The Duke Who Didn't (Wedgeford Trials, #1)

by Courtney Milan

“What are you doing here?” There was a lazy humor to the slouch of him. She gritted her teeth as he turned to her. “We haven’t seen each other in three years, but I agree with your assessment—it feels as if no time has passed at all. Of course I grant you permission to call me by just my surname. ‘Mr. Yu’ sounds all too stuffy between childhood friends, does it not? But ‘Jeremy’ would do just as well, if not better. You used to call me that.” “You.” Chloe took a deep breath. “I was addressing you by a common, indeed, a generic pronoun. Not your surname.”

“I’m truly sorry,” he said, “for the untimely demise of your list. But there is one small bright side.” Her entire plan for the afternoon had been blotted out by the spill. “There isn’t. Not one. You have no idea how deathly busy I am today.” “No, there is this,” he told her with a lazy smile. “When you rewrite it, you can put me on it.”

“I genuflect to the sovereignty of your list, of course,” Jeremy said. “Your list is sacred.”

If he had any talent for plain speech, he might have confessed the depths of his feelings by now and obtained her understanding in return. Unfortunately, Jeremy had none. He’d told her how he felt; but somehow whenever he looked at her, his thoughts never came out as something sober and intellectual like I respect the things that matter to you. No. Instead, everything he felt got tied up and turned around into I genuflect to the sovereignty of your list.

I am the fucking duke you speak of. I am not betraying my class; I am only betraying myself. And it is a great deal of fun.

“Oh, stick your head in the river and swallow,” she snapped. He let out a delighted laugh. “Right. Put that on the list for me. I want a wife who says exactly that to me. With those exact words. If she doesn’t say it at least once, I won’t marry her.”

“I’ll just…wait outside,” Jeremy said, gesturing vaguely behind them. “No,” said Mr. Fong. “You will also eat. You are rich, which means you are weak. You do not have the necessary fortitude to go without meals.” “I—that’s—” Jeremy bit his lip. “Really unfair. I’ve skipped meals before, and it only killed me twice.”

While still looking him in the eyes, Mr. Fong took out a covered jar. He did not look away from Jeremy as he unwrapped twine from the wax paper around the top, lifted the paper, and scooped out dried red flakes into his hand, measuring by feel. He held Jeremy’s gaze as he upended a generous palmful of those flakes—dried scotch bonnet, Jeremy suspected—into the final bowl of broth. And he smiled.

why would we use specifics to express ourselves, when we could instead strike fear into the hearts of our enemies with a handful of dried plant material?”

“At present, we have only one quality on your list: intimidating. You are correct. We are behind.” “No, there’s been more than that,” Jeremy pointed out. “By my recollection, I want a wife who makes me sign contracts to pay for lists, a wife who agrees to do too many things and then falls into a panic, and a wife who has at one point in her life told me to stick my head in a river and swallow. You must admit that those few items alone exclude a substantial number of women.”

“Jeremy, you turnip.

that gigantic knapsack of actual flatulence that was James.

“It is breakfast time,” he announced. “It is no longer time to hold hands.” “Ah Ba! We weren’t holding hands. He was just…helping me with my hands being sore.” It was not even slightly convincing. Jeremy felt himself blush. “Oh,” Mr. Fong said. “I see. Posh Jim, what a self-sacrificing, noble, and convenient reason to hold my daughter’s hands.” That, Jeremy thought, and the fact that I’m trying to marry her.

“Here.” She gestured with the cloth. “If you’ll just drop your towel, I can clean you up.” “Look at you,” Jeremy said in awe. “With your full sentences and your conjugated verbs. I am in awe of your cognitive capacity.”

“Apparently at least one more day,” he said, his eyes flickering to Jeremy, “especially after last night.” Jeremy’s reaction was entirely involuntary; he and Chloe looked at each other, matching spots of guilty red on their cheeks. “Last night?” Chloe said in a high voice. “What about last night? Nothing happened last night!” It wasn’t very effective as denials went, but it could have been worse. Jeremy knew this, because what he said was: “Please don’t kill me.”

“I didn’t know you were so good at selling buns,” Chloe said behind him. Jeremy just smiled at her. “You didn’t know I was good at saying words and getting people to do things? Really? And you claim to have known me?”

Chloe blinked. “Oh. Excellent point. Carry on.”

I was referring to the fact that you are more beautiful every time I see you. It’s positively outrageous. It should not be possible. And yet! Here you are.” That grave expression on her face cracked. Chloe turned pink. “Do you honestly just…think things like that? Really?” “All the time,” Jeremy confessed. “It’s embarrassing how much I adore you. It’s a good thing I have absolutely no shame, because someone has to tell you over and over how lovely you are so that you will know it hasn’t changed. And apparently this entire village is filled with louts who lack either courage or good sense.”

“She calls me ‘Your Grace,’” Jeremy said in a mock whisper, “but actually, she is the one who is Grace. I always found that confusing.”

“This.” She lifted her chin. “This is not society.” “How can that be?” Jeremy frowned. “Wedgeford is so very social.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Stop willfully misunderstanding me.”

“Ask anyone here, and they’ll tell you my titles. I’m His Grace Good Riddance—and good riddance to any who think I don’t belong. I am the Duke of Lansing, but I am also the duke who owns most of Wedgeford. I’m the Duke Who Didn’t—and I aim to do even less.

“Tell them the best way to curry my favor is to buy my wife’s sauce.” Chloe turned to him. “Jeremy,” she said urgently, “you can’t do that. That’s nepotism.” Jeremy tilted his head toward her and raised an eyebrow. “So? The entire House of Lords is literally nepotism-as-government. It’s not my fault. I didn’t make the rules.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt. Did we interrupt you?” His aunt stared at him for a moment before giving out a beleaguered sigh. “Yes,” she said. “You’ve done so continually throughout your entire life, and this conversation has proven no exception. I just want the best for you, Jeremy.”