Page 15 of The Duchess Games

A duke definitely did not hide in the upper family parlor. It was the safest place in the house and always had been. His mother would ride a pig to market before she set foot in this little room. It smelled of damp, and when the wind came in at just the perfect angle, fish. He’d known it at age three, and he knew it at age thirty-three. No one would ever think to look for him here.

Except his twin sister Summer.

After all, she was the one who had hidden the fish, all those years ago.

“There you are,” she said, popping through the door. Her brown hair curled around her face, escaping pins. The heat of the long day was beginning to intrude. “You’re late. They’re waiting for you.”

She could have been referencing the French army instead of an army of debutantes. His reaction was the same, right down to the needles in his stomach. He scrubbed his face. It had been so quiet to walk the cliffs alone this morning and climb down to the beach to watch the sun on the water. He always missed Cornwall when he was away, and he was always away. He considered stealing a fishing boat and not returning until next month sometime. Only the thought of leaving his sister alone with their mother gave him pause. Summer was not above pushing their exacting, critical mother right into the ornamental pond. Gleefully.

“Tell me again why I’m allowing this?” he groaned, turning back to stare outside the window. The guests milled on the flagstones below, whispering behind their fans or their champagne. Casting glances at the house, as if they knew where he was.

“Our mother is the devil herself,” Summer pointed out. “Also, she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the plan.”

The dowager duchess, London-born but married to the Cornish duke at sixteen, preferred to stay in London. She did not appreciate what the sea winds did to her hair. Or the lack of Society. The smell of salt and seaweed and fish. The exact same things Callum loved best about living in Cornwall, between the wild ocean and the moors. They had seven country estates, three London houses, and a townhouse in Edinburgh, but Penhallow would always be home.

Because of Cat.

His mother felt very differently. Always had. And so there was no warning, not even a tingle of premonition before her carriage pulled up followed by seven more carriages stuffed with all the necessities one might need on hand for a country house party, along with her London staff because London servants had more panache.

“She can’t be serious,” he said, feeling a cold wash of fear, the same as the night he’d been caught unawares by a storm and tossed from the rowboat into the churning waters. His mother was not just hunting for the next duchess, she was auditioning her.

And he was sneaking off to wrestle a turtle with Caitriona. He’d take that any day.

“I’m afraid she is very serious. Though she’s more interested in finding herself the perfect daughter-in-law than you a wife.”

“I suppose that’s hardly a surprise.”

She wrinkled her nose. “She has abandoned subtlety altogether. I did what I could. Not that I think archery or swimming prowess will make much of a difference either way. But I couldn’t just let it stand. As your sister, and as a woman, frankly.”

Growing up, Callum was informed on a daily basis that dukes did not shout. Nor did they crouch to pull kittens out of a haybale, laugh, yawn, or itch. He’d also been assured that he would never be forced to shout since dukes were generally obeyed by everyone but the king and God. Except for his mother, of course.

Or his sister, come to think of it.

He kept his voice very, very even out of long habit. Any inflection that might suggest temper or emotion had been roundly scorned since he was in short pants. And as he grew older every twitch of his face was scrutinized. Was he flirting? Was he impressed? Might he be amenable to an alliance? To sign a Bill for Parliament? Offer marriage? Would he pay off the gambling debts of his cousin’s mother-in-law? Or his own cousin Graham’s for that matter, which always exceeded the debt of a small country. He was currently heir to the Tremaine title and already considered it his due.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Summer said.

He stared at her blankly for a full minute. She had clearly landed on her head in the last ten minutes. It came as no surprise that his mother, and in fact all of Society, expected him to marry. A duke must…well…duke. Running several estates and taking his seat in Parliament was expected and done mostly without complaint. Marrying in order to sire an heir was another matter entirely. He had nothing against marriage or babies. Nothing against women, either.

But if he could not marry Cat, what was the point?

And it just seemed a forced business all around, since Graham would inherit the title and everything that went with it when he died. He was a Winter, so the Tremaine duchy would stay in the family. Despite what his mother had to say about it. And Summer. It was the only thing they agreed on.

Graham was not a favorite.

To put it mildly.

And it was the only reason why Summer would even consider acquiescing to his mother’s plans. “This is about Graham, isn’t it?”

Summer hissed. There was no other word for it. And he knew she would have spat right on the ground at the mention of his name if there weren’t servants rushing to and fro in the hallway. “You’re not going to die and leave him as my guardian.”

“Summer, you’re thirty-three years old. You hardly need a guardian.”

“Bringing my age into it,” she muttered, narrowing one eye in a clear threat to his health and happiness. “Are you choosing violence, little brother?” He snorted. She tossed her hair back in a way that could only be described as autocratic. “I want my future nephew to inherit. Not that lecher.”

“Fair enough. But I, on the other hand, don’t particularly care who inherits.”

“As they inherit me as well, you should care.” She kicked him with the toe of her shoe. And not particularly gently. “You should care desperately.”