Page 25 of Last Duke Standing

William supposed everyone would take note. They would wonder how a bachelor like William Douglas—“notoriously unmarried,” as his sister described him—had come to be in the company of the two princesses, one of whom would soon be a queen. And then there would be those gentlemen who would congratulate him with crude gestures to indicate what they thought he was after.

He could do without all of that.

He’d sent a message to Prescott Hall that he would “happily” fetch the princesses as instructed—Ewan had added that, without William’s approval—and that he had a carriage, thank you. It was not as big and grand as a royal one, but it had managed to cart his father, a duke, around town, so he thought it would do well enough. Ewan had rewritten the note without the last part.

William dressed as one might on the way to meet their maker, in a stiff collar, ironed trousers and a superfine coat. He had his horses groomed, the carriage readied and the coachmen assembled. When Ewan had assured him that all was ready, William set out for Prescott Hall with all the pomp and circumstance two princesses apparently required.

At the hall a butler showed him into a small receiving room. There was only one painting in this close room, a portrait of a man who looked to be about sixty years. He had florid cheeks and a very round belly that in William’s experience appeared after years of too much drink. He put a hand to his waist and was surreptitiously feeling his girth when he heard someone at the door. He turned around.

Princess Amelia smiled as she sailed into the room and right over to him, her eyes moving over his body. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Your Royal Highness.” He bowed.

Her smile turned sultry and she came so close to him that her skirts brushed against his leg. Her gaze moved down his chest, lingering on the button of his waistcoat. “Do you recall menow, Lord Douglas?”

What a little coquette she was. What he recalled about her was that she’d been a mouse, a mere shadow in his memory. “Aye, that I do. You are Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia of Wesloria. Is your sister coming?”

“Of course Jussie is coming,” she said, and flounced away from him—but only a foot or two before pivoting about. “She asked that I keep you company while you wait.”

One of William’s brows rose. “Did she?”

“Je.”

“I donna believe you.”

Princess Amelia gasped. “Youshould have a care, my lord.”

“As should you, Amelia. We don’t yet know his lordship’s intent.”

Neither of them had seen Justine enter the room, and the pair of them started like guilty lovers. William instantly bowed low. “Good afternoon, Your Royal Highness.”

“My lord,” she said breezily. She was wearing a gown of russet velvet and pink silk, a bit of the Weslorian green pinned to her sleeve, and her breasts, he could not help noticing, were two perfect, creamy mounds that looked like they might spill out of that bodice at any moment. It was his observation, born of many years of study, that the most difficult women were always the most alluring.

“He accused me of flirting with him,” Princess Amelia said.

“That’s absurd!” Justine said brightly. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

“What?” William sputtered. “I’m no’ as old as that.”

“Older?” She smiled, because she was a dastardly thing. “Well, Douglas, here we are,” she said and spread her arms wide. “All of us dressed for a picture gallery viewing.”

“And if I may say, the effect is quite pleasing.”

Her gaze flicked over him uncertainly. She held out one arm, palm up, and said, “Torrin?”

A footman appeared instantly with a silk wrap. Justine presented her back to the man so that he could drape it over her shoulders, all while keeping her gaze locked on William’s. “We’ll need our bonnets, too.”

Bardaline must have been waiting for the request in the wings, because he suddenly appeared with two elaborately decorated bonnets, one gold, the other green and white. He gave William a thin, weaselly smile, and William decided then and there that he didn’t care for Bardaline,master of the chamber, on principle. He noticed the way Justine leaned slightly away from the man when he bent to whisper something in her ear.

“Thank you,” she said. She took her hat and put it on her head, expertly tying the ribbon beneath her chin in a matter of seconds. Amelia took her bonnet, too, but skipped over to a large mirror on the opposite wall from the windows to admire herself in it.

“We thank you for your kind invitation,” Justine said, all graciousness.

“Do you? You didn’t seem to think it kind the last we spoke.”

“Didn’t I? Well, my sister and I are looking forward to seeing the art.”

“The Duke of Sutherland is quite eager for you to see his art. I’ve a coach.”

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