Dukes By the Dozen полностью

“Molto appassionato,” Thomas said, waving his hands. “Vivace, Con brio. Fire, Clodpate-mere. I fear the Portuguese sun has addled what few wits God gave you, if you can’t see those qualities in Lady Lily.”

Clonmere had read Cervantes, and he knew a man enthralled when he saw one. “You are an honorable man, Thomas, and a good cousin.”

His shoulders slumped. “You’ll marry Lady Lily then?”

Hercules had pulled off more than one of his labors with the aid of loyal companions. In a pinch, a cousin could be recruited to that role.

“I haven’t made up my mind. I’ve only met the ladies, and marriage is forever.”

Thomas paused at the next crossing. “If you break Lady Lily’s heart, I will break your nose.” He’d do it, too, despite the damage to his own knuckles.

“Good decisions are made based on good information. I don’t know enough about Lady Lily to make any decisions about her.”

“Then you’re a dunderhead, though we knew that about you.”

“Take pity on a dunderheaded duke and get to the know the lady. I must find a way to pry the twins apart long enough to become familiar with them individually. That will take effort and time, leaving you to scout the terrain where Lady Lily is concerned.”

Thomas gazed off across the square. He was a handsome devil, his dark hair fell over his forehead a la Byron, and while he was tall, he wasn’t a brutish looby who went around lifting carriages in public.

“Lady Lily will need friends,” Thomas said. “Especially if she’s to become your duchess, she’ll need friends.”

Clonmere clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you. Now, do you happen to know which clubs Amherst and Derwood frequent?”

Thomas brushed at his coat sleeve as if a cousinly display of affection was unwelcome. “They frequent them all, depending on where they have credit left. This time of the month, the Brigadier is your best bet. The ale is good quality, the spirits reasonably priced. Nobody plays too deeply.”

“Then I’m away to the Brigadier. My thanks for your assistance.”

Thomas sidled off down the walkway, humming a minor tune. Clonmere let him go and ducked into the nearest flower shop. He sent a bouquet to the ladies of Falmouth’s house—sweet pea, in thanks for a lovely time—but for his lapel he chose an iris.

IRIS WATCHED Clonmere dance with her sisters at one ball after another, watched as each lady grew in confidence and grace for having become one of very few whom His Grace partnered. She listened to the envious speculation of the wall flowers, the sighing asides of the chaperones.

And she’d smiled more in the past three weeks than in the previous four years, then gone home and hugged her pillow in solitude.

Clonmere was nothing if not conscientious about getting to know her sisters. Soon he’d make his choice, and Iris could retire to country with Cousin Hattie.

Though the countryside had few bookshops, and Iris didn’t have any friends there.

Then too, Puck would be a member of the rural household, and he had a disagreeable habit of leaving evidence of feline dyspepsia on carpets and stairs, and cat hair everywhere.

“I’ll have you to cheer me up,” Iris said, patting Rosie’s shoulder. Though Rosie was getting on in years, and she preferred driving to going under saddle, while Iris loved a good gallop.

Iris’s groom was a good dozen yards back, chatting with another groom. The path ahead was quiet with the stillness of pre-dawn, a good time to feel sorry for oneself or to canter away regrets.

“My lady.” The bushes to the right rustled to reveal Clonmere on his gray. “Good day.”

Must he look so delectable in his riding attire? Must he sit that horse like he was born atop it?

“Your Grace, good morning.”

“Keep me company, won’t you?” he said, steering his horse to Rosie’s side. “I’m without siblings today, and the rare solitude has left Boru fidgety.”

“He’s Irish stock?”

“A present from my godfather. So which of the Fallon sisters should I marry?”

Me. You should marry me. Except that made no sense. Iris was the oldest, the plainest, the least outgoing. Her settlements were modest, while her sisters would likely bring handsome sums to the negotiations.

“You should marry the lady with whom you are most compatible, though all three of my sisters would try hard to make a marriage to you successful.”

I’d try harder. The earl would be furious, though, and likely banish his daughters to Surrey. Peter might try to intervene for his sisters, but he was still not of age and had no funds of his own.

Clonmere took a turning onto a narrower path, so that Rosie and the duke’s gelding had to amble along shoulder to shoulder.

“I ask your opinion,” Clonmere said, “because your sisters have given me no clue which of them esteems me most highly. They are all that is charming, they waltz very well, and ask me the polite questions a lady is trained to ask her dance partner, but they are sphinxes when it comes to the matter of their regard for me.”