My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  Although as far as impropriety went, an unmarried duchess living on her own with only her grandmother and a hungry cat as companionship was far worse than untidy hair.

  “Mr. Salisbury,” Chandler said, then stepped aside to let the gentleman in.

  Oh goodness.

  The man was so tall it seemed he filled up the entire doorway, blocking out the light that streamed from the large windows in the hall. All she saw was an enormous shape that looked vaguely manlike. And then he came into the room and Genevieve was able to focus, and then it felt as though he’d blocked out all the air from her lungs. Even though he hadn’t, he was just standing there holding his hat in his no doubt equally compelling hands.

  But the rest of him seemed so improper it really did take her breath away, now that she could see him. Properly. He was so ruggedly good-looking it seemed impossible, and yet here he was—dark hair with just a hint of a curl, a strong blade of a nose over a full mouth, blue eyes that gazed at her unrelentingly. As though he could see inside her soul.

  Which Genevieve knew perfectly well could be characterized with the word “confused.”

  And his build was—well, “impressive” was one word for it. Genevieve imagined there were other words, far less proper words, words that deliberately untidy-haired women would know. He was tall and also broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, and he stood in her sitting room with an easy grace that nonetheless seemed as though he could move at any time. To attack, to defend, to—

  Not that. She could not even think that.

  “Your Grace?” His eyebrows had drawn together, and he was looking at her as though she were an oddity he had run across, and wasn’t certain he liked.

  That was the expression she’d seen on most people’s faces since inheriting. It shouldn’t discomfit her; on a less impressive gentleman it wouldn’t. But him, with his height, and his looks, and his general (no, Captain! her mind corrected hysterically) air of command—well. Well, it seemed as though she could be discomfited after all.

  And here she thought the worst part about being a duchess was the whole inability-to-handle-anything part.

  She really was obsessing on her own lack of suitability. She’d have to improve soon or she would mire in self-doubt. No miring, Genevieve! she reminded herself.

  “Yes, Mr. Salisbury,” she said, keeping her voice low so it wouldn’t tremble. Or squeak. “Thank you so much for arriving, and so promptly, too.” She glanced toward Chandler and nodded. “That will be all.”

  Her butler withdrew, closing the door behind him. Leaving her with him and—“Oh goodness, please allow me to introduce my grandmother.”

  “The dowager duchess?” he said, walking forward to bow in her grandmother’s direction.

  Gran giggled and held her hand out. “Heavens, no, I am Lady Halbard. My daughter was the duchess’s mother.”

  How, in goodness’ name, could Gran tell that he was so good-looking? Because she was preening, at least as much as a sixty-year-old woman could. Which is to say she was wriggling in her seat and smiling in a nearly coquettish way.

  The only time Genevieve had seen her grandmother behave that way before was in the presence of the butcher, who had apparently been quite comely in his youth, when Gran had much better eyesight.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Gran wriggled some more, and Genevieve found herself almost wishing she were ten years old again, and could roll her eyes with impunity.

  “Would you excuse us, Gran? Mr. Salisbury and I have some business to discuss.”

  Her grandmother began to rise, and Mr. Salisbury reached out to hold her elbow as she stood, a delighted smile on her face. “Byron and I will leave you alone. Byron!” she called, even though the cat had yet to acknowledge he had a name, much less that anyone was in authority over him.

  “Byron?” Mr. Salisbury asked, that look of confusion on his face again.

  “Byron. Named after the poet. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage?” Gran replied.

  “Ah. Of course,” Mr. Salisbury replied. In a tone that implied it was a ridiculous conversation. Which she couldn’t argue with.

  “The cat,” Genevieve explained.

  “Ah!” As though he’d confirmed with himself the conversation was indeed ridiculous.

  “I spoke with him once,” Gran said dreamily.

  “The poet, not the cat,” Genevieve said hastily.

