James smiled again. The others. Graham was referring to the men in their informal 1797 Club. All men destined to be dukes. They had helped James in so many of his darkest hours. They were the best of men and he was proud to call them friends and allies.
There was Graham and Simon, of course, his very best friends and the ones who had helped him form the group. They had soon asked Baldwin Undercross, now the Duke of Sheffield, to be a part of it. He’d brought along his cousin, Matthew Cornwallis, now Duke of Tyndale. From him, they had added Ewan Hoffstead, who had recently become the Duke of Dunborrow. He was also mute, but he had a keen intellect and was a good friend.
Lucas Vincent, now Duke of Willowby, had joined their set a year later. Now he was no longer in London. Truth be told, no one knew where he was at all, but when he returned James had no doubt he would fall right back into their friendship as if not a day had passed.
Hugh Margoilis, Duke of Brighthollow, and Robert Smithton, Duke of Roseford, had come in after Lucas. Their final member was Christopher Collins, currently the Earl of Idlewood. He was their only member who had not yet inherited his dukedom, though there was no disappointment in that fact, for his father, the Duke of Kingsacre, had been a kind influence on all the men over the years.
It was a large group, but incredibly tight. James knew he could depend on any one of them to help if he needed it. And he couldn’t imagine a scenario where anything could tear their longtime friendships apart.
“Why do you askmeto see if someone else could get Simon’s troubles out of him?” James asked.
Graham arched a brow. “Don’t play as if you don’t know you’re the leader of our little group, James.”
James laughed, but he appreciated Graham’s informality. When they were alone, Simon and Graham never called him by his title, for they knew Abernathe came with so many negative connotations. Even now, years after the last duke’s death, when someone called him by that title, James flinched a little inside and thought of his father’s cruelty.
He shook off the thought. “We all have our part, Northfield,” he said.
Graham folded his arms and the two of them looked out over the party once more. He shot James a side glance and said, “Are youreallyso opposed to marriage this Season?”
James tensed slightly as Graham was entering dangerous waters. “I’m only seven and twenty. I feel I have plenty of time to do my…duty.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Graham said softly. “Or even to find someone who makes it feel like more than a mere duty. I hear falling in love is coming into great fashion these days.”
It took everything in James not to roll his eyes. Love was a foolish notion, after all. He’d never seen it work out for anyone who attempted it. Certainly, his own parents could hardly stand each other. His father had responded to their unhappiness with shouting and the occasional burst of physical violence. His mother had retreated to her bottle.
No, he had no interest in marrying. Not this Season. And very possibly not any Season at all.
“I doubt there is any woman in this room who could tempt me to love, Northfield,” he chuckled. “She would have to be quite extraordinary, indeed.”
Emma Liston stood against the wall, wishing she could simply fade into the wallpaper and never be seen again. This was a common reaction when she was dragged to a ball, but tonight it felt more powerful than ever. Normally she slid through these things with only her friend Adelaide at her side. They were wallflowers and liked to have good talks.
Tonight, Adelaide was not in attendance and somehow Emma had gotten caught up in a circle of young women who were certainly no friends of hers. Whileshewas a mere bluestocking wallflower, Lady Rebecca and Lady Frances were diamonds of the first water. They were pretty and perfect and popular and…mean.
And right now their focused attention was across the room as they all stared at the Duke of Abernathe and the Duke of Northfield, who were standing together, engaged in what seemed to be a serious conversation.
“It issucha waste!” Lady Rebecca said, twisting one of her perfectly formed black curls around her finger. “One of them already engaged, the other refuses to eventryto find a bride!”
Emma had been trying very hard not to look at Abernathe while the other two talked. She had been out in Society for four long years and he was the one person who made her the most nervous. She tried to avoid him and his path as often as possible.
Now, though, she looked at him, dragged to do so by Lady Rebecca’s statement that Abernathe refused to do his duty. Emmaknewwhy he troubled her. He was ridiculously handsome, for one. Probably the best-heeled man she’d ever laid eyes upon.
He had intense brown eyes and thick dark hair that he wore just a little too long for current fashion. Not that it mattered. Men like Abernathe made fashion, they didn’t follow it. He had once worn a certain pattern on his waistcoat two years before and within weeks every other man in Society had copied the piece. Though none had looked quite so fine in it.
But it wasn’t just that he was handsome that threw Emma off. It was that he was…golden. He led the pack around him without even noticing he did it. He laughed loud and often, and sometimes inappropriately, and it didn’t matter. He took every bet, he raced every race, he even fought every fight. With a normal man, that kind of boldness would have gotten him tossed out of favor on his ear.
And yet Abernathe’s legend only grew with each wild act. He could do no wrong.
In short, he was the opposite of everything she was. Where he was popular, she was forgotten. Where he was handsome, she was plain and she knew it. Where he was golden, she was a bluestocking down to her very toes.
And yet, sometimes when Emma looked at him, she saw a sadness in his stare. A brief flash of heartbreak that didn’t fit with the confident display of male power he wore about him like a cloak. Those were the moments he made her most nervous, for she knew she’d caught a glimpse of something he didn’t want anyone to see. If he knew she did…well, a man like that could destroy a woman like her without even trying.
“I’ve heard he’s said he won’t marry this Season, either,” Lady Frances said, dragging Emma from her thoughts with her shrill, annoyed tone. She had folded her arms and was all but glaring at Abernathe like he’d committed a personal offense against her.
Emma glanced at him again. “I wonder why?” she whispered, almost more to herself than to them as she thought again of those unintended glimpses of sadness.
Lady Rebecca turned toward her with a laugh. “I would think it wouldn’t matter toyou, Emma, either way.”
There was blood in the water now and Lady Frances met Lady Rebecca’s eyes with a cruel tilt to her lips that Emma knew too well. She braced herself for whatever was to come next.
