Page 234 of Dukes for Dessert

Adam had allowed his friend Theo the use of the cottage for a few months while the soldier recuperated from war wounds. Again, not exactly the hustle and bustle of a typical Mayfair town house, but at least there had been someone new to welcome.

The rest of the time… Perhaps Swinton hadn’t been as lonely as Adam had feared.

He placed his papers and the journal in neat piles out of the way, then reached for the new correspondence. As usual, every one of the senders served with him in the House of Lords. This time every year, Adam received a flurry of letters begging him to join this committee or head that investigation.

Usually, he said yes. He was proud of being a good leader, and pleased that his attention to detail and command of each subject were useful to the cause. Whatever the cause. Today, he found himself wishing that just once, a letter would appear in which the only thing the sender wanted from Adam was his friendship, not his labor.

To be fair, they had tried. Adam had tried. He’d trailed along on pheasant hunts, shown up in his best outfit at Almack’s. He’d managed to mumble something-or-other when the gentlemen gathered to boast after deer stalking, and a time or two had even participated in a minuet with some lord’s daughter or sister.

Adam was fairly certain he was the only one who recalled his presence on those occasions.

The past didn’t matter. He was New Adam now. Or would be soon. This billiards scheme was going to work. Whatever Miss Quincy’s true motivation was for helping him with his library and his party, Adam appreciated it more than she would ever know. Soon, he would be well practiced and socially competent. Instead of just pontificating at parliament meetings, he’d develop a circle of friends and the capacity to win the hearts of ladies.

“Your Grace?”

Adam glanced up and smirked to see a footman, rather than Swinton, bearing a letter on a tray. The crafty old codger would shackle himself to the front door before returning to the dining room and allowing further questions about his interest in the maid next door.

“Thank you.” Adam had been waiting for this report. It had not been part of the morning post because it had come from his man of business, who was lodged up at the castle with a hundred other travelers.

Adam despised taking meals in posting inns because he hated feeling out of place in large public dining rooms. However, according to his man of business Paterson, Marlowe Castle’s enormous dining hall could not be improved upon. The kitchen and staff were second to none, but more importantly, dining services were open to the entire village.

Paterson claimed he amassed more contacts and useful information over a simple bowl of soup than he could elsewise acquire in a week’s worth of hard labor.

Adam opened the report. It contained a list of commissions and the expected times to be taken for construction proposed by master craftsmen in the area capable of creating a professional-grade, visually beautiful, physically perfect billiard table. Money was no object, although he appreciated being able to compare offers.

Time was of the essence. Adam had not explained the entirety of his plan to Miss Quincy because so much of it hinged on the billiards party. If it was a success, Adam would host another and another. After all, no matter how much he practiced being bold and conversational into a single evening, one night would not be enough. He wanted to build more than just a billiard table. He wanted to support the foundation for his future matrimony.

He pulled a stack of books toward himself and opened the topmost to the first page. A handwritten dedication slanted up from the bottom:

* * *

For Azureford,

The greatest lord, statesman, and fox-hunter England has ever known.

* * *

The inscription was meant for Adam’s father. All the books he’d rescued from the crates going to the castle bore dedications similar to this one. Signed by the author, by dignitaries, by friends. Adam’s father had been a legend among men. It was Adam’s duty to live up to the family name.

The first step to being a proper duke was choosing the proper bride. But Adam didn’t want to select some debutante willy-nilly because she happened to possess physical beauty and unimpeachable connections. That prevailing wisdom was how his parents had ended up at the altar. It had lasted only in the sense that divorce was not an option.

Neither Mother nor Father had ever been interested in the other—just what they could gain from the marriage. Her land. His title. Who cared about the rest? Once they’d produced Adam, they never spoke again. One roof; two lives. Adam refused to accept such a fate for himself or his future wife.

He opened his diary to the final page and added:

* * *

Must like each other!!

* * *

to the list of prerequisites. There. He had a plan. All he had to do was completely change his personality, return to London amid wild popularity, and select a perfectly pedigreed young lady in Almack’s who also possessed every trait on this list.

Given all Adam was demanding of himself, four little items weren’t too much to ask of his future bride, were they?

“Stop glooming,” he muttered to himself. This would work. It had to. But first, he had some parliamentary notes to tidy up.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” called a sunny voice. “I didn’t see you there at first!”