  “He was the most handsome man,” Gran continued. Apparently Gran had long been a connoisseur of masculine beauty.

  “Let me help you, Gran,” Genevieve said, going to her grandmother’s other side. The one not currently occupied by the handsome observant man. Not Byron, but Mr. Salisbury. And now she was doing it. She shook her head at herself as she began to walk.

  “Thank you, dear.” Gran patted Mr. Salisbury’s arm. “It is such a pleasure to meet you, I am hoping you will be able to help my granddaughter with whatever she needs.” And then to make matters worse, she punctuated her vague and somewhat leading words with a knowing chuckle.

  Genevieve felt her face start to burn in embarrassment. Gran wouldn’t see it, of course, but he likely would. The realization of which only made her face burn brighter.

  They waited until the door shut behind Gran, as Genevieve tried frantically to get her face to cool.

  “Well, Your Grace,” Mr. Salisbury said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you need help with?”

  Oh dear, Genevieve thought. That was certainly an open-ended question. And he looked so forbidding, standing there being all handsome and tall and no doubt keenly aware of how much of a failure she might end up being.

  Where should she begin?

  Letter

  Dear Duchess,

  Your staff is a disgrace. In reviewing your current situation, I would advise you to keep only a few members of your current staff, hiring new staff who are better able to do their jobs maintain the household as it ought to be for someone in your position, unusual though it is. I have enclosed a list of the senior staff I believe should be kept on:

  The butler, whatever his name is.

  The rest should be let go immediately. Will you need a list of the necessary positions? Of course you will. Forget I asked. I will write up the list now. The immediate staff needed will be a housekeeper, a cook, a head groom, a coachman, and a steward. They will be able to hire the staff needed to work under their supervision.

  Respectfully,

  Mr. Archibald Salisbury, Capt. (Ret.)

  Letter

  Dear Mr. Salisbury,

  Why are you writing me a letter when we are existing in the same household?

  Thank you for the correspondence although I am still baffled as to why you are writing. Do you loathe my appearance? Think a woman should never be a duchess? Despise cats?. I appreciate your advice, and would ask your opinion as to the best way to go about making the changes you suggest. Should I fire them all at one time? Am I even the one who should be firing them? And why is Chandler the only senior staff member who passes your muster?

  Yours,

  Duchess

  Chapter 2

  “Because he’s the only one who seems to have any idea of how important a duchess’s household is,” Archie said as he burst into the room where he’d first met her. The duchess. The woman who was inexplicably (even though she had explained, but all that had done was to make him think her ancestors were as muddleheaded as she was, to write such an inheritance requirement) the head of this household, of the lands, of the fortune held by the Blakesley duchy.

  And stopped short as he realized he was doing just what he’d accused everyone but the butler—Chandler, he recalled now—of doing. Of treating her not as the most important person in the area, since Queen Victoria was unlikely to pay a visit, but as someone he could command. As though she were serving under him.

  But that was the purpose of his being here, wasn’t it? For him to treat her as a recruit, even though she was absolutely lacking in any kin
d of ammunition. In her case her ammunition would include the properly haughty attitude, a suitably efficient staff, and, judging by the gown she’d been wearing when he first met her, an appropriately grandiose wardrobe.

  He still wasn’t certain why she needed his help, but he had to acknowledge she most definitely did.

  She sat on the sofa as she had been that first time, a hoop of some sort of lady’s sewing thing in her hand. Except it didn’t appear as though she’d been doing the work; she had the hoop on her lap and was looking off in the distance, her eyes snapping to his face as he spoke.

  He hadn’t expected her to be so . . . young. And attractive. And unmarried. Although he should have guessed all of that (except for the attractive part), thanks to Lady Sophia’s explanation.

  She wasn’t precisely beautiful; Archie had been around plenty of beautiful women, and he’d felt the natural pull of their appearance, but it wasn’t the same as this. Instead, it was as though she was magnetic, exuding some sort of element that drew him to her. Did elements attract one another? He had no idea.

