My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  “Well, of course battle is frightening,” she interrupted.

  “Shh, I’m not done.”

  She smiled and clamped her mouth shut.

  “As I was saying, the guns were blazing,”

  “The cannon was blazing. It was the sound of guns.”

  He huffed a sigh. “Are you going to let me finish, Duchess?”

  He got only a tiny chuckle in reply. “There was all this noise, and we were accustomed to it. It didn’t frighten us anymore.”

  And wasn’t that the worst truth about war? But he was trying to cheer her up, not lower his own spirits. “And then there was this screech that interrupted all of it, and we all froze, terrified that it was ghosts, or a sudden attack, or something.”

  “What was it?”

  He lowered his mouth to her ear. “It was a group of owls, out hunting.”

  “That’s called a parliament.”

  He drew back, his eyebrows raised. “Is it? That makes more sense than it should, doesn’t it? Screeching hungry birds out searching for innocent mice to eat.”

  She laughed, as he meant her to. “I’ll have to take my place there, eventually. In Parliament, not amongst the owls,” she clarified.

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Since that night I swear most of the men were scared of owls. Not me, of course,” he added.

  “Of course,” she echoed, a mocking tone in her voice.

  The carriage lurched more, and her hands tightened around his waist.

  He tried not to think of how good it felt, how right it felt. It wasn’t right. He wouldn’t go so far as to say it was wrong—they hadn’t done anything yet, precisely—but this was as far as it could go. He needed to remind himself of that. And also remind himself that he could not and should not react to her touch. Even though he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her taste.

  Letter

  Archie:

  Thank you for listening to my concerns on the journey.

  More importantly, thank for listening.

  Genevieve

  (not sent—yet)

  Chapter 10

  “I should let you go,” Genevieve said after a few minutes. She didn’t think the thunder sounded that bad anymore. Although perhaps it was because her heart was thundering now.

  He didn’t reply, just rubbed her shoulder with his hand. Which felt substantially different from when Gran touched her. Probably because Gran was not the handsomest man she’d ever seen, for one thing. Nor was she tall and broad, conveying power and safety all at once.

  “The storm is receding,” he assured her, his hand still moving in slow circles on her shoulder. “It seems as though your coachman should be retained; he has done a very good job of getting us through the storm.”

  Genevieve smiled in the depths of his waistcoat. Another servant who would be allowed to stay in the duchess’s employ. She did hate to have to let them go just because her father had been a terrible master, not guiding them in the way they should be doing their jobs.

  “I can hear you smiling, you know,” he said in a rumble, the deep notes of his voice palpable in her body.

  She withdrew from his comfort, wishing she didn’t immediately want to dive back into his arms. “It feels as though we are here,” she said as she felt the carriage slow. She looked out the window, but couldn’t make out anything but the shape of a large house, thanks to the rain and the trees and the darkness.

  Darkness. A candle burned in only one of the windows. “Did you inform the staff we were coming?” she said, visions of huddling in a dark, cold house suddenly haunting her.

  Although they would have to stay warm . . .

  Stop that, Genevieve, she admonished herself.

  “I did. I sent a letter that should have already arrived.” He leaned over her to peer out the window. “I did not have high hopes that they would be able to put things to rights in such a short time, but I would have expected more than one meager candle.” He drew back and met her gaze, an amused look in his eyes. “At least the candle indicates someone is within, so there is that, at least.”

  The coach came to a stop as Genevieve’s eyes widened. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she said in an accusing voice. “All of this means you get to plan and organize and be useful.”

  She spoke in humor, but his reply was serious. “Yes, Duchess. All I want is to be useful.”

  It was true. He did want to be useful. But now he knew he wanted more than that, wanted things he couldn’t get. Things he shouldn’t even be thinking about.

  He pushed all that away as he helped her down from the carriage, steadying her as she faltered on the muddy ground.

  “Mudpies,” she said, looking down at her feet. “There’s another reason I hate storms. Wet feet.”

  “Mudpies?” he asked.

  “Not literally. It’s just something I say. So I don’t say anything worse.” She glanced up at him with an amused look that turned serious as she looked searchingly at his face. “Are you all right?” she asked, smoothing a piece of hair away from her face. She glanced down the road, not waiting for his reply. “I hope the second carriage arrives soon. I would not want Miss—that is, Clarkson to have suffered any kind of mishap due to the storm. Yet another reason to hate storms,” she said grumpily.

  “Clarkson is able to take care of herself,” Archie assured her, trying to hide the amusement in his voice.

  Apparently not well enough, since she glared at him and made a hmph noise that was both damning and adorable.

  “Let us go inside and see what awaits us,” Archie said, taking her elbow and guiding her toward the front door. “Unload the luggage and stable the horses,” he directed the coachman, who had dismounted and was at the horses’ heads. The man nodded in reply.

  Archie didn’t bother with knocking; it was raining, there was only one candle inside, and besides, she owned the house and everything surrounding it.

  The door swung open, a loud creak of warped wood announcing their presence. He put his arm in front of her as she was about to step inside. “Let me go first,” he ordered, not waiting for her reply as he stepped over the threshold into the gloomy foyer.

