Page 16 of The Duchess Games

“You will be your husband’s problem, surely, when I die.”

She scoffed. “You must be joking.” It was no secret that she had no intention of marrying. Her affairs were discreet, for the most part, and so did not attract much gossip. Not to mention that she was far outside the age of a debutante, and was a sister to a duke who did not tolerate any contempt towards his twin. “No cage for me, little brother. But we must take control of this little fiasco.”

She tapped her lip, clearly thinking dark thoughts. “Anyway, you owe me,” she sniffed. “I’m six minutes older than you are and I should have been the duke. I’d make a grand duke.”

“You would,” he agreed. Dukes were meant to be charming and ruthlessly confident. They weren’t meant to prefer the sound of the ocean to the pianoforte or fish fried on the beach to lobster in bechamel sauce served on silver plates. Not that Callum had admitted it to anyone but Summer. Their mother’s standards were military and nearly biblical. In fact, she’d written a tome on etiquette that was twice the length of the family Bible. The illustrated one with the family tree. “But that’s not how primogeniture works, and you know it.”

“Still, you stole my inheritance. You can do this one little thing for me.”

“Get married?”

“Use this horrendous opportunity to our advantage.”

Her pout did not move him. “You said the very same on our eighth birthday when you wanted my horse.” According to their mother dukes rode thoroughbreds, and it was never too early to learn. Duke’s sisters, however, rode a fat old pony who preferred eating grass to almost anything else. Callum had loved that pony. His horse, on the other hand, tossed him to the ground weekly. “And the next year when you needed an alibi after stealing mother’s pearls and losing them.” Losing was a bit of a stretch. She’d flung each pearl into the ocean in an effort to bribe a mermaid to show herself. “And just last week when you wanted the last treacle tart,” he pointed out.

She shrugged one shoulder, grinning. “Heavy is the head that bears the ducal crown, Cal.”

“Dukes don’t wear crowns.”

“I would definitely have a crown were I duke. At the very least, a disgustingly ostentatious tiara.”

“You have seven of those, at last count.” And she could buy seven hundred more. He wasn’t the least bit fussed over it.

“Wasted on you. Utterly.”

“True.”

“We can’t stop this,” she said, softly. “But we can alter it.”

“I don’t give a damn about curtsies and swimming prowess.”

His mother meant to choose a duchess for her social qualities, for talents such as embroidery, music, French, watercolors, dancing. Embarrassing the family name would not be tolerated. It never had been. Not even when he was in leading strings and barely even knew how to say the word duke. He had been in lessons since before he could walk: how to talk, how to walk, how to fence, ride a horse, wear a coat.

So a competition. For his hand in marriage.

To a woman who knew how to do all of those things. How to curtsy and host dinners and speak French and Italian, but only to flatter.

Like hell.

What he wanted was Caitriona’s laugh when a turtle sailed past her.

“Miss Viola Sparrow is worth a second look. I am quite certain she will be seated next to you tomorrow at dinner. Her curtsy was impeccable.”

He hadn’t even noticed. He’d been too distracted by Caitriona.

“She’s a girl.”

“She’s twenty-three. Twenty-four? She is on the shelf, but she’s lovely. They all are.” Something sharpened in her gaze, then faded. “You danced with her at the Spring Fair, remember?”

He remembered. She was lovely. But young. “Summer, I’m too old for her.”

“Pish.”

“Then she’s too young for me.”

“She’s nice.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t nice.”