  And that, he thought sourly, was why he had never done well in his studies. He much preferred dealing in reality: there was a need for a group of armed soldiers to do something, they were assigned to do it, and off they went. No need to worry about what was attracting what.

  Except now.

  And he would not allow any of that to deter him from his assignment.

  “Good morning, Mr. Salisbury.” The magnet-in-question was regarding him with a nearly amused curiosity. No doubt because he had—to his own disgust—just spent far more time than he ever had before thinking about how he felt around her. He did not want to feel, he just wanted to do.

  He knew, from interrogating the staff, that not only did the duchess not have the aforementioned wardrobe, she didn’t have her own lady’s maid. As though he couldn’t tell that from how she was dressed; her clothing was in some sort of disarray, which on a different woman he would have called artless. But in this case, he thought it was just careless. Her gown was crooked on her body, as though someone had just flung it at her and she’d thrust her arms in any which way. His need for order and things in their place meant he wished he could go right her. Which would mean placing his hands on her body and . . . adjusting.

  He would not allow himself to adjust.

  He cleared his throat and sketched a bow, hoping he could just do the job he had sent himself here for and leave directly after. Perhaps in penance he would assign himself the fertilizer job.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.” He paused, an odd feeling of—discomfort?—coursing through him. He never experienced discomfort. He knew his place, his position, his duties, and he did them. “Thank you for your reply to my letter.”

  “Please sit, Mr. Salisbury,” she said in a low voice. A gentle wave of her hand accompanied her words. “I will ring for—”

  “No,” Archie blurted out. “I have no time for tea, nor am I thirsty. Thank you, Your Grace,” he added, somewhat belatedly. “If you want some?” he said, making a vague gesture toward the bell.

  Her cheeks turned a bright shade of scarlet. Interesting. Perhaps she was just terribly shy, and he was reacting to her discomfort.

  That must be it. Not that she was some sort of magnet, and him some sort of attracted-to-a-magnet element. It was that he was being sensitive to another person, something else he didn’t think had ever happened. But that possibility was better than the alternative.

  “I have no need of tea.” She didn’t meet his gaze as she spoke, instead staring off into the corner so intently he, too, swiveled his head to look.

  Nothing there but some sort of over-ornamented light fixture, the kind Lady Sophia favored.

  “Well, then,” Archie said, returning his gaze to her. He assessed her, given his marching orders. He would have to mold her into what she was to become; it was important he understand what raw materials he had to work with. She was young, startlingly so, given her position, although likely not more than a few years younger than he. Her greenish-brown eyes were large, and slanted at the sides, giving her an elfish expression. Her hair was dark, a rich mahogany brown like a horse he’d had once. Shadow, he thought its name was. It was dressed very plainly (her hair, not the horse’s), not in those fussy curls many women favored that made no sense to him. Why bother obscuring your vision with your hair?

  But now he wished she had bothered, since the simplicity of her hairstyle showed off the delicate bone structure of her face as well as her elegant neck. He did not want to be thinking about delicate, elegant anything, unless it was a particularly astute battle maneuver.

  That was all this whole thing was, he had to keep in mind—a battle maneuver. A way to maintain his honor and ensure the future of the country through equipping a duchess to handle her responsibilities. A tactic, a strategy. Nothing more.

  He took a deep breath and focused on planning, staff, wardrobe, and preparedness. Not on magnetic charm, or delicate simplicity, or anything like that.

  Not on that at all.

  Mr. Salisbury was, curse him, just as good-looking now as he was the first time she’d seen him. And also apparently averse to sitting.

  Genevieve had hoped that her impression had been augmented by her general proximity to a gentleman—she had seldom come in contact with one. An actual gentleman, not gardeners and grooms and such. The ducal estate where Genevieve grew up didn’t even have a butler in residence; her father had decreed one unnecessary when it was only “the girl” living there.

