old-fashioned to think so.

Father had been dedicated to his role in Parliament. His entire family worked hard to ensure the Burgess line continued.

Frederick could hardly fail them now.

Hoping to avoid another bout of melancholy, Frederick turned his ears instead to the events around him. The shopkeeper's wife seemed fully occupied with the plump woman who shared more on deets than payments in their little corner. Two young girls worked just behind a small barrier, trying to cut the right measurements from bolts of fabric that towered taller than they did. The shopkeeper himself looked impatiently at his customer, a genteel-looking young lady with light brown hair, most likely eager to close her account that he might address Frederick's needs himself.

Despite being a man born to privilege, Frederick had a rather difficult time enjoying said privilege. It was an altogether uncomfortable sensation to be treated as if he was more deserving of attention or honor than his fellow man. His philosophical studies proved to him many times over that all human beings were created with value, and it seemed rather wrong of a shopkeeper to value him for his sex and the cut of his coat over his demurer female customer.

The woman's voice floated easily through the interiors of the modest shop, even as she kept it low and controlled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stratberry, but that was not what we had ordered. Your own accounts surely reflect?—"

"Are you calling me a liar, miss?" The draper sneered. "We cut those muslins exactly as you asked, and it ain't fair for us to be asked to take them back just because a woman's changed her mind."

"It is not a matter of changing our minds," the woman spoke with a serene, clear, yet firm quality to her voice. "It is a matter of us being charged for something that we did not, in fact, purchase."

"You got the fabrics, didn'tya?"

"We received more than we ordered, and I am only asking to return the excess."

"Perhaps yer memory's a little fuzzy, miss. Happens sometimes with ye gentlefolk."

It was obvious that the young lady was frustrated, but still she soldiered on. "My family has been in mourning for the better half of last year, Mr. Stratberry. It is not possible that we would have ordered fabrics of such varying shades on purpose, at least not before this Season."

Frederick cast a glance over the woman's attire. The fabric did not lie as stiffly as newer clothes might, even if she looked entirely presentable in profile. Was this what genteel poverty meant? What had happened to the woman to cause her to have to do her own shopping in place of a servant?

A quick realization that he was a duke wandering down the streets of Cheapside rather cut short his thinking down that particular road. And yet, still, the woman intrigued him. Her bearing was graceful, if just short of elegant. Her speech rang crisp and clear, reflecting an educated mind. Frederick couldn't quite catch a full glimpse of her face from his current position, but what he could see from the side indicated potentially pleasant, handsome features.

The woman mentioned having just come out of mourning. Was she coping with something as staggering as he was? It seemed entirely unfair that a death in a family had rendered Frederick rich beyond measure while it seemed to have pushed this young lady into lessened circumstances.

"Mr. Stratberry," she pressed when the shrewd shopkeeper once more insisted that she must simply have remembered things wrong. "I am not a silly debutante regretting an extra order of silks. You know as well as I do that this is only a matter of prudence."

"Now, now, Miss Nottingham?—"

"Put it on my order," said Frederick, without truly thinking it through. The lady whirled around, presenting him with a surprised and wary, if curious, expression. She was indeed quite pretty, in a wholesome and unobtrusive sort of way. Frederick cleared his throat and glanced at the shopkeeper instead. "Do me a favor and add the Nottingham order under Mrs. Flambert."

He turned and tipped his hat at the young woman, suddenly feeling shy for his unprecedented burst of friendliness.

"Good day, miss. My condolences for your loss."

And like the fumbling, awkward man that he was, Frederick scrambled out the narrow shop and walked a block down to his waiting carriage.

It only occurred to him ten minutes later that he would have to send someone else to settle the bill after all.

Frederick spent the rest of his carriage ride wondering why he'd bothered doing what he had done for the mysterious lady at the drapers. She was pretty, though in such a quiet way that most men probably never noticed. She was also barely out of mourning, a fact that inspired more kinship than pity or fear in him.

He supposed it had to be the latter. Feminine loveliness, while an objectively desirable trait, had never spurred him into doing anything unusual before. Only a spark of inspiration and admiration, however limited, could have made him act so uncharacteristically. For he did admire the young lady for her subtle strength as she stood up to the shopkeeper—and for her bravery in handling such a situation herself. Given her family's recent loss, he assumed there were no other men to look out for her.

It was almost ironic. Bereaved young ladies without any brothers or fathers were to be pitied and overlooked, whereas bereaved bachelors like himself were encouraged to add women to their lives as soon as possible.

Frederick shuddered as he landed on the pavement in front of Burgess Hall. As far as he was concerned, Mrs. Flambert the housekeeper was the only woman he wished to deal with at this moment, even if everyone else around him seemed to think otherwise.

"Shall we set dinner out at the usual hour, Your Grace?" his butler asked once Frederick had divested himself of his outer coat.

Frederick shrugged. "No reason not to, is there?"

"Very good, Your Grace."

The butler withdrew to his duties; the footmen all resumed theirs, and Frederick once more stood all by himself in his very grand and very lonely house. He planted his hands in his pocket as he eyed the spacious entrance hall. There were very few houses in London that boasted such grandiose spaces. With only the very recent loss of the old duke and his heirs, everything in the house still ran like clockwork. His sister-in-law might have withdrawn to the dower house in the country, too shaken by the ascension to being a duchess only to lose her husband and son immediately thereafter, but her touch still remained on Burgess Hall.

The butler did his job. The housekeeper did her job. The maids and footmen and valet and grooms all ran the household to perfection. His steward and his solicitor stepped in with anything that might need their attention. In fact, Frederick rued with a weary sigh, he seemed to be the only person in the entire dukedom who did not quite know how to do his job.

But he had been raised too well to shirk from duty. With another resigned yet determined sigh, he pivoted to the library, where the welcome smell of well-loved books and his old desk from his cottage at least offered him a small measure of familiarity.

He sank into his favorite chair, the cushions recently reupholstered to keep up with the fashions of the Season. He found the new fabric a little stiff, but he supposed some good wear and tear might break it in eventually.

His hand twitched for the epic tomes on his right. How wonderful it would be to sink himself into a good reading of the classics! Philosophy and history did not care whether he was a duke or not. Words on a page did not judge whether he was fashionably dressed, well-mannered, or handsome enough to be equal to his fortune. Homer or Aristotle would never press him to marry their daughters.

With a groan of exertion, Frederick pried his eyes away from his favorite volumes to focus on the stack of invitations on his left. He rang for tea and settled in for a grueling afternoon. The first letter expressed regret over his absence at the Danube ball. The second letter requested that he join a musicale at the Inglethorpes'. The third one mentioned a dinner party, the fourth one a visit to the theater, and the fifth one a soirée. The pile of requests felt utterly endless as Frederick sorted through personal letters and business letters that had gotten lost in the midst of all the social invitations. His tea ran cold, and still he sorted. His neck ached, and still he sorted.

So exhausted was he by the time he reached the bottom of the pile that he almost jumped at the sound of the dinner bell. His stomach grumbled loudly, proclaiming that food would be a very good idea.

Frederick gave the books on his right another wistful look. Being a duke truly was not as fun as one might think.