Dukes By the Dozen

Oh dear. Granted, he was defending his honor, but did he have to shout it quite so stridently, with such…distaste? What was she, a hideous un-kissable hag? Apparently so. Fury, pain, and humiliation whipped through her. She couldn’t help it. She whirled on him and smacked his shoulder.

His nostrils flared. “Whatever was that for?”

But Meg couldn’t answer. Her throat was clogged and her vision slightly blurred.

Susana shook her head. “You, Jonathan Pembroke, are hopeless,” she said, wrapping her arm around Meg’s shoulder and guiding her from the room, leaving the duke sputtering in their wake.

THE NEXT MORNING, Jonathan still had no idea what had transpired in the library the night before. Most specifically, what had made Meg cry.

Not the first time. He totally understood that bit.

It was the second time.

Dear God, it had ripped at his heart to see her expression collapse, to see tears well in her eyes, to see her lips tremble.

He’d only insisted that he hadn’t done anything inappropriate. He hadn’t

kissed her.

Granted, the thought had crossed his mind. She’d been so sweet and soft in his arms, and her scent, something lemony, had teased at his nostrils and made him…hungry.

But he’d batted the thought away like an annoying gnat, just like every time he had it about Meg.

Meg was different.

She was like a sister.

He’d always thought of her as such, from the first time he’d rescued her from the old elm in the meadow she liked to climb, even though she could never get herself down. She’d been five then. The same age his daughters were now. Was it any wonder he’d always thought of her as someone he needed to protect?

But she wasn’t five now. Now she was a grown woman, and a damned beautiful one. Yes, he’d had, ahem, thoughts about her, but they’d felt wrong. They’d felt like he was betraying George.

His mind flittered back to the way it had felt, holding her against his body in the library, and against his will, his passion stirred. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. It was wrong to think of her like that.

Wasn’t it?

It was a relief when Rodgers interrupted this mental torture with his morning tea. After that, he found his mother and told her the reason Meg never came down for dinner was because she required a command. Or at least, an invitation.

Blast it all. It had never occurred to him that she felt she didn’t belong. It broke his heart that she felt she didn’t belong.

She did. She belonged.

He hunted for her all day to tell her so, and to apologize for whatever he’d said or done that had made her cry that second time, but he couldn’t find her. She had always “just left” whatever room he checked.

By dinnertime, he was getting irritated.

To be honest, he was irritated with himself.

He’d spent the day thinking about Meg, and how hard it must be for her to be caught between two worlds. And how much he would like to change all that for her. How he could change all that for her.

Mostly, he thought about how much he regretted inviting Mattingly to the party.

He hadn’t really considered things when he added Mattingly to his list. He’d been too busy trying to please his mother with actual viable prospects.

He hadn’t thought about what that might mean.

Of course Mattingly would be taken with her. She was beautiful, talented, funny, and smart. How could Mattingly not want to woo her? They would dance and chat and—good God—laugh together.

And Jonathan would have to stand there and watch with a smile on his face.

What a miserable proposition.

By the time dinner came around, he was in a high dudgeon. Which was saying something. Usually it was only old ladies who got into high dudgeon.

That was probably why he frowned at Meg when she entered the sitting room in her companion’s weeds with her hair up in a spinsterly bun. It didn’t help that there was a mutinous expression on her pretty face.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he snapped.

“Like what?” she snapped back.

He waved his hand at her outfit. “Like that?”

“These are my clothes.” She tipped her chin and sniffed at him with a primness that only irritated him more.

“She looks fine,” Mother said. “Come have some ratafia, Meg.”

“She doesn’t look fine. She looks like…a companion.”

Meg sent him a look, one he couldn’t quite translate. “I am

a companion.”

He pulled himself straighter and said haughtily, “We dress for dinner.”

Her smile was frigid. “I am dressed.”

“More dressed than she was last night,” Susana said sotto voce.

They both glared at her.

“Whatever do you mean?” Mother asked. Thankfully, everyone ignored her.

Jonathan simply plowed on. “You could at least wear something pretty.” It was a perfectly logical request.

There was no reason for Meg to burst into tears.

Again.

He turned to his sister and bellowed, “What is she crying about?”

Susana sniffed. “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re a woman. You understand each other. Don’t you?”