Free A Duke For All Seasons by Mia Marlowe

ladyship does me honor, but surely you realize I’m a commoner.”
         Lady Moorcroft laughed lightly. “I sometimes wonder if our American cousins may not have the right of it when they celebrate the self-made man. Or in this case, woman. You may be a commoner, Miss St. George, but you’re an accomplished commoner.” She strolled to the small sideboard, picked up the decanter and poured two glasses of wine. “And, based on your refusal of Sebastian’s ludicrous contract, you’re also a woman of great sense.”
          “Then the world being what it is, you understand why I wouldn’t expect my friendship with the duke to become anything more.” Arabella took a cautious sip of the wine. The chasm between Winterhaven and a woman of no family was so wide, the far side of it was but a dark smudge on the horizon. Arabella couldn’t imagine what Sebastian’s aunt was angling for by even suggesting such a thing. “Despite the fact that I will not become his mistress, the duke loves music and invited me to join your party. That’s all there is to it.”
     Lady Moorcroft shook her head. “My nephew and his contracts. They’re just the last in a long line of Winterhaven foibles.”
         A parade of portraits of Sebastian’s dignified ancestors peered down at them from the music room walls.   
         “The duke is understandably proud of his lineage,” Arabella said, feeling she ought to defend him.   
         “No doubt.” Lady Moorcroft cast a disparaging eye around the silent gallery. “But don’t let the duke’s formality fool you. The Winterhavens aren’t exactly the model of propriety. Never have been.”
         Lady Moorcroft tipped up her wine glass and drained it in a long gulp that would have done credit to a bar maid. Arabella was suitably impressed and it occurred to her that Lady M’s unlooked-for confidences were probably related to the quantity of alcohol she had quietly consumed that night.
         “Do you know why Sebastian insists on only three months duration for his amours?”
         Bella shook her head, not trusting her voice. It was a safe bet Sebastian would never share the real reason.
         “It’s because of his mother. My younger sister.” Lady Moorcroft refilled her glass and swirled the contents for a moment, letting the wine breathe. “Helen was a lovely girl, but flighty, you understand. She had a dozen offers the year of her come out, but the Duke of Winterhaven was far and away the best catch of the lot. They married and within the year, Sebastian was born.”
         Arabella bit her lip to keep from asking why this should make Sebastian so cautious about his relationships. Lady Moorcroft was spinning her tale in her own time. It was bad form to interrupt a raconteur mid-story.
         “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but honestly, I’ve never seen why. They’re past hurting, aren’t they?” Lady Moorcroft said in a small voice as if debating with herself whether or not to continue. Then she shrugged and plowed ahead. “Sebastian’s father was a hard man to know. Silent. Pitiless. And he ruled his family as he ruled his duchy, with an implacable iron will. That’s him, scowling above the sideboard there.”
         Arabella was of the opinion that most people earned the face they wore. If so, the deep grooves between his brows and around his mouth showed Sebastian’s father had spent far more time frowning than laughing. Pride glinted in his flinty gaze and the slight uptilt of his chin. Arabella recognized the determined set of Sebastian’s jaw in the portrait of his father, and the beginning of the same frown lines.
         “Helen was used to being flattered and courted. She’d been the belle of every ball she attended,” Lady Moorcroft said. “Once he’d won her, the duke had no time for such nonsense. Trapped in such a loveless marriage, she wilted like a dying plant.”
         Arabella eyed