  And then Mr. Salisbury followed up his impossible good-lookingness by marching in here as though he owned the place, when she barely thought she owned the place. And she actually did. It shouldn’t annoy her, but it did, that he was so firm in his opinion about her staff after only a few days, far more firm than she was, and she had been here for nearly a month. Albeit a month she’d spent wondering what in God’s name she was supposed to do now that she was a duchess.

  Apparently she was supposed to decide that some people could keep their positions and others could not.

  Of course, he was a Captain (Ret.), so perhaps firmness was a requirement of the military? She presumed so. It would be awkward to be on a battlefield and pause to look at your fellow soldier in arms and ask, “Should we attack? I think we might want to attack, but what do you think?”

  And he just as firmly did not want tea, and she found even that annoying. Who didn’t want tea? It was a British institution! It was the beverage over which decisions were actually made! She felt the burn of self-righteous anger flow over her, and knew a relief that at least she wasn’t still thinking about how attract—

  Oh mudpies, she was. In addition to being frustrated that he did not want a hot liquid.

  “Would you like something else to drink?” Genevieve found herself asking in a definitely not firm voice. And wished she could take the words back right away. This was not helping her on the path to duchessdom.

  He frowned, and she was delighted to see he, too, could be less than firm. As though he were weighing the options in his mind and considering, not just knowing what he wanted straightaway. “No, thank you,” he said at last, in a voice that seemed to imply she was an idiot for asking.

  So much for being less than firm. That was more than firm. It was firm to the utmost.

  Her cheeks began to burn. Again. Was this going to be her permanent state? Blushing every time Mr. Salisbury did or said anything, or anyone (such as her grandmother) did or said anything around him? Was she to be in a constant state of acute Salisburyness?

  The sooner she learned how to do what needed to be done, the better. She did not want to Salisbury her way through life. Her cheeks would fall off in a heap of embarrassed flame. And she’d never get tea.

  So instead, she asked. They both knew she didn’t know what she was doing; it wasn’t as though he would be surprised by the question. And asking was one step closer to getting an answer. “What qualities do you believe a d
uchess’s staff should have?”

  “Loyalty, efficiency, capability, and a sufficient amount of respect.” When he did speak, it was with authority, as though it was painfully obvious. Perhaps it was. Perhaps she had been walking around unaware of knowledge that everyone else had. Or maybe it was just he. And he was an impressively . . . firm sort of man.

  Which then just made her cheeks flush again.

  But she didn’t—she couldn’t—think about any of that. Not when she had to learn how to be a duchess. And not a terrible duchess, as her father had been a terrible duke. She had seen her father’s tenants’ expression and voices when they’d talked about things that hadn’t been done to the lands because of her father’s neglect. She’d seen the results of that neglect in the children, who’d given her accusing, and hungry, looks when she and Cook had gone to town to do the shopping. When she’d been old enough to do anything, she had helped where she could, but it wasn’t enough.

  She hadn’t wanted this responsibility, had been nearly horrified when she’d realized she would be the new head of the family, but as soon as the dust—and her nerves—settled, she’d felt an odd yearning to do something right with her power. To make the Blakesley title respected, not derided.

  And to do that, she needed the help of Mr. Salisbury, since his opinions seemed sound, even though she felt another odd feeling within her when she saw him.

  “Where should we start then?”

  He blinked at her, then his face cleared. “Oh, with the hiring.” Had she really taken that long to answer him? Probably she had; contemplating his general splendidness could likely take all day. Did other ladies do that, just sit and gaze at him? Was that what her aunt Sophia did?

  And if so, why hadn’t her aunt Sophia warned her? Although that would be an awkward letter to write:

  Dear Genevieve,

  I am sending my steward to assist you. Do not be alarmed, but he is incredibly good-looking, and it is probable you will find yourself at a loss for words when you look at him. Please try not to stare too much; it does seem to make him uncomfortable.