The Autumn Duchess (A Duchess for All Seasons Book 4)

by Jillian Eaton

  “What do you want?” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. A grimace passed over his countenance as though the small movement had caused him discomfort, but his fierce gaze never wavered. “I will not ask again.”

  “I…” Her chest rose and fell beneath the heavy fabric of her traveling habit as she took a deep, bracing breath. “I have a – a proposal for you.”

  “A proposal?” Thick brows gathered over the bridge of his nose. “What sort of proposal?”

  There was a part of Hannah that wanted to turn around and run all the way back to London. To jump into bed and pull the covers over her head and pretend everything was going to magically sort itself out. After all, she hadn’t been running willy-nilly around town buying everything that caught her eye, nor had she been ignoring their mounting debt hoping it would simply disappear. Her parents were responsible for the mess they found themselves in. A mess they both still refused to acknowledge, as if it really was going to go away on its own.

  Someone had to do something. And that someone, it seemed, was her.

  Whether she liked it or not.

  Not, Hannah thought silently as she eyed the duke. Definitely not. Wycliffe wasn’t at all like Cadence had painted him to be: a lonely, somewhat awkward bachelor who preferred the company of books to people.

  That duke she could relate to. That duke she had something in common with. But this duke, with his flashing eyes and contemptuous sneer, was – to put it mildly – quite out of her league.

  “Well?” he growled. “Out with it.”

  Hannah blinked. “I...er...well…”

  She thought of when she was a young girl and she’d accidentally knocked over one of her mother’s beloved Davenport vases. In her haste to pick up the broken pieces she’d cut herself on the palm of her hand. Not wanting to tell her mother what had happened, she’d invoked Cadence’s help in wrapping the wound. All had gone well...until she’d attempted to remove the bandage later that day only to discover it had adhered itself to the cut.

  Inch by excruciating inch she’d pried the fabric back, until Cadence – with her usual aplomb – had marched up, grabbed hold of the bandage, and yanked the entire thing off in one fell swoop.

  How it had hurt! The sting had been like a hundred tiny hornets attacking her palm at once. But as quickly as the pain appeared it faded away, and Hannah had learned a valuable lesson: sometimes you just needed to rip the bandage off.

  “My proposal is an actual proposal.” Lifting her chin, she stared steadily into the cold, fathomless depths of the duke’s menacing gaze. “My name is Miss Hannah Fairchild, and I should very much like to marry you.”

  Chapter Three

  If Evan didn’t think the girl was completely daft before, he did now.

  He stared at her in astonishment, searching in vain for some sign that she was jesting with him. A twinkle in those arresting gray eyes. A tiny smirk curling the corner of that delectable pink mouth. Instead he saw nothing but quiet sincerity which was how he knew she was dicked in the nob. Although she didn’t look crazy. Truth be told, she looked...well, she looked rather beautiful in a disheveled sort of way, like a wildflower that had accidentally been placed in the middle of an elegant bouquet of roses.

  Her clothes were dusty and travel worn, her hat scrunched up on one side as if she’d accidentally sat on it. Her hair, the same color as the leaves still clinging to the branches of the large red maple at the end of the drive, had come partially undone from its chignon and framed the sides of her face in a tangled spill of auburn silk. A dusting of freckles and a nose that was ever-so-slightly off center kept her from true beauty. That, and the smudge of purple – jam, perhaps? – on the edge of her chin.

  The muscles in Evan’s abdomen inadvertently tightened as he imagined drawing Miss Hannah Fairchild in close, lowering his head, and licking that little spot of sticky sweetness away. Then his eyes narrowed, and his shoulders drew back, and he looked at her with renewed suspicion as an unpleasant thought suddenly dampened his ardor.

  “Colebrook put you up to this, didn’t he? Bastard,” Evan cursed under his breath. A neighboring landowner, the Duke of Colebrook enjoyed fast horses, loose women, and being a general pain in the arse. He was supposed to be in London, but Evan wouldn’t put it past him to have arranged for a little parting gift before he left. Colebrook did love his pranks, and he never passed up an opportunity to get under Evan’s skin.

