Dukes By the Dozen полностью

“Perhaps if I back up?” Iris suggested, asking the same of Rosie.

“No dratted luck,” the gentleman said. “Best get down ladies. Lightning and Thunder aren’t the steadiest pair.”

Except getting down was impossible. To Iris’s left, the phaeton, jiggling and jouncing as the horses grew increasingly nervous, prevented her escape. On Hattie’s side of the carriage, a closed coach had stopped to watch the goings on.

“I’m not giving up the reins just because she couldn’t steer her nag,” the blond said, tossing her curls.

“God spare me,” Hattie muttered, as Rosie whisked her tail twice.

The blond left off batting her eyelashes at her companion and smiled over the back of her vehicle.

“Your Grace, a pleasure to see you.”

“Today is the day for carriage mishaps, apparently,” said a tall gentleman… the same tall gentleman. He was off his horse and surveying the entangled wheels from behind. “Berringer, this is your fault. Never let a novice drive in traffic, and certainly don’t give her the ribbons when you’ve a half-wild team put to.”

My sentiments exactly. “Sir, if you could…” Except the blond had called him Your Grace. “I beg your pardon. Your Grace, if you could assist my companion down, I’d appreciate it.”

The duke was still scowling at the wheels, one sturdy, one delicate. He paused with one glove stuffed in his pocket, the other in hand and turned a pair of cerulean blue eyes on Iris.

“You have a habit of turning up in the most interesting locations, Miss.”

“That’s Lady Iris,” Hattie said. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Iris.” The duke bowed. “John Coachman!” he called to the closed conveyance on Iris’s right, “Walk on or I’ll call out the gawking nitwit who employs you. Berringer, take the damned reins. You there,”—this was directed at Iris’s groom—“get hold of Berringer’s cattle and explain the rules of gentlemanly deportment to them or prepare to be trampled.”

The groom went grinning to his task, Berringer appropriated the reins from the now pouting blond, and the chestnuts ceased hopping about.

“Sit tight, ladies,” the duke said, stuffing the second glove into a pocket. “This will only take a moment.”

Iris was used to men giving orders. Young Peter had come early to the habit, though she ensured his puerile commands were never directed at his sisters. Falmouth, however, was forever barking at the servants and ordering Iris about.

She was not used to men solving problems. Not used to them sorting out cause and effect, studying a situation, and literally getting their hands dirty to provide aid.

The duke grasped the back of Iris’s gig, bent at the knees, and hoisted the entire vehicle several inches.

“If you’ll have your mare step forward,” he said, as if he was holding a wine glass instead of half a carriage.

“Rosie.” The mare assayed two steps, enough to free the wheels from each other. She stood like a saint thereafter, while Iris’s groom led the chestnuts onto the verge.

“Our thanks, Clonmere!” Berringer called, trotting off. The blond clung to his arm, tittering about the stupid beasts, and why was it always a duke who got to play the hero.

“Not a duke,” Hattie said. “A gentleman.”

“A gentleman would not presume to introduce himself,” the duke said… the Duke of Clonmere. “But fate seems determined that we further our acquaintance. Clonmere, at your service.”

His smile was everything a gentleman’s smile should be and too often wasn’t. Friendly, intelligent, genuine without hinting at anything impolite. A touch of mischief in his eyes, a hint of merriment about his mouth, all bounded with good manners and tied up with adult self-possession.

Oh, damn. Oh, double drat and perdition. He was wonderful, and he was Clonmere, and he’d make the best brother-in-law ever. He’d be patient with Holly’s shyness, kind about Hyacinth’s insecurities, and tolerant of Lily’s anxieties.

“I am Lady Iris Fallon, and this is my cousin, Miss Harriet Fallon. Thank you for your assistance, Your Grace.”

The smile faded to a look of puzzlement. “You are Falmouth’s daughter? I don’t recall an Iris among the bunch.”

Nobody did. “Perhaps you’d like to return to your horse. I’d rather not draw any more attention.”

“His Grace can escort us,” Hattie said, the traitor. “Lest we come upon any more incompetent whips.”

“I’m nominally escorting my sister, but she is off amid a troupe of her friends, where I dare not venture. I’d be happy to ride along with you.”

Go away, oh, please, go away. Iris needed time—years perhaps—to sort out her feelings. She should be pleased that he was sensible, attractive, healthy, and well-mannered. She was instead unaccountably furious.

She was to take notice of this man the better to marry him to one of her sisters, and the unfairness of that, the sheer injustice, brought her near to tears.

“An escort would be appreciated, Your Grace.”