Say Yes to the Duke (4 page)

“Never, Your Grace,” the groom replied.

Janice blinked. He was lying right there. He’d told her he had, that it was his job.

The duke observed him through narrowed eyes. Mr. Callahan looked steadily back.

“I’ll fire you for your insolence if you do it again,” His Grace said. “The only reason
I won’t this time is because it might distress the lady. Now get the snow off those
steps. And do it quickly.” He finally showed some irritation in his tone.

“Very well, Your Grace.” Mr. Callahan turned to do as he was bid.

Janice was flummoxed.

Mr. Callahan had won that match.

It made no sense, but he’d somehow bested the duke in a game that should never have
been played. She wasn’t even sure His Grace knew he’d been defeated.

The gritty sound of Mr. Callahan’s boot on the stone and the sheer conviction of his
movements—shouldn’t he have at least pretended to have a weak leg?—only added to her
sense that he was the vanquisher and not the vanquished.

Yet he was a servant doing a servant’s job. How could he be as enthralling a figure
as a duke?

He’s
not.
He’s a
groom.

But when she was very young, she’d been a shopgirl.
And you always will be, you fool, if you can’t keep your eyes off the help.

The crowning moment came when Mr. Callahan finished his chore and walked purposefully
down the steps. “All finished, Your Grace.” He stood at relaxed attention, his gloved
hands dangling at his sides, while the dogs stared avidly at him, their tongues lolling.

He was a Very Bad Man, Janice thought. And, God help her, she couldn’t look away.

Except she must when, seconds later, she walked past him. Even with snow pelting her
cheeks, she felt his heat. And his gaze. Yet she wouldn’t look at him. That wouldn’t
be proper. Kissing him wasn’t proper, either. But what was done was done. She could
be proper starting
now.
She would behave as a real lady should.

But as she cautiously ascended the freshly cleared steps to the front door with the
duke—finally!—his unremarkable friends following behind in much the same way the hounds
were, she had an odd craving, considering how fortunate she was to be with His Grace:
she wished a wayward groom were escorting her up these stairs instead.

Was it exhaustion or desperation that made her think this way? Every woman in London
would like to trade places with her right now. The duke’s grip was firm and his body
next to hers intimidating. Beneath his coat, his calves strained with muscle, and
his belly was flat as a washing board. He was clearly in the prime of life.

And he was without a wife.

She looked one more time over her right shoulder to see Mr. Callahan, and her heart
skipped a beat. There he was, watching her steadily, his mouth grim. Forbidding. As
if he was ready to do someone bodily damage. Yet there was also that element of amusement
behind his eyes, barely concealed, when they locked gazes.

Janice bristled. This was the man who’d devoured her lips as if he were partaking
of a rich gateau, who’d raked the length of her body with his hot, shameless gaze.

He was a savage. And he had no right to be amused by her.

But her body didn’t lie.

She wanted him, nonetheless.

Chapter Three

A butler magically appeared to throw the door wide in welcome. Janice was never so
ready to cross a threshold. The duke and his friends came behind her, and then the
hounds. When the door finally shut, sealing the scoundrel groom out, she breathed
a sigh of relief. She could focus on why she was here—and then she remembered she
wouldn’t be here long.

Her heart sank fast to her feet. And she knew it was because once the roads cleared
she would be sent back to London.

But at least now she was warm. And somehow the hodgepodge of a décor, faded but still
dignified—from the suit of armor in the corner to the tall case clock ticking laboriously
at the base of the staircase to the ancient hat stand—spoke to her. The home seemed
ducal in the noblest sense of the word, achieving an air that overlooked mere pomp
in favor of depth and substance.

Perhaps Halsey was the same way. She hoped so. She’d forgive him his self-importance
outside in the snow, as well as his apparent indifference to her. What duke didn’t
feel important? And as for his lack of interest in her, perhaps he was wise to maintain
his distance. For all he knew, she—like the other women who’d come before her to Halsey
House—was after him, and if she followed her parents’ wishes he’d be correct.