  Two weeks ago he’d been woken in the middle of the night by a trio of drunken sailors singing in the foyer. How Colebrook had managed that small feat he hadn’t the bloodiest idea, as the nearest port was a good fifty miles away. It had taken him the better part of an hour and his second best bottle of brandy to coax them out of the house.

  Then there’d been the time Colebrook had replaced all of the horses in his barn with milking goats. Compared to that, hiring a woman to show up on his doorstep and propose marriage was child’s play. But judging by the puzzlement on Hannah’s face she was either a very good actress or she had absolutely no idea who Evan was talking about.

  “Colebrook?” She bit down on her bottom lip. “I – I am afraid I don’t know a Mr. Colebrook.”

  “Never mind,” Evan said curtly. His gaze shifted to the dark-haired woman standing by the fountain. She was staring intently at the ground, her stiff posture indicating she’d rather be anywhere else than where she currently was.

  That made two of them.

  “Your traveling companion, I presume?” he asked.

  “My lady’s maid, yes. Your Grace–”

  “Where is your carriage?” he interrupted.

  Gray eyes peeked up at him beneath a thick curtain of dark red lashes. “I – I sent it away.”

  “You sent it away?” Evan stared down at her incredulously. “Why the devil would you do that? Have you any idea how far you are from the nearest village?”

  “I do, yes, but–”

  “I suppose you thought you’d just avail yourself of my carriage and driver, did you?” His leg was beginning to ache from standing so long in one spot, but he clenched his jaw and pushed the pain to the back of his mind. “I am sorry to say my driver is indisposed at the moment.” A tiny white lie to cover up the fact that he’d let the man go months ago, having no reason to employ him given that he never left the estate.

  “I did not travel all this way just to use your carriage and driver, Your Grace.” The corners of Hannah’s mouth tucked into a frown. “That would be absurd.”

  Evan’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh that would be absurd, would it? But I suppose arriving unannounced on a stranger’s doorstep and proposing marriage is perfectly normal?”

  “It’s not as farfetched as you make it seem. If you would just let me explain–”

  “No.”

  Her hands unfolding from her chest to settle on her hips, Hannah lifted her chin and scowled up at him. “Has anyone ever told you how rude it is to interrupt someone when they’re speaking?”

  “Has anyone ever told you how rude it is to show up uninvited?” he countered.

  “I told you, if you would let me–”

  “Let you explain. Yes, I heard you the first time.” And though he was loathe to admit it out loud, part of him wanted very much to hear that explanation. Almost as much as he wanted to kiss that impertinent little mouth. Evan’s brow furrowed. Where had that thought come from? Yes, the chit was pleasing to look at, but there was also the distinct possibility that she was completely insane and the last thing he wanted – the last thing he needed – was a troublesome female in his life. Troublesome females were the reason he’d left London in the first place. And yet…

  “Are you certain Colebrook did not send you?”

  “No one sent me. I came of my own accord.”

  “To propose marriage.”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Precisely.”

  He studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the jam that still clung to the edge of her chin
before jerking back up to meet her eyes. They were the soft gray of a sky after a heavy rain; that quiet moment of solace between the storm and the sunshine. He’d never seen a shade quite like it before. “All right, Miss Fairchild.” Stepping stiffly to the side, he gestured her into the dimly lit foyer with a mocking sweep of his arm. “Let’s hear this explanation of yours.”

  Finally, Hannah thought as she walked past Wycliffe. She’d started to fear he was going to leave her standing on the doorstep all night. Although truthfully she didn’t know which was worse: being left to face the elements or strolling blindly into the proverbial lion’s den.

  She supposed she was about to find out.

