How to Marry a Duke (A Cinderella Society 2)

Dermot laughed, until he realized no one was laughing with him. “She’s got no dowry.”

“I am aware.”

Dermot glared at Meg. “Have you embarrassed the family?”

“That’s your job, I believe,” Dougal said, before she could answer. “And you appear to require no help in the matter.”

Dermot stared for a long moment, trying to decide how he had been insulted in his own study and how to reply when it was a duke who was doing the insulting. “You can’t marry her without my consent. And I have need of her here. She has work.”

“I’m twenty-eight years old,” Meg pointed out mildly. “I reached my age of majority some time ago.”

And Dougal came prepared. He wore his ducal crest ring, which she had never seen him wear before. It flashed gold and garnet in the light as he held up folded parchment. “A letter from the prince. I can marry whom I like, Henshaw.”

That wasn’t precisely true, but Meg applauded the deception. It was effective. Her uncle snorted. “You should get yourself a duke’s daughter then, not this ragamuffin.”

“I like Meg.”

Such a simple statement but it made her cheeks warm. She wouldn’t have trusted a flamboyant declaration of love, but this she trusted: kindness, respect, affection.

“And you’ll be very, very careful how you speak of her.”

“You’re a fool, boy, but what do I care?” Dermot snickered.

“Here’s the thing, Henshaw,” Dougal continued. “You might care that I now hold all of your debts.”

Another simple statement that held just as much weight, though of a different sort, of course.

Her uncle turned purple, sputtered, and finally narrowed his eyes. “You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

“No one would go to so much trouble for a spinster,” he scoffed. “Especially that bony old girl.”

“You really need to stop talking.” Dougal’s tone snapped, sharp as hidden thorns in the blackberry bush. “As I said, I hold your debts. You will repay me every penny. A reasonable schedule will be worked out. You will also make every effort to take better care of the people in your charge, both in your house and in the village.”

“Mr. Campbell is a very good land agent and knows the estate well,” Meg murmured.

“Excellent,” Dougal said, his attention still on Dermot. “Mr. Campbell will stay on, and you will report to him. If he does not like the speed and quality of your improvements, your debts will be collected on the very next day, in full.”

“That would ruin me!”

“It will, if you don’t choose wisely. Your property might be entailed but I own every candlestick and snuffbox in this house. Which seems like rather a lot. You’ll start selling them to make those improvements. Today.”

“And Mr. Campbell will appoint a new housekeeper and butler,” Meg added hastily. “If the staff in this house do not feel safe, we will know it.”

Dougal nodded. “Agreed, love.”

Dermot’s stunned and furious gaze slammed into Meg. “This is your fault, you bloody baggage.” He stood and raised his hand to shove her, as he sometimes did in a temper.

This time, Dougal was there, and without a word he caught the other man’s fist. Dermot was so surprised that his eyes bulged. No one ever moved against him in this house. He was the king of his little domain.

Dougal stepped forward, pushing him inexorably back, until he stumbled over his own feet and finally dropped heavily back into the chair. He was bright red with anger and the effects of a night of hard drinking. Dougal looked down at him, disgusted, furious. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Henshaw. You will forget Miss Swift. You will not think of her or speak of her ever again. And should I have cause to hear your name brought to my attention you will regret it.”

“Think you’re so high and mighty now, as a duke. A peasant duke, how pathetic for England.”

Dougal smiled and it was terrifying. His easygoing friendly manner was all ice and the inexorable weight of stone. Meg wasn’t scared of the slash of his jaw, muscles clenching in anger—she wanted to kiss it.

Her uncle, of course, had a different opinion.

He was still enraged, but also frightened. Sweat beaded his hairline, wilting his artfully tousled curls. Dougal leaned closer. “As a duke, I could murder you in your bed and not be found guilty,” he pointed out calmly. “But this warning, this promise, is one I make to you as a man born in the back of an alley.”

Dermot visibly gulped.

“Do you understand me, Henshaw?”

Dermot nodded jerkily.

“Good. Pray I don’t hear your name.”