Embarrassed at the very idea of scheming to win a man she didn’t know, especially
a duke, she stared upward at the house’s beams and rich, well-worn tapestries hung
on its high walls.
Welcome,
it seemed to say.
I have stories to tell, great and small.
A slant of light from the transom above the front door fell on a crystal vase on
the massive sideboard, throwing little diamonds over the black-and-white tile floor.

She might not be Irish, like Daddy, but she was fey in her own way. She got a sure
impression that much laughter had echoed through this home’s spaces at one time or
another, that abundant love had flowed as copiously as wine at a wedding.

She had a sudden wish that one of the house’s stories would be hers.

But it won’t be,
she reminded herself.
You’re leaving.

As soon as the roads cleared and her wheel was fixed. It would be a week at most.
And it was a good thing. His Grace, his friends … they didn’t want her here. She could
tell.

She tried not to think of the way Mr. Callahan had kissed her, as if he wanted her
very much.

From somewhere far away on the next floor, several women could be heard chatting and
laughing. The duke looked sharply up at the top of the wide staircase and then directed
his butler to send the housekeeper to the drawing room straightaway. “Tell her that
until Lady Janice’s maid has had an opportunity to put away her things or Mrs. Friday
arrives, she’ll serve as Lady Janice’s chaperone.” The duke looked to her. “I’m going
to tell my grandmother myself you’re here. I’ll see you in a few minutes. Meanwhile,
don’t wait. The tea tray should be ready.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

Daddy would be so glad that His Grace was a stickler for the proprieties.

Luke Callahan, Janice was sure, had completely misjudged the duke, but she’d forgive
the groom for maligning his employer so. She knew too well how difficult it was to
be looked down upon. Servants met with glaring lapses in kindness toward them every
day, and resentments, naturally, could grow very heated.

“My other houseguests should appear any moment,” His Grace added. “I’m sure they’re
anxious to meet you.”

Before she could reply, he bowed and left her with his cohorts. She really preferred
to go straight to her room to unpack first and clean off her travel dirt, but how
could she say no to her host? He had a way of speaking that was different from everyone
else of her acquaintance—as if he never second-guessed himself but always assumed
everyone would do his bidding. And he was deucedly unapologetic about that fact.

It was entirely mortifying, really, to be left alone with Halsey’s two friends, neither
of whom looked at her with any real warmth in their eyes. She understood why the highly
eligible duke was on the defensive. But these two?

They had no excuse.

But Janice refused to surrender to the awkward situation. A footman led them to a
vast space filled with oil paintings of horses. There were bold red accents everywhere:
in the fabrics, on the vases, and even on the china on the tea tray. The dogs had
collapsed before the fire.

It was a man’s drawing room.

It needs a woman’s touch,
she couldn’t help thinking as she took a seat by a low table, where the teapot sat
at the ready. She hoped Isobel and Oscar would get their own tea very soon, but they
probably hadn’t yet. Isobel would soon be upstairs with Janice’s trunks. And Oscar
would no doubt go to the stables to the horses.

She must admit, she even hoped Mr. Callahan would get his tea, although she shouldn’t
care whether he did or not. She wouldn’t think of his shapely legs or broad shoulders,
nor would she think of the way he’d kissed her, as if he couldn’t get enough of her.
She must remind herself that she had many misgivings about him, however glorious a
masculine specimen he was.

The housekeeper, an older woman with a large bosom and a kindly face, glided in. “Don’t
mind me, my lords and my lady,” she said quietly.

“Thank you.” Janice felt as if she’d put out the entire household with her arrival.

Isobel liked to take her time putting away Janice’s things, so unless Mrs. Friday
arrived soon, the poor housekeeper would have to ignore her regular duties. She took
a seat near the window and opened a small book that she pulled from her apron.

Lord Yarrow, whose face was long and his nose markedly hooked beneath his jet-black
hair, sat opposite Janice. “So you’re Brady’s stepdaughter by his second marriage?”
His voice carried that tonnish ennui that she so despised.

“Yes.” She poured him a cup of tea. “Although my parents make no distinction between
siblings. We’re all one happy family.”

