Trouble at the Wedding by Laura Lee Guhrke

Du Ques—” She paused over his surname, sure she was about to make a mistake in the pronunciation, and when she glanced up, his widening smile told her she already had.
    â€œDu-cane,” he supplied. “If you intend to embark upon the life of a peeress, you’d best become familiar with the pronunciation of English surnames. Or, to be accurate, French ones. Most of us are of Norman descent, and therefore, French. Your fiancé is an exception, of course. Rummy’s stout Saxon stock through and through.”
    She didn’t quite like this nickname for Bernard. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You seem to be on very familiar terms with my fiancé and my uncle. But I can’t recall ever making your acquaintance myself.”
    â€œIt is a puzzle,” he agreed.
    He didn’t elaborate, and she frowned, sensing that he was toying with her. “You don’t seem very ducal.”
    â€œI shall take that as a compliment. And your skepticism is quite understandable. I wasn’t supposed to be the duke at all, you see, so it’s not surprising that I don’t quite suit the role. I was the second son, the spare, the insurance, useless to the family in any other capacity. I have been groomed all my life to gamble, drink, carouse, and taint our good name, and until three months ago, I had been fulfilling that role admirably. Then my brother had the deuced poor judgment to expire and leave me in charge of things.” He gave her a look of apology. “It shall be downhill for the Scarboroughs from now on, I daresay.”
    Annabel didn’t know how to reply. His words about his departed brother seemed cruel and his disregard for his rank strangely cavalier. Bernard was very nice to his sisters and took his role as an earl very seriously.
    â€œThough I am a duke,” he resumed, “that won’t be much use to you if you need any instruction on being a proper countess.”
    â€œThat’s no never mind to me,” she countered at once, “since I don’t intend to ask you for any instructions. Why should I?”
    â€œIn my opinion, you shouldn’t. Proper countesses are very dull, and I should hate to see you become one, but it’s inevitable, I fear. You see, I know Rummy, and his mother and sisters, too, and I can safely say they won’t want you to stay the way you are. They’ll want to change you, mold you into what they think you ought to be. They’ll work to change the way you dress, the way you move, your voice—”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with my voice?” she demanded, but even as she asked the question, she could hear how she sounded, how my became mah and voice became vo-iss , and she stopped, biting her lip in frustration. A month’s worth of diction lessons, yet she still couldn’t stop drawing out her vowels, especially when she was upset.
    â€œMy dear girl, no need to scowl so fiercely,” he said in amusement, watching her face. “There is nothing at all wrong with your voice. It’s a luscious voice, absolutely splendid.”
    He was making fun of her. He had to be. Her accent was crude and uncivilized and came from eighteen years in a Mississippi backwater. There was nothing luscious or splendid about that.
    â€œUnfortunately,” he went on, “diction lessons will soon be part of your daily schedule, I daresay.”
    Annabel would have to be whipped within an inch of her life before she’d admit they already were, and at Bernard’s request.
    â€œDon’t do it.” He leaned closer, all trace of amusement vanishing from his face. “I meant what I said. You have a gorgeous voice. It’s like warm honey butter oozing down over hot toast. Don’t let them change it. Don’t let them change you.”
    Annabel sucked in her breath, taken aback by the sudden fierceness of his voice. In the dim light of the corridor, his eyes seemed to glitter like