My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  “I know, Gran.” Believe me, I am well aware of what is allowed for someone in my station, in my position. I am reminded of it every time there is a new problem that I have no idea how to solve. Which is why he is here in the first place, not to do anything so terrible as to marry me.

  “I promise, I will not so forget my place.” How could I?

  Letter

  Dear Duchess,

  You need a new wardrobe. We all agree on that, even your blind grandmother. It is also essential that we find an adequate lady’s maid, since the one you have now appears to be crumpling all your drab clothing up into a ball and rolling on it. I have already taken the liberty of contacting the Quality Employment Agency for that as well as some of the other positions I deem essential for your household.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Archibald Salisbury

  Chapter 6

  “Where do you suggest I go for a new wardrobe?”

  Archie didn’t blink anymore when she leaped into his room after the briefest of knocks. He hadn’t wanted to have the staff—even though some of them would be leaving—talking about his frequent discussions with the duchess, so he’d taken to working in the room designated as his, but not his bedroom, sending letters when he needed to communicate with her. It suited several of his needs.

  But he hadn’t counted on her spontaneity; so often her return letter arrived after she did, since it seemed she penned them, sent a footman with them, but couldn’t wait to ask the questions herself. So much for not having the staff gossip. She had come by no fewer than five times in the last three days and he didn’t even bother getting up anymore. She would just end up gesturing him to sit anyway.

  He laid his pen down and ran his hand through his hair. It was getting longer, and there was one bit that kept falling into his eyes. And each time he smoothed it back, he caught the oddest expression on the duchess’s face. So he made sure to smooth it back a lot, since he liked catching that look, even though he didn’t know what it meant.

  “It is not as though I am an expert in ladies’ clothing, Your Grace.” He knew where his mother had shopped, many years ago, but he didn’t know if those places were still the best to obtain women’s clothing. And he certainly didn’t have any ladies to ask; the only lady he knew now was standing in his bedroom wearing a gown that looked overwashed and poorly fitting. Like all her clothes.

  “Of course you’re not, but you have to have a better idea than I do.” She gestured down at herself as she spoke, a wry look on her face. “I think the last time I had a new gown was when Gran bought me one. And that must have been at least three years ago. No wonder they are all so horrid.” And she glared down at what she was wearing. Not that Archie could blame her; the gown was not at all what a duchess should be seen wearing. “I suppose I could wander up and down Bond Street, announcing who I was, and waiting for a dressmaker to come out and pounce on me.” She darted an amused glance at him to let him know she was joking. Even though he wouldn’t put it past her. “Or I could attend a party in what I own currently and then ask one of the better-dressed ladies who dresses her.” She frowned as she worked through the scenario. “But that would mean my first appearance in public would be in a less than adequate gown, and I don’t want to have the immediate reputation that I am not quite what I should be.” The last few words she said in a pompous voice, and Archie had to smother his grin. The duchess, he’d found, had quite a delightful sense of humor, but she was also likely to be led astray in conversation just as easily, so if he wanted to keep her on track he had to stay as solemn as possible.

  Well, stay solemn and smooth his hair back frequently.

  “I know,” she said slowly, and he leaned back in his chair, judging by her tone that she had come across the answer. “We will interview some lady’s maids, and their first task will be to ensure I am adequately dressed. And I cannot go out in public until I have something that won’t cause a commotion.” She rolled her eyes. “Even though the thought of judging someone by what one wears, or even what one looks like, seems very facile to me.”

  “Unfortunately, that is what people in Society often do, Your Grace.” Not that Archie had suffered from being judged by how he looked; indeed, he knew some of his success working for Lady Sophia was due to his appearance. He would explain something and he could tell when she wasn’t listening and was just—looking at him.

  He wondered if he could do the same thing with the duchess. Although that wouldn’t be appropriate, and it wasn’t as though there was anything he wished to convince her to do.

  There was not.

  He tried to clear his brain of those thoughts. “That sounds like an excellent plan, Your Grace. In fact,” he said, gesturing to the letter she held in her hand, “you’ll notice that I have already inquired about a lady’s maid.”

  She beamed at him. “Of course you did! I will send for the carriage now, if that is convenient with you, Mr. Salisbury.”

  “It is, Your Grace.” He resisted the urge to assure her that he could see through her clothing to the woman underneath, but that wouldn’t be appropriate. Not at all.

  She twisted her mouth up as he spoke, opening it as though to say something, but then just nodded her head.

  He wondered what she had been about to say. And again why he was so curious about her.

  Mr. Salisbury got no less good-looking the more she spent time with him. And what was worse was that he was not unintelligent, as she had first suspected when they’d met. Instead, he was thorough, processing his thoughts and then saying something that was reasoned and well thought out.

  He’d made lists for her, lists that helped to break down and organize what it was she needed to be doing.

  Actually, not what she needed to be doing, since it seemed a duchess didn’t need to do anything, but things she needed to have taken care of. Chandler was assembling his own list of recommendations for the staff—namely who should stay, who should go, and what positions were required—and Mr. Salisbury had assembled a list of her holdings.