  He felt her behind him, so close that if he turned around, she’d be—well. He shouldn’t be thinking of that. “Anyone here?” he called, his voice echoing around the empty room. He walked to where the candle was on the ledge and snatched it up, holding it over his head.

  What he saw was as he’d imagined—a clearly neglected house, a few odd pieces of furniture scattered about, nothing to give the impression that the house had been cared for or even had people residing in it.

  “There has to be someone here, though,” he muttered.

  Just as he spoke, he heard a shuffling as a person walked into the room.

  “Good evening!” a cheery voice rang out, completely at odds with the overall gloom of the house.

  “Good evening,” Genevieve replied, as friendly as if they were meeting on the street, not in the hallway of her own poorly treated possession.

  A man made his way toward them slowly, an obvious limp hampering his progress. “Your Grace, I assume?” He didn’t wait for her affirmation. “I knew you would come, I left the candle burning just in case it was this evening. Terrible storm, isn’t it?” He came close enough for Archie to see him. An older man, perhaps in his fifties, he had a welcoming smile on his face, with no hint that things were not as they should be here. “I am Wickes, the caretaker here. And the butler, the groundskeeper, the gardener, and whatever else needs to be done.”

  He spoke with glee as he recited his various positions, and Archie could only gawk at the man. Did he not see what was—and more specifically wasn’t—happening here?

  “Thank you for your service, Wickes,” Genevieve said. “Perhaps you would be able to make us some tea? Or is there a cook?”

  “No cook,” Wickes said, beaming. “I do all the cooking here.”

  “It is just you, then?” Archie couldn’t
take it anymore, his words sounding as though they were shot out of a cannon. He could feel the disorganization flowing around him like a tangible thing.

  “Well, there are a few maids that come in to air out the house every so often. And of course the overseer,” and then his face did lose some of its cheery charm.

  The overseer. Of course, Archie thought. Put someone in charge and they were as likely to overstep their authority and look out solely for themselves, not do what was actually good.

  Except, he had to amend, for her. She was in power and yet she was neither shirking her duty nor taking advantage of it.

  He thought he could include himself in that as well—he wanted to do what was best and right for his men. And now for her.

  “The overseer, where is he?” Archie tried to keep himself from sounding as though he were barking orders, but judging from her indrawn breath, he was not successful.

  “Why, he’s in to town, as usual,” Wilkes replied, apparently not bothered by being barked at. Perhaps that explained his friendly countenance. Maybe he didn’t know when he was being taken advantage of, or if things were not as they should be.

  “In town?”

  Wilkes nodded. “That’s right. He goes to town most every night to the pub. The Golden Stars, it is,” as though the name of the pub was important.

  “Does this overseer—what is his name?”

  “Leonards.”

  “This Leonards, what are his duties? Since it sounds as though you do everything.” Poorly, Archie wanted to add, but that was hardly the man’s fault—the estate, from what he’d read in the duchess’s documents, was enormous, and it would take twenty Wilkeses to keep it up.

  “He collects the rents, deals with the tenants, makes improvements.”

  “Ah. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Salisbury?” Genevieve’s voice was soft, but no less commanding. To him, at least.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Perhaps we can save the discussion of what Mr. Leonards does until after we have had tea and gotten a chance to sit down.”

  Archie wanted to punch himself in the nose for his thoughtlessness. “I am so sorry, Your Grace. Wilkes, could you see about that tea? And perhaps direct us to one of the sitting rooms?”

  “Certainly,” Wilkes agreed. He picked up the candle from the window and frowned at it as though trying to figure out what to do.

  Archie emitted an exasperated sigh and strode over to a side table at the far end of the room where he could just barely discern some candles there. He walked back and held his unlit candle out so Wickes could light it.

  “Just so,” Wickes enthused as the candle’s flame got larger for a moment. “Go on in through there, that is what we call the Owl Room, on account of what it has a stuffed owl in there.”

  “The Owl Room, hm?” Genevieve said in an amused tone.

  “And I’ll be back as soon as I can with your tea. Can’t account for if the milk is entirely fresh, though. I’ll take a sniff.”

  “You do that,” Archie said as he took Genevieve’s arm, guiding her toward the coincidentally named Owl Room. “When is Leonards likely to return?”

  Wilkes pondered. “In a storm like this, he’ll probably stay overnight at the inn. So maybe tomorrow mid-morning?”

  “Mid-morning,” Archie repeated. The missing Leonards seemed to be so bad at his job, likely even the duchess would agree he should be let go.

  The thought that he could take Leonards’s position—that he could work here, organize what needed to be done, that he could work for her, but not be with her so he was tempted—it was very appealing.

  Although for right now his only concern could be making sure she was comfortable. Not made uncomfortable by anything he said or did.

  Letter

  Dear Genevieve,

  I want to be useful. To you. In so many ways, with only a few of them appropriate to our respective positions. I need to stop this way of thinking immediately, I need to do what needs to be done, I cannot jeopardize your position and your reputation with my own wants and desires. I tell myself that, and yet it is as though there is another voice in my head urging me to forget duty, for once. Forget listening to what I should do. For once, do something that feels right rather than what is actually right.

