Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

London, April 1816, The Duchess of Maxwell's Drawing Room

" I t's time you take a wife, Griff," Meredith said as she poured herself a cup of tea.

Sitting across from her on the sofa, Griffin nearly spit the mouthful of tea he'd just ingested. "Pardon?" he managed to say as he coughed and spluttered. Thirteen years had passed. Were they truly still discussing his marriage prospects?

Meredith watched him from the corner of her eye. "I believe you heard me," she said with a sly smile as she dropped first one and then another lump of sugar in her cup.

Meredith had always adored sugar. After so many years in the army, Griffin had learned to live without it.

Griffin set down his cup and tugged at his neckcloth. The thing was choking him all of a sudden. He'd heard her all right. He merely couldn't believe what she'd said. "What's brought on this sudden desire to… to…?"

"See you married?" she supplied helpfully as she stirred her tea with a small silver spoon .

"Indeed."

"It's time, and you know it. Now that you're the duke, you have a responsibility to produce an heir. Not to mention that you promised your mother you'd take a wife the year you turn thirty." Meredith finished her explanation with a solid nod.

Griffin knew that nod. It was the nod that indicated she was right, and he could not argue with her. Well, he could argue with her, but he wouldn't win.

And she was right. Now that he was the blasted Duke of Southbury, he did need to produce an heir. Because Richard, his arse of an older brother—may he rest in peace—had failed to produce one before he'd gone and broken his idiotic neck during an inebriated horse race. Richard was inebriated. The horse was entirely clearheaded as far as Griffin knew.

"Am I thirty already?" he drawled, arching a brow at Meredith and allowing the hint of a smile to touch his lips. Anything to keep the subject off marriage. And hadn't he perfected making light of everything in front of Mere? Nothing was ever serious between them. Always light. Always a jest. Much easier that way.

He glanced over at Meredith. In the year since he'd been back from the war, Griffin, Meredith, and Ash had fallen easily back into their old friendship. It was almost as if Griffin hadn't been gone for over eight years. It was nearly as if Meredith hadn't married the old Duke of Maxwell at eighteen and become a widow last year at the age of six and twenty. It was practically as if Griffin hadn't completely ignored his brother's funeral and his father's demands that he return to London to stay safe since he'd become the heir to the dukedom. And it was not quite as if Griffin hadn't ignored his father's funeral two years ago and returned to London only after the war had ended and there was no one left to fight. In fact, despite his father's repeated insistence that Griffin return the moment he realized his "spare" was needed, Griffin had stayed through Waterloo. He earned the respect of the men who fought under him, his peers, his commanding officers, Parliament, and the King himself. But he still hadn't made Father proud. Of course not.

When Griffin came home, he'd half-hoped his feelings for Meredith would no longer be there. That the two of them could simply be friends, the way they had been when they'd first met. It would make everything much simpler.

Only he'd quickly realized that the years hadn't diminished his feelings for her at all. And even though they'd written to each other while he was gone, seeing her again had been like a punch to the gut, visceral and painful, nearly making him double over. Because while Meredith had been a lovely eighteen-year-old, the years had only enhanced her beauty. She'd grown into a more radiant woman than Griffin had ever imagined. And to this minute, his heart ached for her every time he saw her. Because if there was one thing Meredith had been clear on, not just in her letters but in everything she did and said since Griffin's return, it was her adamance that she would never marry again.

Meredith hadn't shared details of her marriage. Their letters had been filled with other things—gossip, frivolity, and commentary about Ash's latest foibles. But never anything too revealing. Never anything too unhappy. It was as if both Griffin and Meredith had an unspoken pact to only share the good parts of their lives, because the realities at the time had been too awful to impart.

And while Griffin knew very little about her marriage, he knew three things. Maxwell had spent most of his time in London, while Meredith remained in the country. They had never had a child. And as a result of whatever had happened between Meredith and her late husband, she abhorred the institution of marriage.

"You know you turn thirty this autumn," Meredith continued, pulling Griffin from his memories. "Your mother is at her wits' end. She's waited long enough, don't you think?"

Griffin expelled a long breath. Blast it. He had promised his mother he'd take a wife, but that promise had been made years ago, back when he'd been a soldier. Back when he'd assumed—no, hoped—he wouldn't even live through the war. He'd made the promise to his mother via letter. Of course, Mama, who adored Meredith, had immediately told her the news. And Meredith had the memory of an elephant. She forgot nothing. Neither did Mama. Which meant…he should have known this day was coming.

"Fine. What are you proposing?" Griffin said with another sigh, already aware he would regret asking.

"This is the year," Meredith announced after taking a sip of her tea. "With Gemma's debut this week, it's the perfect time. We're going out in Society. I've been out of mourning, and you've been back in London for nearly a year. In addition to helping Gemma make a match, it's time you find a wife. And I intend to help you and your sister. What's the point of being a duchess if you cannot help your friends?" There was that resolute nod again.

Ah, yes. Friends . They were friends . She reminded him of that often. He wanted to growl. Instead, he ensured that his voice sounded nothing but nonchalant. "Seems quite a lot to take on." He'd perfected it over the years, sounding completely indifferent about his emotions. An effect of being ignored as a child and madly in love with a woman who didn't love him back.

Meredith was right. This was the year. But not for her to help him find a wife. It was time for him to show Meredith they were perfect for each other. Endeavor to change her mind about marriage.

And he had a plan.

He'd never forgotten Meredith's dream to be courted, given flowers, and taken for rides in the park. Her dream had turned into a nightmare when her father had unceremoniously announced her betrothal to the old Duke of Maxwell at the start of her first Season. But Griffin intended to change all that. He intended to make her dream come true. He would ask her to marry him at the Cartwrights' annual Midsummer Night's Ball. Because if Griffin was going to marry, it had to be Meredith.