Page 2 of A Duke in the Rough

All things considered, Honoria expected no such invitation. Or, at the very least, the new duke might invite her parents with asuggestionthat theesteemedLady Honoria remain at home. Phrased in the politest of ways, certainly, but the meaning would ring clearly.You are not welcome.The new duke would want his introduction into society to be scandal-free.

Not that Honoria herself caused scandals, but they followed her without invitation.

Charlotte sent their younger companion a chastising glance. “If you’re planning on becoming the new duchess, Anne, you might want to reconsider.NewBurwood is probably as ancient asoldBurwood.”

“Actually . . .” Honoria grimaced, her gaze bouncing between her friends. No doubt her information would encourage Anne’s dreams of marrying a titled man. “Father heard he’s quite young.”

The gleam in Anne’s eyes became lethal.

Miranda snickered. “Now you’ve done it, Honoria. She’s planning the wedding already.”

Anne crossed her arms over her bosom. “I am not!”

She truly was. Honoria tightened her lips to hold in the laugh, remembering how she was also once full of hope.

Charlotte placed her cup daintily on the saucer. “What’s taken him so long to claim the title?”

Anne held up the wretched rag. “It says he was in India. Imagine the exciting stories he’ll have to tell. Andrew and Alice were there and loved it. Well, Alice loved it. I think Andrew was simply glad to have found her and brought her home. The way she describes everything is so engaging. The colors, the scents, the sounds. It’s like you’re there.” Anne sighed.

“That settles it,” Charlotte said. “We simply must all attend. If for nothing else, to keep an eye on Anne. The poor duke doesn’t stand a chance.”

“And we can find time to hold a meeting or two,” Miranda said.

“Hmm.” Honoria nodded, more out of reflex that actual assent. Her mind had frozen on the words ‘It says he was in India.’ The last she’d heard of Drake Merrick, his regiment had been stationed in Bombay. But that had been almost eight long years ago.

She pushed it from her mind, the earlier memory turning bittersweet. “Then we shall do our best to make the most of it.”

Hands on his hips,Drake Merrick gazed across the expanse of Hartridge House’s gardens. The ducal seat, located west of Dorchester and north of Lyme, boasted gently sloping lands and small rolling hills. Air ruffled through his hair, the strong coastal winds reaching inland and gentling to a caressing breeze.

Peaceful.

Idyllic.

Mine.

Simon stepped beside him. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

Drake nodded, too overcome to form the words.

As his best friend often did, Simon slapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder, bringing Drake out of his pensive musings. “Plan to gawk all day? We have work to do.”

“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Drake envisioned throngs of people trampling the pristine gardens, a cacophony of voices invading the tranquil solitude. Hordes of blood-thirsty debutantes eager to marry a duke. Perhaps blood-thirsty was too harsh a word.

But perhaps not.

He shivered.

“A necessary evil more than a good idea.” Simon delivered a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll need a bride to produce a legitimate heir. What better place to find one than at a house party filled with aristocrats and their marriage-minded daughters?”

Drake groaned. “Pompous lot, all of them.”

Simon raised a dark brow. “Would that include the Duke of Burwood?”

“Him especially.” Drake forced his lips into what—he hoped—was the semblance of a smile. “I wish Mother were still here. She would have things in hand. Even Juliana would be a welcome face. One month was not nearly enough time with them after so many years apart.”

“And how would that look to the guests? A man of business’s familyinvited among theton?” Simon shook his head. “No. To pull off this ruse, your mother and sister must remain in Dorchester for the time being. Stop your worrying. The servants will handle everything. Invitations were sent out this morning.”

The knot that formed in Drake’s stomach the moment he—again—set foot on English shores tightened. “Wasshe. . . invited?”

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