  There were a lot of holdings.

  She couldn’t help but resent her father for leaving her with such a mess. After all, he had been trained to be the duke and he had to have known that having the title meant he had the responsibility. But according to Mr. Salisbury, most everything in the estate was in shambles and needed attention. Even though it hadn’t completely fallen apart. Yet.

  So not only had her father not prepared for her succeeding him, he’d also thoroughly mucked everything up during his tenure as duke.

  She’d resent it more, but it meant she got to spend time with Mr. Salisbury. Archibald. He had one piece of hair that kept flopping onto his forehead, and he would brush it back with one strong, long-fingered hand, and for some reason that gesture fascinated her. Plus there was the way he walked into a room—boldly, as though he had every right to be there and expected and demanded attention.

  It had to be partially because of his appearance, Lord knew she couldn’t be the only person to have found him attractive, but it also must have had something to do with him. With the kind of person who would want to join the military, with all its structure and orders and such.

  She admired that, even if she didn’t understand it.

  “I will just go fetch my wrap,” she said, only to stop when he clasped his fingers on her arm.

  “Don’t go yourself. You should send someone. It is what someone in your position would do,” he explained in that low rumble that never failed to send a shiver up her spine. “But you shouldn’t do it as though you were asking them for a favor.” He stood, so close to her she could see his dark pupils in the field of blue in his eyes. “Practice on me.”

  She blinked. “Practice? On you?” she stammered, her whole body, it seemed, directing its focus on the part of her wrist he still held. She glanced down at the spot where their bodies touched.

  He dropped his fingers abruptly, as though he had been burned.

  “Yes,” he said in
a huskier voice. “Practice on me. Assume that you are correct and superior. Tell me what to do, Your Grace.”

  Oh dear Lord. Until he said it she hadn’t thought just what it was she wanted him to do. But now that he had, she knew very well what it was.

  And it was not to fetch her wrap.

  She swallowed, and watched his eyes track the movement of her throat. Which just made her mouth all dry again. “I can’t do that.” I really can’t. Because if I did, you would know what I would want, which is—

  Mudpies. She wanted him to kiss her. To lower his mouth onto hers and do that mashing of lips she’d heard was so popular. She wanted to know what it felt like to be touched by him, and she definitely wanted to know what it was like to touch him.

  She’d felt the strength of his arm as he escorted her into dinner. But that did not sate her curiosity as to what it might look like, what it would feel like to be wrapped up in his arms. To have all that strong, male body under her command as she practiced doing what she wanted to.

  She had to stop this line of thinking or she would embarrass herself. And him. Of course, he was likely accustomed to having ladies gawk at him, but to actually throw themselves at him?

  And her being the unlikely duchess, to boot?

  That would not work. Not at all. She knew that perfectly well, and yet his words—his simple words, “Practice on me”—set off a firestorm of want and need and more want.

  “Could you get my wrap, please?” Even to her own ears, she sounded hesitant. Nearly squeaky. She couldn’t tell him it was because she hadn’t said at all what she wanted to, which was “Could you kiss me, please?”

  “That won’t do.” He crossed his arms over his chest, making it appear even broader. Did he know what he was doing to her? “Remember how you felt when you got angry with the first of your demanding relatives? That is how you want to be.”

  “Angry? I don’t want to be angry.” She’d spent more hours than she should have being angry—angry that her blood relatives didn’t care for her, angry that it seemed she’d been entirely forgotten, except for people who were paid to remember her.

  “It’s not angry, it’s—it’s powerful. As you should be.” He swept his hand out and down toward her. “Look at you.”

  She knew he wasn’t talking about her hideous gown.

  “You’re intelligent, powerful, and well-reasoned.” What about beautiful? a part of her wanted to ask. “You have youth, beauty”—aha!—“and wealth. You shouldn’t have to ask for anything. It should be given to you.”

  “So you’re saying I should march around and demand things?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.

  He folded his arms over that impressive chest again and nodded. “Yes. That is what I am saying.” He tilted his chin toward her. “Try again. I know you can do this.” He sounded determined. Implacable. Commanding.

  “Fine,” she snapped back, feeling the surge of anger within her. Coaxing it to emerge again so she could—of all things—ask for her wrap. No, demand her wrap.

  “Bring me my wrap, please,” she said in what she hoped was a peremptory tone.

  He nodded, shifting from side to side. She couldn’t help but watch him move, see the harnessed grace and strength of that body.

  “Better. But use as few words as possible.”

  “Wrap!” she blurted out in a loud voice, and then began to laugh as she saw his expression. His eyes had widened, and his mouth had dropped open, and he’d even uncrossed his arms. “Isn’t that what you meant?” she said through a torrent of giggles.

  He shook his head and that piece of hair fell forward. She clasped her own hands together so she wouldn’t push it back for him. “You know what I mean, Your Grace,” he said in a stern tone, and then his mouth curled into a smirk, as though he couldn’t keep himself from smiling.

  “You should call me Genevieve,” she said impulsively. He cocked his head as though he hadn’t heard her properly. “Since we are working together, and I don’t really feel like Your Grace.”