“Happy? Is that so?” Predictably, the older, rounder Lord Rowntree didn’t sound terribly
interested as he flung out his tails and took his own seat on a red silk settee. He
had silver sideburns and a strong cleft in his chin.

“It
is
so.” Janice handed him a brimming cup, too.

“Your older sister is very beautiful.” Lord Yarrow gazed at her with open curiosity,
as if he hoped she’d react strongly.

But he’d be disappointed. Janice was used to hearing such compliments about her sister,
and contrary to what everyone assumed, she was quite proud to be related to Marcia.

“Yes,” Janice said, “she’s the most beautiful woman in Town, apart from Mama. Of course”—she
smiled—“I’m most prejudiced in their favor.”

Janice felt a strong longing to retreat to her room and crawl into bed with a good
book, not make small talk with these world-weary fellows who were the last men on
earth she’d ever want to marry. They certainly didn’t stand out the way the duke did—

Or Luke Callahan.

Oh, dear. Him again.
She added two lumps of sugar to distract herself. His Grace, she told herself sternly,
was the man she should be thinking of. Yes, he was intimidating and indifferent to
most of the rest of the world, but he acted as a duke should.

Yet … that wasn’t nearly as memorable as a
groom
acting as a duke should.

It was shocking and inappropriate, how Mr. Callahan behaved.

But fascinating nonetheless.

Janice restrained a sigh and looked over her own dish of tea to see Lord Rowntree
cross one leg over the other, and the words
Mr. Callahan’s thighs
popped into her head. An instant rush of warmth to the apex of her own thighs ensued,
followed by a strong dose of guilt that made her temples pound. She drank a sip of
tea and wondered if she was a wanton or merely prone to outlandish daydreams.

Mama would be appalled either way.

Janice was grateful to hear more feminine laughter and the muted sounds of many feet
on the stairs. The men paused in their conversation just as three women came into
the room, all of them elegantly attired but looking rather hastily put together. Sleepy,
even. It was quite a shock this late in the day.

“Sorry we’re late,” said the first young woman in a strong American accent. “We stayed
up past midnight … reading novels.” Dressed in a plum muslin gown and with a mess
of black curls framing her dainty face, she gave a giant yawn and plopped down next
to Lord Rowntree. “I’m Lilith Branson of Boston,” she said, and extended a hand to
Janice.

For the briefest moment, Janice stared at it, not quite sure what to do. So she put
down her cup and held her hand out, too. Miss Branson gripped her palm and shook it
hard. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you.” Janice was excited to meet someone new. It was a rare thing to see an American
socialite, especially one as bold and friendly as Miss Branson. “I’m Lady Janice Sherwood.
My father is the Marquess of Brady.”

“I’ve heard much of your sister Lady Chadwick,” said another young lady in a rather
dated yellow silk gown. She had brown hair and bright green eyes. “I’m Lady Opal,
and this is my sister, Lady Rose.”

“Pleased to meet you both.” Janice smiled, happy they had each other. She knew the
value of sisters and suddenly missed her own.

Rose was freckle faced, with strawberry blonde hair, and wore a soft blue gown that
Janice could swear had nearly threadbare sleeves, although she wouldn’t gaze upon
them long enough to find out.

Despite the sad state of their gowns, the sisters, with their wide-set eyes, were
equally pretty. Neither outshone the other. And Miss Branson was attractive, too.
She had dimples on either side of her heart-shaped mouth and a pert nose.

Janice poured them each a cup of tea. “Were you invited here by the dowager, as well?”
she asked with sympathy. Perhaps they’d been caught in an awkward situation, too.
It would explain their lack of chaperone. They were certainly of an age to require
one.

The two men watched them all as if attending a play.

“Oh, no.” Lilith gave a hearty laugh. “I came on my own. I’d read about the Duke of
Halsey’s stables. I’ve got my own back home. I figured he wouldn’t mind a visit from
an American heiress with a know-how for horses.” She winked. “Don’t tell my father.
He thinks I’m over here visiting a boarding-school friend in London.”

Janice was shocked but tried not to show it.

“And we’re on our way further north,” explained Lady Rose with a sweet smile, “to
our aunt’s house in Manchester.”