Dukes By the Dozen

A wicked smile curled on his lips. Subject his onerous guests to his daughters’ caterwauling? “Yes, please.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

He nodded to her and turned away, but then had another thought. “And Miss Ainsley?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Let’s have them wear those tiaras, shall we?”

CHAPTER 8

MEG AWOKE WELL RESTED the next morning, which was a minor miracle, because she and Susana had stayed up half the night talking. She was also excited for the day. The dowager had asked her perform at the musicale that afternoon, but she hadn’t decided yet what she might sing. So she was thrilled when Vicca and Lizzie burst into her room and jumped on her bed, announcing they were to sing as well and could they please do a trio?

The girls were followed by Susana, who had a wide smile on her face. “Good morning,” she said as she plopped down on the bed as well. “I suppose you’ve heard the news. The girls are to sing this afternoon.”

“And we’re to wear our tiaras!” Vicca crowed.

Lizzie bounced up and down, chanting, “Tiaras, tiaras, tiaras!”

“How lovely.” Meg sat up and settled against the pillows. “I would love to sing with you.” They did so many times in Devon, though usually not for an audience. “What would you like to sing?”

“Ave Maria,” Lizzie suggested, but Vicca made a face.

“That’s not Christmassy enough.”

“Does it need to be Christmassy?” Susana asked.

The girls stared at her as though she’d sprouted a second nose. Or a third.

“Of course it does,” Vicca said. “But Ave Maria isn’t in English, and the guests might not understand the words.” Meg nodded, though she knew the truth. Vicca simply didn’t care for all the high notes. The minx scrunched up her adorable face and said, “I think we should sing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’.” Yes. Both of them could hit all those notes.

“I like that idea,” Meg said. “Because you two are angels.”

“Mama is an angel,” Vicca corrected her. “We are girls.”

“But we could sing it for Mama,” Lizzie suggested.

Meg nodded, trying to ignore the tears prickling her eyes. “I think that is a wonderful sentiment.” Tessa would love it.

“There we go. It’s decided.” Susana was nothing if not all business. “Now, let’s go practice.”

“Aren’t the boys going to sing too?” Vicca asked, as Susana bundled them out so Meg could dress.

“No one thinks that’s a good idea,” Susan said starchily, and both Vicca and Lizzie chortled. Because everyone knew boys couldn’t sing.

JONATHAN SEARCHED for Meg all morning to no avail. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say to her—surely it wasn’t to ask where her room was—but he knew he needed to see her. His desperation was stoked by the fact that Mattingly, St. Clare, and Hisdick were apparently searching for her as well.

They found him in the salon at breakfast and hounded him about how beautiful and charming she was, and how she would make a perfect society wife, until his hair wanted to stand on end.

She was beautiful and charming and would make a perfect society wife. All that was true. What irked him was that he hadn’t been able to stake his claim and his soul howled to think one of them might get to her first and convince her he was the man for her.

He wasn’t. He never would be.

She was his.

If only he could claim her.

To his utter and complete consternation, he didn’t see her again until he wandered into the salon after lunch for the musicale. She stood at the piano, going over music with Susana, but the room was so crowded by then, it would be impossible to have a private conversation.

To make matters worse, Cicely Peck found him and grasped his arm and insisted on sitting with him. Louisa Mountbatten took the seat at his other side.

He felt somewhat like a reluctant kitten being petted by two overzealous girls.

When Meg met his gaze and smiled, he sent her a help me look, but it only made her smile more. Clearly there was no help from that quarter.

Nor was his mother willing to help, when he sent her the same look. Nor his sister.

He was a duke, for Christ’s sake. How was he not in control of the situation?

But he was not. He was forced to sit there in a wholly uncomfortable chair and listen to the musicale. And there was no whisky to be found.

Whose idea had it been to serve lemonade? They should be shot.

Also—he determined moments later when Charlotte Everton sat at the piano—whomever had selected the performers should be shot.

Or perhaps he should be shot. It might save time and misery.

There was one sure thing that could be said about Miss Everton’s playing. She definitely hit the keys. Pity she hit more than Bach had intended. Often, at the same time.

It was an effort not to wince as she butchered one of his favorites.

He clapped when she was done.

Because she was done.

But he shouldn’t have been so happy to see her exit the stage, because Glorianna Pickering was up next with a curious rendition of “When Daisies Pied”. For a girl who was not inclined to speak, she could certainly screech. Her cuckoos were excruciating.

Fortunately, it was a shortish song and over soon.