Chapter 2

"Your Grace, you are yet to answer my question. Should we proceed with the preparations?"

Edmund glanced over the top of a mountain of correspondence at his butler, Mr. Ayles, who seemed perpetually determined to disturb him. He gestured pointedly at the unyielding papers, documents, taxes—sheaves of relentless stress.

"Next year, perhaps, when my duties are not at the level of my eyes," Edmund said when the butler continued to wait.

While another noble would have gotten rid of him and replaced him with another who would not bother him, Mr. Ayles was simply someone he could not afford to release from his service.

"Your Grace, I—" Mr. Ayles began, but Edmund cut him off.

"Here is your answer, Ayles, as you seem to not comprehend subtlety. I won't be attending, and that is final. We have too many other things to attend to. The shipment is coming, and…"

The butler was like a father, and a disgruntled one at that, despite them being close in age. They had worked together to make Edmund who he was today. Maybe that was why the man did not care about putting on airs of servitude.

He was simply not afraid of his master.

"Your Grace, we cannot afford to miss this chance. You must attend."

Edmund pretended to busy himself as he considered his options. The Season was the last thing on his mind. Money and how to make more of it were the things that concerned him—the only things that mattered. Being under the scrutiny of Society, eyes watching his every move, judging him for not knowing the right cues, parading himself in front of haughty strangers, was a waste of precious time.

"It is unnecessary," he said, at last, stamping his seal on a letter and pushing it to the side. "I can go to next year's events, as I have said. It does not need to be this one."

His butler, just a word away from tearing out his own hair, reached for the envelope and placed it on the silver tray he carried. At least when it came to the post, he did not overstep.

"It is necessary, Your Grace. You are thirty years old and have not attended a single Season. We cannot allow that to happen again. If you don't attend this Season, there will be rumors that you are either strange or cowardly, and you may lose business with the other merchants and nobles. Please, think about the manor and the people who are working for you, Your Grace," Mr. Ayles said, placing a few more letters on the tray.

Cowardly?

The word sat in Edmund's mind like rotten fruit. Because he did not care about pomp and frivolity, he was somehow cowardly? He loathed the logic of Society. Indeed, that was likely why he preferred the stability of his work.

"And what, pray tell, do you think all of this is for?" Edmund gestured once more to the mountain of papers.

The butler sighed. "You need a wife, Your Grace. A wealthy one. A suitable bride can do more for you, for us, than months spent behind these papers and dossiers. It opens up opportunities, that is all. Now, if you would excuse me." He turned around and walked out of the room, knowing just how much Edmund hated it when he did that.

A bride…

The idea of promising himself to someone he didn't know was daunting. But worse was facing people who had thrown scathing remarks in his face long ago, persuading them that his situation had changed.

Edmund was a noble from birth, someone with blue blood in his veins, and would have endured—and perhaps enjoyed—many Seasons prior to this one had his family's luck not run out.

That is behind me. I don't need to think of those days anymore.

He didn't, but it was hard to forget his mother's cries as his father had lain on his deathbed, wasting away. The sickness might have been cured if they had had the doctor's fee of five pounds, but there had been no coin to spare.

The last words his father had said to him before taking his last breath were the reason Edmund persevered even against the fear of failure.

"Since before my grandfather's time and his grandfather's before him, we have been the Dukes of Davenport. You are my blood, and that title is your birthright, albeit a pitiful one now. I am sorry for everything I did, but, Son, you must avenge us. Show those nobles who turned a blind eye to our plight and treated us like we were dirt on their carriage wheels how strong our family is, how we can rise once more. You must do this for me."

With those last words, his father gave up the ghost, and his mother followed shortly after, leaving a boy of six-and-ten on his own to fend for himself. Maybe his current wealth was not because of his wits or luck but the work of his father from beyond. Either way, he had done it—he had dragged his family name back up to glory.

Fourteen years on, and the title Duke of Davenport meant something again. He had made his lands and fortune thrive, going far enough to achieve more than his ancestors had ever done.

But marriage… that was never part of the deal. Nor did Edmund actually want to be part of the ton again. It was enough for him to regain his family's standing and live in his manor without having to watch it crumble and decay, fulfilling the wishes of his parents.

But was all of this worth it? I spent my childhood and adulthood satisfying my father's wishes, and now I have nothing to show for myself.

If Mr. Ayles was to be believed, all he had achieved simply was not enough in Society's eyes.

"You agreed you would attend the Season's events, Your Grace, and the first ball is this evening. Yet, you have made no mention of preparations."

Edmund looked to his left, finding his butler holding his afternoon tea tray.

The mountain of papers on the writing desk had grown smaller over the three days that had passed since his last discussion about the Season with Mr. Ayles, and Edmund had secretly hoped that the butler had accepted that venturing out into Society would have to wait until next year.

"I said nothing of the sort," Edmund replied.

