Page 74 of A Cinderella Christmas

Just then the castle’s front door flew open. A half dozen servants streamed onto the drive to attend to the new arrivals, and the young lady looked away.

The moment was gone, but … dear God, his hands were shaking! He peered down into the drive again, but it was too late. She’d returned to her party, and even through the thick panes of glass he could hear Lady Featherstone’s voice, sharp with command, one long finger pointed imperiously at the mountain of luggage piled on his front drive.

She was a bit of a harridan, by the sound of her, and likely not the only one currently under his roof. God above. What was he meant to do with a dozen or more preening young ladies and their exacting mammas?

They’d all be expecting an elegant, gallant duke, a gentleman of the world, and instead they were going to find …

Well, him.

Awkward, bumbling, tongue-tied, wild-haired, and nothing at all like a proper duke. This whole ill-conceived scheme was far more likely to end in disaster than a wedding.

“Shall we see to your ensemble for the evening, Your Grace?” Rowan retrieved the blue coat from the back of the settee where he’d left it neatly folded. “This will look very well with your gold and blue silk waistcoat. Quite ducal, indeed.”

That was the problem. If he donned the navy superfine and the figured silk waistcoat he’d look like a duke, and then people would expect him to act like a duke.

And if that happened, then this would all be real, wouldn’t it?

He rose, strode across his bedchamber and dropped into a chair in front of the fire, stretching his legs out and studying the glossy tips of his Hessians. The words were right there on the edge of his tongue, burning to be free, but how could he say them when Rowan and his other servants had gone to so much trouble to arrange this party?

But alas, the words must be spoken. “I’m going to make a bloody mess of this.”

“Your Grace—”

“Come, Rowan. You know it as well as I do.”

Rowan set the coat aside. “May I, Your Grace?” He nodded at the chair opposite Gabriel’s.

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Rowan seated himself, his face giving nothing away. If he was perturbed, or angry, one couldn’t tell it from his expression.

Rowan was always calm, always the perfect gentleman. He’d known Rowan since they’d both been in short pants, and he’d never heard an ugly word pass the man’s lips.

“If you’d be so good as to explain your concerns to me, Your Grace, perhaps I can help.”

Gabriel huffed out a breath. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Rowan smiled. “Not to me, Your Grace.”

Dear God, how to put such a thing into words? “I’m not a proper duke.”

“No? How peculiar. I was under the impression that you’re the Sixth Duke of Hawthorne and have been ever since your elder brother’s unfortunate passing.” Rowan leaned closer, as if imparting a great secret. “Hence my referring to you as ‘Your Grace,’ Your Grace.”

“Was that a joke, Rowan?”

“I’m afraid so, Your Grace.” Rowan’s eyes twinkled. “I do beg your pardon.”

“Nonsense.” Gabriel waved the apology off. He and Rowan had attended Eton together, and later Oxford, and Rowan had spent the last six years with him while he’d pursued his studies in Brazil. Strictly speaking, Rowan was his valet, but they were friends too, and there was a frankness between them unusual for a duke and his valet.

“I don’t deny that legally speaking, I am the Duke of Hawthorne. What I mean is …”

What the devil did he mean? It was difficult to put into words, but it was there like a sharp stone in his boot digging into his flesh with every step.

The trouble was that none of the young ladies Rowan had brought to Hawthorne Castle would want him. He knew it in the same way he knew the beat of his own heart.

He was tall, yes. Dukes should be tall.

But his ducal qualifications began and ended there.