  “Please, have a seat.” The duke led her into an adjoining parlor and nodded towards a velvet chaise lounge that looked as though it hadn’t been used for a very long time. Her suspicions were confirmed when she sat down and a plume of dust flew up, causing her to sneeze.

  “I do not get many visitors,” Wycliffe said as he sat across from her in a high backed wooden chair. Elsbeth remained discreetly in the hallway, having declined Hannah’s invitation to join them in the parlor.

  “I cannot imagine why,” Hannah muttered, her stomach rolling queasily when she spied what looked like mouse droppings on the armrest. Creditors or no creditors, if a rodent dashed across the floor she was leaving. Having been bitten by a rat as a young child, she positively loathed anything with whiskers and a long skinny tail.

  “What was that?” Wycliffe asked.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. Glancing around the room, she discovered it to be in the same sad state of neglect as the exterior of the manor. The curtains were dark and dingy, the floorboards were badly in need of a polish, and the furniture– what there was of it – was covered in a thick coating of dust.

  “Is your housekeeper indisposed as well?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “No.” He followed her gaze to the dormant fireplace which was overflowing with soot. “As I said, I do not get many visitors. Which begs the question as to why you are here.”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “About that…”

  “I am waiting, Miss Fairchild.” He drummed his fingers on the slender armrests of his chair. “Albeit not very patiently.”

  “As I said when I first arrived I have, ah, a proposal.” What to do with her hands, Hannah wondered? She’d never had a problem with them before, but now they did not want to sit quietly on her lap, nor did she dare put them on the lounge. As a result they fluttered restlessly in midair, fingers curling and uncurling as she desperately tried to act natural. Or at least as natural as one could act while sitting across from a duke with the demeanor of an angry bear.

  An angry bear who has just been roused from his den and poked with a sharp stick, she added silently when Wycliffe’s eyebrows lowered and his mouth tightened, pulling his scar taut.

  “I believe we’ve established that, Miss Fairchild. The question is no longer what you are doing here, but why you are here. What could have possibly possessed you to travel untold miles across some of the worst roads England has to offer in hopes of marrying a man you’ve never met?”

  “I am not crazy,” she said defensively, not liking his tone or what it implied. “I have a very good reason for being there.”

  “And that reason is?” he drawled when she fell silent.

  “I need a wealthy husband, Your Grace.” She hadn’t intended to be so blunt, but Wycliffe seemed like the sort of man who would appreciate candor. “And if the state of your household is any indication, you are badly in need of a wife.”

  “What does my household have to do with anything?” he scowled.

  “Nothing. It’s just that…well…” Her gaze flicked to a large vertical crack in the plaster wall behind Wycliffe’s head. “Everything’s falling apart a little bit, isn’t it? And – and I hate to be the one to tell you, but I believe you may have a rodent infestation.”

  “So I’ll get a cat,” he said with a negligent shrug. “Why the devil do I need a wife?”

  “Someone to help organize your personal affairs?” she suggested.

  “That’s what my valet is for.”

  “Someone to entertain guests?”

  “I told you.” Those dark eyes peered into hers with such intensity she wondered if he wasn’t gazing into her very soul. “I do not receive many guests.”

  “Maybe you’d get more if there weren’t mouse droppings on your furniture.” She looked meaningfully down at her armrest. When he simply stared at her she cleared her throat and said, “What about companionship?”

  “I’ll get two cats.”

  Hannah huffed out an exasperated breath. Her sister had said the duke was a tad eccentric, but she’d failed to mention he was stubborn as a mule. At least now she understood why some men dragged their heels at proposing marriage. It was embarrassing, to be turned down. Particularly when your only competition was a cat.

  But she couldn’t give up.

  She wouldn’t.

  Not when her family was depending on her persistence.

  Sitting up as straight as her spine would allow, she frowned at Wycliffe and adopted her best, most businesslike tone. The same tone she employed when the twins needed to be put in their place, or Cadence needed to be told that no, she couldn’t buy three pairs of the same exact shoe just in case one pair got muddy.

