“Practice?”
“At courting. You do intend to eventually court your future marchioness, don’t you? From what I’ve seen so far, your efforts have been lackluster at best. You could stand to learn a thing or two from my sister.”
Ridiculous.Greys rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and slumped deeper into his favorite chair.
It wasn’t often Chaswick asked such a favor, though, and their friendship was a most valued one. And it was true that any young woman escorted by a gentleman as proper as himself would benefit from the association. And, while many of the gents he carried on with had rakish tendencies, Greys exhibited the utmost decorum in all things that mattered.
Just as his father had done, and his grandfather and great-grandfather before him, etc., etc., etc. The Greystone Marquessate was one of the oldest titles in England, and Greys wasn’t about to be the guardian who would tarnish it.
Lady Isabella might be younger than he’d prefer, but she had been born into a similarly respectable family. So respectable that Greys knew even his grandfather would have approved of the match.
He folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes.
Unfortunately for Chaswick, from what Greys had noticed, Miss Diana was not only illegitimate, but also bold, impudent, and far too outspoken for her own good.
At least, she had been on the few occasions he’d met her. The chit could use all the assistance available.
“Why don’t you ask Peter Spencer?” Greys suggested. As the third son of an earl, Peter Spencer would be perfect for her.
“He’s gone down to Brighten for his musical apprenticeship.”
“Ah, yes.” Greys had forgotten, dash it all. “But what if she thinks my attentions are genuine? What if—God forbid—your sister falls in love with me?”
Chase laughed at that. “She won’t,” he asserted with far too much confidence for Greys’ liking.
“Aren’t you the flatterer?” He leaned forward in feigned outrage.
“She goes into raptures at a man in uniform.” Chase flicked a hand up and down, indicating Greys’ attire. “You’re quite safe in your armor.” And then he chuckled.
“Huh,” Greys grunted. Helikedwearing colorful clothing. Helikedwearing the latest fashions and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.
“You’re one of the last bachelors left that I would trust. For obvious reasons, I cannot ask Blackheart to do it,” Chaswick said.
The baron wasn’t wrong.
The Duke of Blackheart, who also happened to be the only other unmarried friend of theirs, had lost a bet to Greys earlier that year. To make good on the wager, he must perform Butler duties at Knight House for the duration of the season with Greys as his employer. The conditions of the bet required that Blackheart did not publicly reveal his identity and, but for a few exceptions, wasn’t likely to make an appearance at any of society’s events.
All things considered, Greys could not imagine any other unmarried gentleman who he would trust with a woman in his protection.
Chaswick needed his assistance, and Greys had no real reason not to provide it. “Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll seek her out at the Duchess of Corbridge’s Garden party, and I’ll take her for a drive.”
But that would be the end of it. As Chaswick had reminded him—Greys had his own courtship to set into motion.
“You have my thanks.” Chase leaned forward and flicked off another piece of ash. “On an altogether different front, I have to ask, if Blackheart fails to uphold the wager, would you really insist that he marry a lady of your choosing?” That little caveat had been added onto the back end of the wager providing redress in case the duke made the charade public or failed to finish out the season successfully as Greys’ butler. Such stakes had been ludicrous. That neither of them could easily recall the exact details of the initial bet, was proof of exactly how ridiculous it had been to begin with—something to do with Westerley and the lady who would later become his Countess…
“He’ll succeed. Blackheart’s honor won’t allow for anything else.” Greys said.
“My honor won’t allow for what exactly?” Blackheart himself interrupted their musings.
The duke, or Mr. Cockfield as his employees addressed him, had silently stepped into the billiard, looking as imposing dressed as Greys’ Butler as he ever had in his ducal attire.
“Failing to fulfill the conditions of the wager, or doubling down. Not that I’m inclined to agree to either.” Greys felt it necessary to add, lest he appear soft.
“Neither will be necessary.” Blackheart shrugged and then wiped a white-gloved finger along one of the shelves. Having injured his wrist recently in a brawl with assassins who had been intent on killing another of their chums, the duke had immobilized his left arm against his chest in a black sling. Lucky for his staff and for Greys, “poor, dear, Mr. Cockfield”was right-handed.
His Aunt Iris was quite taken with Greys’ newfound butler.
“Your niece,” Blackheart stared at the tip of his finger in satisfaction and then flicked a glance to Greys, “Andyoursisters,” he addressed Chaswick. “Have requested that the two of you join them in the ballroom. They are anxious to practice the steps they’ve learned from their dancing master with actual gentlemen.” Then, without blinking, the duke added, “But I suppose the two of you will have to suffice instead.”