  “That is why I am here, Your Grace,” he said dryly. “It would not be appropriate at all for me to address you as Genevieve. And if anyone were to hear me do so—well, that would be an unfortunate mark on how people viewed you.”

  “Fine,” she said, wishing that things, that he, were less stuffy. “But can you just call me Genevieve when we are completely and entirely alone? Where no one even has the possibility of hearing us?”

  Which of course brought all sorts of tantalizing scenarios into her mind, where they were alone together somewhere and it was—well, perhaps where they were was incredibly hot, and to prevent heat exhaustion he’d have to remove his jacket. Maybe also his waistcoat. And she would have to take her shoes and stockings off, although her imagination balked at anything more.

  Even her imagination was prim, she thought sourly.

  “You can call me Archibald, if you want,” he said in a resigned tone.

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Archibald is such a thoroughly proper name. You are not thoroughly proper, are you?” she said, stressing “thoroughly.” “Perhaps a bit overly organized”—and then she stifled her laughter at his look of outrage—“but that is a benefit in your current situation, so I cannot complain,” she added hastily. “But I don’t want to call you Archibald,” she continued, exaggerating how she said his name so it sounded ridiculous.

  “What would you prefer, Your—Genevieve?” he replied, one dark eyebrow rising in what she hoped was amusement.

  “Let me think,” she said, tapping her lip with her index finger. “It would have to be something that properly conveys your personality but without sounding so—so proper as Archibald.”

  “My friends call me Archie,” he said stiffly.

  She beamed at him. “Archie is splendid! I promise, I won’t ever say it where anyone can hear us. It’ll just be when we are alone together.” She paused, then raised her chin and tried to look down her nose at him. Difficult, since he was nearly a foot taller. “Archie, fetch my wrap,” she said in a commanding tone.

  “Yes, Genevieve,” he replied in a strangled voice.

  Letter

  Genevieve:

  You can practice on me anytime.

  Archie

  (not sent)

  Chapter 7

  Archie walked behind the duchess—Genevieve, he supposed he could refer to her in his mind—as she walked down the stairs, her head held high, and her wrap placed just so on her shoulders.

  As he’d arranged it. He had gone to fetch the much-discussed item himself, asking the terrified maid where he might find it in the duchess’s bedroom. Of course that would be the subject of talk belowstairs, but he could squelch that with one stern look. And a raised eyebrow. He’d certainly had practice with that in the army.

  What he couldn’t seem to squelch was his reaction to her. Just now, in his bedroom, of all places, she had told him to call her by her first name. She had laughed at him, and with him, and made the moment between them lighter, simply because it was she. So much of what he’d been feeling lately—a lightness in general—was simply because it was she.

  He did not feel this way about Lady Sophia, or any of the ladies he’d met while in her employ, actually. He hadn’t minded the attention, since it was something to which he was accustomed, but it wasn’t as though he looked forward to seeing any of them in particular. Well, except for Lady Sophia, whose good heart was just irrepressible, if also occasionally irritating.

  But Genevieve. She was something special. A person wholly and entirely unique unto herself. It made him feel unsettled. As though his carefully organized life had gotten shifted somehow.

  And now, he thought with a grim twist to his mouth, he was thinking about her far more than a steward should be thinking about anyone in the aristocracy, much less a duchess.

  If he had met her not as a steward, but as the son of a viscount, he still would not have been worthy to court her. And that alone was reason e
nough to stop thinking that way, and yet, he couldn’t. Couldn’t or wouldn’t, a voice questioned him inside his head.

  Never mind that, his mind retorted irritably. Not just couldn’t or wouldn’t, but shouldn’t.

  But you are here, that same voice pointed out. And she needs your help. So for now you can be thinking about her. Just not that way.

  “Good luck with that,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on her back, on her curves, on how she walked with intent if not confidence.

  She stopped and spun around, her gaze wide and curious. “Pardon?” she said, her eyes lingering on his mouth. He felt her so tangibly it was almost as though she was kissing him, and he had to force himself to exhale.

  “Nothing,” he replied, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “Just reminding myself of something I need to do later,” and then he had to suppress a wince at hearing himself, since what he wanted to do was definitely not what he needed to do. Not at all.

  “Oh,” she said, nodding as though he’d made any kind of sense. Which he hadn’t.

  “Please be seated, Your Grace, Mr. Salisbury.” Miss Ames didn’t seem nearly as nervous as someone in her situation would normally be, attending to a duchess’s request, but from what he had heard, dealing with the aristocracy had become a habit for the Quality Employment Agency. A few of the ladies hired had actually ended up married to their employers, not that that would happen now.

  It would not.

  “Thank you.” Genevieve settled herself in the chair and looked over at Archie, who was waiting for Miss Ames to seat herself. “Did Mr. Salisbury inform you as to the purpose of our visit?” She sounded hesitant. It was only in dealing with Miss Ames, but she would have to practice a more peremptory tone.

  Is that an excuse to spend more time with her? that same voice asked in his head.

  No, she needs this.

  As she doesn’t need you.