  “Your Grace, I would not be here if my circumstances were anything less than dire. You see, my father is struggling to keep up with creditors and–”

  “So you want money,” Wycliffe cut in. The corners of his mouth curled in a derisive sneer. “I should have thought as much.”

  “No,” Hannah corrected him sharply. “I want a husband. I am not a beggar and I am not looking for a handout. I am a woman of marriageable age and impeccable social standing who does not have the luxury of time. If I did, you can rest assured that I would not be here asking a complete stranger to marry me.”

  The duke’s chair gave an ominous creak as he leaned back and canted his head to the side. “No other man would have you, would they?”

  Hannah shifted uncomfortably on the chaise lounge. “You could say that I’ve been very…selective.”

  Wycliffe didn’t bother to disguise his snort. “And I just so happen to fit the bill, do I? Since this is the first time we’ve met, let me tell you a little about myself, Miss Fairchild. I’m a bastard,” he said flatly. “Perhaps not in the literal since, but every other possible way. I live all the way out here for one reason and one reason only: I dislike people, women in particular. I am often rude, callous, and insensitive. Then there is my physical impairment, which I am sure you have noticed.” His jaw hardened. “Suffice it to say, I am not husband material. You have wasted your time, Miss Fairchild. Worst yet, you’ve wasted mine.”

  “I don’t think I have,” Hannah said softly.

  “Oh really?” he asked, the bite of sarcasm in his voice unmistakable. “And how is that?”

  She glanced down at her lap. “You’re correct. You are rude, callous, and insensitive. Not to mention boorish, arrogant, and unkind. As for your physical impairment, well, none of us are perfect, are we?” She looked up. “I am not seeking perfection, Your Grace. I have flaws, although admittedly not as many as you.” Her mouth creased in the tiniest of smiles which Wycliffe did not return. He watched her intently, his expression unreadable save a faint tick in the corner of his jaw.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “What I want – what I need – is a husband who will settle my father’s debts. In return, I will not interfere with your life or how you wish to live it. I will care for your household, such as it is, and turn visitors away, if that’s what you want. I will make no requests of you, nor ask you to change in any way.”

  “I already live my life how I want to without a wife.” One dark brow lifted. “What makes you think I wish to complicate matters by acquiring one?”

  “What about an heir?” Hannah’s cheeks suffu
sed with color. She was loathe to discuss such an intimate subject, but Wycliffe had left her no choice. “Surely you wish to have a child. A son to inherit your lands and title. That will be impossible without a wife.”

  A flicker of emotion – Surprise? Curiosity? Annoyance? It was impossible to tell – passed over his countenance. “I’m thirty, not eighty. I’ve time yet to sire offspring, if I ever have such an inclination.”

  “But what about a wife?” she pressed. “You would need to be married for any child to be considered legitimate.”

  “Miss Fairchild.” His tone held a hint of amusement. “I had no idea you were so forward.”

  “I am determined,” she corrected. “And intelligent enough to realize a perfect opportunity when I see one. Men and women have married for far less sustainable reasons than the one’s I have just presented, Your Grace. Please say you’ll at least consider my proposal.”

  “And if I refuse?” he said coolly.

  “Then I will find someone who will.” It was a complete bluff. The Duke of Wycliffe was her last hope. Having eight failed seasons behind her, she wasn’t foolish enough to believe the ninth one would be the charm. If this didn’t work, her family was going to find themselves in the poorhouse for sure. She gritted her teeth. “Your Grace–”

  “I will do it.” He spoke it so abruptly that at first she was certain she’d misunderstood him.

  “You’ll…do what?”

  “Marry you. I will marry you, Miss Fairchild.” His eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that what you came all the bloody way out here for?”

  “Yes. It is. But…just like that? You’ll marry me just like that?”

  “Just like that,” he confirmed with a curt inclination of his chin. “I presume you’d rather the nuptials occur sooner rather than later?”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, the sooner the better. My father–”