Page 9 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Her ladyship is well?” Westhaven asked.
“My Emmie is a saint,” St. Just countered, taking the seat behind Westhaven’s desk. “If you die, I want this chair.”
“Spare me your military humor. If I die, you and Valentine are guardians of my children.”
A dusty boot thunked onto the corner of Westhaven’s antique desk, the same corner upon which Westhaven’s own much less dusty boots were often propped, provided the door was closed.
“Val and I? You didn’t make Moreland their guardian?”
“His Grace will intrude, meddle, advise, maneuver, interfere, and otherwise orchestrate matters as he sees fit, abetted by his lovely wife in all particulars. Putting legal authority over the children in your hands was my pathetic gesture toward thwarting the ducal schemes. You will, of course, oblige my guilt over this presumption by giving me a similar role in the lives of your children.”
St. Just closed his eyes. He was a handsome fellow, handsomer for having regained some of the muscle he’d had as a younger man.
“I can hear His Grace’s voice when you start braying about what I shall oblige and troweling on verbs in sextuplicate.”
“Is that a word?” St. Just asked.
“Trowel, yes, a humble verb. Probably Saxon rather than Roman in origin.”
Westhaven pretended to savor his brandy, when he was in truth savoring the fact that his older brother would—in all his dirt—come to Westhaven’s establishment before calling upon the ducal household.
“Where is your countess, St. Just? She’s usually affixed to your side like a very pretty cocklebur.”
“Where’s yours?” St. Just retorted. “I dropped Emmie and the girls off at Louisa and Joseph’s, though I’m to collect them—”
The door opened, and a handsome, dark-haired fellow sauntered in, Westhaven’s butler looking choleric on his heels.
“I come seeking asylum,” Lord Valentine said.
St. Just was on his feet and across the room almost before Val had finished speaking. The oldest and youngest Windham brothers bore a resemblance, both dark-haired, and both carrying with them a physical sense of passion. Valentine loved his music, St. Just his horses, and yet the brothers were alike in a way Westhaven appreciated more than he envied—mostly.
“You come seeking my good brandy,” Westhaven said when Val had been properly embraced and thumped by St. Just. “Here.”
He passed Valentine his own portion and poured another for himself.
“We were about to toast our happy state of marital pandemonium,” St. Just said. “Or so Westhaven thinks. I’m in truth fortifying myself to storm the ducal citadel.”
Valentine took his turn in Westhaven’s chair. “I’d blow retreat if I were you.”
Westhaven took one of the chairs across from the desk. “What have Their Graces done now?”
Valentine preferred to prop his boots—moderately dusty—on the opposite corner from his brothers. This put the sunlight over Val’s left shoulder.
None of the brothers had any gray hairs yet, something of a competition in Westhaven’s mind, though he wasn’t sure whether first past the post would be the winner or the loser. They were only in their thirties, but they were all fathers of small children—smallWindhamchildren.
“His Grace is sending Uncle Tony and Aunt Gladys on maneuvers in Wales directly after the ball,” Valentine said, “while Her Grace will snatch up our lady cousins, doubtless in anticipation of some matchmaking.”
They had four female cousins: Beth, Charlotte, Megan, and Anwen. They were lovely young women, red-haired, intelligent, and well dowered, but they were Windhams, and thus in no hurry to marry.
A situation the duchess sought to remedy.
“So that’s why Megan was particularly effusive in her suggestions that I come south,” St. Just mused, opening a japanned box on the mantel. “Emmie said something untoward was afoot.”
A piece of marzipan disappeared down St. Just’s maw.
“Goes well with brandy,” he said, offering the box to Val, who took two. “Westhaven?”
“How generous of you, St. Just.” He took three, though the desk held another box, which his brothers might not find. His children hadn’t.
