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He was outfitted to perfection, thanks to Rowan’s efforts, but the fashionable clothing made him feel as if he were masquerading as someone else, like a boy dressed in his father’s finery.

He was clever, yes, but not in the way a duke was meant to be clever. He wasn’t charming or charismatic like James had been, and he didn’t have James’s gift for putting people at ease, because he was so rarely at ease himself. He’d suffered from a stammer when he was younger, and it still occasionally reared its ugly head when he was nervous.

Which was often, particularly with the ladies.

When it came to flirtation, he was an utter disaster. He’d never really understood how to do it. On occasion, he even had difficulties conversing properly, and his awkwardness had only grown worse during the years he’d been in Brazil.

The few airs and graces he’d once possessed had utterly worn away.

The last time he’d attempted polite conversation with a lady, he’d somehow gone off on a tangent about the nuptial flight of the virgin queen bee, and it had been too, er … descriptive for the young lady in question, who’d burst into a flood of tears.

Then there was the blushing. He was prone to the most humiliating blushes. Gentlemen weren’t supposed to blush, especially dukes.

“Your Grace? You were saying?”

He met Rowan’s gaze. “They won’t want me. The young ladies.”

“They want the Duke of Hawthorne, Your Grace. It’s why they’ve come.”

They’d come, yes, and from every corner of the kingdom, too, but they’d all soon discover it was a wasted trip. “They’re expecting someone else entirely.”

“They’re expecting a gentleman, and that is what you are. I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I think you give yourself far too little credit.”

And Rowan gave him far too much, but what was the point in arguing over it? The ladies were here now, and he couldn’t simply toss them out of his castle, no matter how much he might want to.

There was nothing for it but to make the best of it, and that’s what he would do.

Soon. Very soon, indeed.

But not right now. Not when he could put off his imminent doom just a bit longer.

“Never mind the coat right now, Rowan. I’m going to pop down to the conservatory and check on my bees. The work will settle my nerves.”

“Oh, but Your Grace, Cook has arranged a special tea for your guests—”

“Yes, but that’s hours away yet. Not to worry, Rowan. I’ll return in an hour, and you may fuss over me and primp to your heart’s content then. I’ll even sit there meekly while you go at my hair with those infernal curling tongs.”

Rowan studied him, tapping his lip with one finger. “The Brutus would look very well on you. Curls for gentlemen are the fashion, Your Grace.”

Gabriel paused at the door. “You do recall what happened to Brutus, do you not, Rowan?”

Rowan’s lips twitched. “I do indeed, Your Grace. A nasty business, indeed, but not to worry. I’ll have the footmen check the young ladies for swords before they’re permitted to enter the drawing room.”

“Good man, Rowan. Good man.”

CHAPTER 3

Hawthorne Castle was just as Stella expected it to be, yet at the same time nothing at all like she’d imagined.

On the one hand, it was undeniably ducal. His Grace the Sixth Duke of Hawthorne’s country seat was as ducal an estate as she’d ever seen. To be fair, it was also the only ducal estate she’d ever seen, and goodness knew it was just the sort of place one might expect a duke to live.

But there was nothing cold about it, nothing stiff. Somehow, despite its grandeur, Hawthorne Castle was warm and welcoming. Stepping over the threshold and into the entryway had been like stepping into an embrace.

It was rather a paradox, really, but no matter how one chose to look at it, it was a sprawling, massive affair, a monolith of pale gold stone with dozens upon dozens of windows with diamond-shaped glass panes gleaming in the early afternoon sun.

Then there were the turrets. Why in the world did the Duke of Hawthorne need so many turrets? Not that it was any business of hers, of course.

He might do as he pleased with them.