When the Duchess Said Yes by Isabella Bradford

firmly, and fashion could be bought. He’d paid his share of mantua makers’ bills, and he knew a clever seamstress could find elegance and style in almost any woman. The girl was bent over some sort of handwork, the cloth bunched in her hand as she purposefully jabbed a needle in and out of the cloth. At least she was industrious and not idle, he thought, desperately striving to put the best face on matters even as his hopes plummeted.
    But even at this distance Hawke could see that shewas no beauty, her form round and sturdy, and when she raised her needle to the sun to rethread it, squinting with one eye closed, he saw that her cheeks were badly pockmarked, her lips narrow and pinched, her eyes pale and lashless. There wasn’t a scrap of humor or good nature anywhere on her person or face, not one single feature of pleasantness that might make for an agreeable companion.
    No wonder they’d brought him to a walled garden, or he would have bolted straightaway.
    “Gentlemen!” March had spotted them, and rose to wave, grinning. “At last you are here!”
    Still focused on the young woman sewing, Hawke felt as if his feet (or rather his shoes; his mother needn’t have worried) had taken root on the path of crushed shell. He simply could not go forward.
    “Courage, cousin, courage,” Brecon said softly beside him, taking him by the upper arm to nudge him forward. “It’s only March.”
    It was indeed only March, striding toward them. He’d never seen March look so relaxed or so informal, in his waistcoat without a coat, the sleeves of his shirt rolled carelessly to his elbows. He also appeared happier, too, his smile wide and easy. Clearly whatever insult Hawke might have caused at Ranelagh had been forgotten and forgiven.
    “I cannot tell you how glad I am to have you here,” March said, grasping him fondly by the shoulders. “Here in my home, and here, too, in London. But come, there is someone I wish you to meet.”
    Hawke’s smile grew stiff and forced as they walked to the summerhouse. The young woman put aside her stitchery, bowed her head, and curtseyed deeply. Hawke supposed that was proper. After all, how often would any woman, even one of rank, ever be confronted with three dukes at a time? He swallowed hard. Usually he’dno trouble at all addressing women, but his brain had frozen and every word had fled, leaving him with a fixed, sickly smile pasted on his face.
    “My dear angel,” March said proudly. “Peg, present the young fellow.”
    The woman stepped into the summerhouse and returned cradling a small baby in her arms. The child had a round-cheeked face with huge, staring blue eyes, and yet even amidst the yards of trailing linen, he still somehow bore an unmistakable resemblance to March.
    “My second son, George,” March said, carefully taking the baby from the nurse.
    So the stern-faced woman was the infant’s nurse, not Lady Elizabeth. Hawke almost laughed aloud from relief, and at his own folly.
    “He is named for His Majesty,” March was saying, rocking the child gently against his chest with astonishing familiarity. At least it astonished Hawke, who happily had no familiarity with babies in any form. “Always useful to honor the king, isn’t it, Georgie?”
    He tickled the baby’s cheek with the back of his finger, and at once little Georgie smiled, a beautiful, toothless smile, with a string of drool trickling from his chin.
    “Aren’t you the hearty young gentleman?” March said, clearly besotted. “Aren’t you a proper rascal? Three months old, and look at the size of him!”
    “A most excellent lad,” Brecon agreed. “You and Charlotte have every reason to be proud of that brave little one. Hawke, the next babe will be yours, yes?”
    “I should hope not,” Hawke said, so quickly that the other two laughed. How could a mere baby make him feel such a fool?
    “That’s how I felt, too,” March said, “until the child was my own. A shame you weren’t in time to