His butler set the tray on the only clear space on the desk before taking a deep breath. He straightened his waistcoat, smoothing his hair back before blowing out a strained breath.

Edmund could tell that his butler was praying for infinite mercy and patience, something his father used to do while he was still alive.

"Your Grace, you have given me no choice but to forcibly move you to ready yourself. Otherwise, I would formally leave my post, never to be seen here again." Mr. Ayles took another moment to gather himself. "Your Grace, this is important. Both of us are getting older, and the ladies are not getting any younger."

"Nonsense, there are new ladies each year," Edmund pointed out.

The butler clenched his jaw. "You know what I mean. Showing yourself this year, putting effort into your societal duties, will bolster your reputation and allow you the pick of the bunch. If you delay it, and rumors do spread, you will only have the unmarriageable ladies to pick from. Please, Your Grace."

It was not too often that the butler said "please" with any sincerity, but it was there in his voice then. An earnest desperation that Edmund, whose fingers were aching from endless hours of writing, could not bring himself to ignore.

"One ball," he relented. "Tonight's ball. If I deem it unworthy of my time, and it does not open up all these grand opportunities that you keep twittering about, there shall not be another. Will that satisfy you?"

Relief nearly knocked the butler off his feet. "It will, Your Grace."

Edmund dropped his papers and sighed, hoping he would not come to regret this.

"And if you should happen to encounter a lady who charms you, even a little bit, well… maybe it will inspire you to attend more of the Season's balls," the butler added slyly.

Edmund shot him a look. "Do not raise your hopes, and I shall not lower mine."

Mr. Ayles bowed his head. "Of course, Your Grace. I got carried away. When all is said and done, the decision lies in your hands, as does the future of this manor. For now, on behalf of everyone, I will simply thank you for agreeing to attend one ball."

But there was a determination in the butler's downturned gaze and a furtiveness in his half smile that let Edmund know that Mr. Ayles would not be satisfied until the Duke of Davenport had found himself a duchess.

Edmund had spent two hours on the road, yet the carriage still came to a halt all too soon. For once, he wished Mr. Ayles was there if only to hoof him out onto the driveway to get on with the evening ahead.

He felt sick at the sound of guests chattering to one another as they made their way inside the manor. Meanwhile, he sank back into the squabs, desperate to stretch time.

I could turn aroundand tell Ayles that I went.

A groan wheezed in his lungs, realizing he was behaving more like a petulant boy and less like a duke. He needed to remember who he was, what he had built with his own hands, and why he had nothing to be ashamed of. How many of the gentlemen in that house could say they had pulled their legacy back from the brink of destruction?

"Your Grace?" The coachman appeared at the door, opening it wide. He peered inside, finding Edmund flush against the velvet squabs. "Are you well?"

Edmund forced a smile. "The motion of the carriage has upset my stomach a little. I am letting it settle. Just a moment."

The coachman dipped his head. "Of course, Your Grace."

But the longer Edmund waited, the more attention he drew to himself. Already, he could see several guests stopping to watch the carriage, no doubt intrigued as to who was lingering inside. Maybe they thought he was trying to make a dramatic entrance.

Pretend they are the merchants you trade with, and conversation will come easily.

"Thank you, Jack," he said to the coachman. "I believe I am ready now."

Not a moment later, the Duke of Davenport made his first proper entrance into Society, making his way across the white gravel driveway, up the front steps of the manor, through the reception hall, and into the grand ballroom, where he waited for his presence to be announced.

"His Grace, the Duke of Davenport," declared the Master of Ceremonies in a booming voice as Edmund stood there awkwardly in the wide doorway.

Despite the fellow's loud announcement, barely anyone turned to look at Edmund. He noticed a few sly glances being cast in his direction, and the bending of ladies' heads as they whispered in the ears of their friends, but within seconds, the next guest was being announced, and it seemed that Edmund was forgotten.

This may not be so difficult, after all.

He moved toward a quiet spot by the windows, where he would be able to observe without involving himself if he did not wish to.

However, as he gazed over the crowd, admiring the grace of the dancers who had taken to the dancefloor, he felt a hot flush prick his skin. The feel of intent eyes upon him.

It did not take him long to find the culprit. Across the ballroom, standing in the same spot as him, on the opposite side, was a young lady. His eyes widened, for she was rather pretty, and he had no clue why she was staring at him like that, as if she had spotted a rare bird.

Her lips curled into a shy smile. Immediately, Edmund looked away, pretending he had not seen her at all… and realized there was a gentleman standing not two paces away from him. His gaze darted back and forth between the lady and the gentleman, realizing she had not been looking at him at all.

Perhaps this had been a catastrophic mistake. He knew numbers, he knew arithmetic, he knew trade and commerce, but there was one thing in this world that would always remain a mystery to him—women.

And, right now, he was surrounded.