Page 221 of Dukes for Dessert

Adam had purchased his picturesque cottage last year after hearing nothing but complimentary tales about this village in the House of Lords. He’d even had a few favorite pieces of furniture as well as his late father’s beloved library sent up, painstakingly reassembled in the exact same manner as in the grand residence where Adam had grown up.

Neither house felt much like a home. Part of which—or, perhaps, most of which—was Adam’s own fault. He loved to be around people, but hadn’t the least idea what to say to them in a social atmosphere. So he said nothing at all.

Not a strategy that tended to lead to lifelong friends.

Last summer, a rumor had gone through Cressmouth that their aloof new resident would rather closet himself like a hermit than deign to speak to his neighbors. The opposite was true. To prove them wrong, Adam had thrown his first dinner party and invited everyone in adjacent houses… and then spent the entire evening glowering at his guests tongue-tied because he hadn’t the least idea what to say.

This year would be different. He would be different.

He hoped.

“Straight home, Your Grace?”

“No. To the castle.”

John glanced over his shoulder in obvious surprise. “The castle, Your Grace?”

“Please.”

“As you wish.”

The bustling Great Hall at the front of Marlowe Castle boasted an extensive buffet of seasonal treats, bowls of punch and ratafia, and any number of lively, cheerful locals happy to greet new guests.

That was not why Adam was going. He was replacing the comforting old library at his cottage with a brand new billiard room. The switch would force him to mingle with others rather than pass the days away by himself. If he wanted to visit his books, well, he’d have to march on over to the castle to do so, because he was donating every last one of them to the town circulating library. Well, except for a small shelf of favorites he couldn’t bear to part with.

When they stopped at the castle to share the good news, Adam would have to borrow an instructional tome on how to play billiards because he hadn’t the least idea how it was done. What mattered was that it was fashionable. If he possessed the best billiard room in northern England, gentlemen would flock to his door to play. Adam might lose every game, but he’d win friends. This would prove once and for all that “duke” did not mean “arrogant” and “shy” was not the same as “aloof.”

How he’d get the word out that he possessed a shiny new billiard room in want of friendly players... well, he’d cross that bridge when he got there.

The first step was to inform the castle of his incoming donation. The second step was to pack up his father’s faithfully organized books. The third step was a bit murky, but the fourth step involved basking in his newfound popularity without the slightest hint of his old social awkwardness. If he could address the entire House of Lords without tripping over his tongue, surely he could manage to make a friend.

“Castle coming up, Your Grace.”

Spirits rising, Adam returned his gaze to the view outside his window. There went the smithy, which meant at any moment, they’d be passing Adam’s cottage… Aha! There it was. Warm red brick, wide windows, a welcoming stone path to the front door.

Although there was just one road up the mountain to the castle, shops and cottages lined a half dozen narrow off-shoots. In no time at all, the cozy little homes vanished as the coach rolled to a stop before Marlowe Castle’s imposing front doors.

“Shall I accompany you, Your Grace?”

“Stay with the coach, please.” Adam leapt to the ground. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Inside was an immediate assault to the senses—in the pleasantest way possible. Crackling fires, smiling faces, rows of biscuits, the low roar of conversation spiked with laughter, the sweet scent of cinnamon and nutmeg in the air. He could do this. He just needed to find someone to explain his donation to.

The only other time he’d walked through these doors had been on his first visit, just before he purchased his cottage. The welcome in the great hall was as he remembered it, but the castle was enormous. Adam knew how to find the circulating library, and that was about it.

As he glanced around, he noticed a woman just as alone as he was. She sat at a small table in the far corner beneath a sign simply reading:

* * *

FORTUNES

* * *

No one queued up, or even looked in the fortune-teller’s direction. Adam’s stomach twisted in empathy. He didn’t believe in psychic nonsense, but he knew what it felt like to be alone in a crowd, unable to fit in.

Striking up a conversation with a turbaned fortune teller would be the perfect way to ease into being New Adam. Nothing hinged on the outcome. She would move on and he would never see her again. The meaningless exchange would be a forgettable, but important, first attempt at practicing his social skills.

Besides, how hard could it be? He’d give her a shilling, she’d give him some twaddle about luck crossing his path, and that would be that.