  This way of thinking; it’s dangerous. It’s wrong.

  And yet it makes me burn.

  Archie

  (not sent)

  Chapter 11

  Archie led her into the Owl Room, holding the lit candle in one hand and her arm in the other. Her skirts felt as though they were picking things up as she walked, and she shuddered at the thought of what might be swept up in there.

  “Are you cold?” he asked in a concerned tone.

  “No, thank you. I am fine,” she said, using a more emphatic tone than was necessary so as to convince herself as well as him. If she were cold, he would want to warm her up, and—well, she shouldn’t be thinking about that.

  “Sit here,” he said, withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket and whacking at a chair that was pulled up to the fireplace—even though there was no fire.

  Genevieve coughed as dust went down her throat. “Are you certain?” she said, eyeing the chair skeptically. “I can just as well stand.”

  He looked at the chair for a moment, and Genevieve could practically hear the wheels of his thoughts spinning in his head. Then he took his jacket off and laid it down on top of the seat cushion before she could object.

  “No, you can’t—you’ll ruin your jacket!” she expostulated.

  “Too late. It’s already ruined, if it is to be ruined,” he said with a shrug. “If you don’t sit, my sacrifice will be for naught. You don’t want my sacrifice to be for naught, do you? That would be completely illogical.” He had crossed his arms over his chest as he spoke, and looked so thoroughly in command it managed to both annoy her and intrigue her.

  As he had done from the first time they’d corresponded. Although the balance was far less annoying than it had been originally.

  She plopped down on the seat, wondering if the ability to lower oneself gracefully into a chair was something normal aristocrats knew how to do. He unfolded his arms and leaned over her, so close she wondered if he was going to—

  “Hold on, there’s a spider in your hair,” he said, so calmly that at first it didn’t register. But then—

  “Ack!” She leaped up so quickly she catapulted into his arms, feeling him enfold her as she froze.

  “You are afraid of spiders as well as lightning, Your Grace?” His tone was amused.

  She was not.

  She scowled in the confines of his waistcoat. Then drew back and tilted her head so she could look at him. Even in the flickering light of the dodgy candle, he was stunning. It didn’t make her any less angry, but it was a more pleasant anger, she had to admit.

  “It is not as though those two fears are completely unreasonable,” she said in as haughty a tone as she could muster. Given that she was currently being held by her temporary steward in a house that had seen many better days as some sort of eight-legged creature went on its way after making merry in her hair. “Spiders, lightning. Some people are even frightened of owls,” she added, emphasizing the word. “There are plenty of fears, reasonable and unreasonable. Is there a limit to how many things may frighten one? Besides, I am not frightened of spiders as much as not wishing them to take up residence anywhere near me.”

  “No disrespect meant,” he said, his tone still amused, damn him.

  “Just you wait,” she said with a hmph. “I’ll find out what terrifies you and I’ll—I’ll go and sneak it into your bed when you’re not looking.”

  “You terrify me, Duchess,” he murmured, only to stop speaking as they heard Wilkes’s return. She withdrew, but slowly, just in case the spider was still about hoping to return to the place of its former triumph.

  “Tea, Your Grace, Mr.—what was your name?”

  “Salisbury.”

&nbs
p; “Mr. Salisbury. Well, if you could just move those thingamabobs I can place the tea down.” Wickes nodded to the table next to the chair with the coat.

  “Of course,” Archie said, removing all the whatever-they-weres off the table. “Please go ahead.”

  “Well, I don’t have much, I knew you were arriving, but I wasn’t certain when, and Mr. Leonards controls the funds for the estate.”

  “I would imagine he does,” Archie said in a low voice that promised some sort of reckoning with Mr. Leonards.

  She’d have to tell him it was important that she be the one to deal with the man. If she was to have any authority at all, to know what she was doing, and to have people respect her—well, she’d have to do it herself.

  Even though people in her position seldom did things themselves. But then again, people in her position were even more seldom unmarried females. So she would be rewriting the rules.

  “But I did manage to find some eggs, so I’ve soft-boiled them with a bit of toast and some tea. The milk hadn’t gone off, and there was a wee bit of sugar.”

  He clapped his hands together and looked from one to the other. “If there’s not anything else, it’s time for Mr. Wickes to head to bed! I have an early day tomorrow, now that you’ve arrived you’ll want to see Blakesley Estate at its best!”

  Genevieve smiled back at him. He was clearly a dear soul, and he likely couldn’t help it that the house was in such poor shape. Or maybe he hadn’t noticed. “Thank you, Mr. Wickes, we will be fine. That is—could you just show Mr. Salisbury where our bedrooms are? And the linens, of course.”

  “Took care of that when I heard you were on your way. Here, let me show you,” he said, walking out of the room followed by Archie.

  Leaving her alone with a half-burned candle, a full array of tea, and a dangerously homeless spider.

  She brushed at her skirts and walked to one of the windows that overlooked the front of the house. It was too dark to get any more than a vague idea of the property, of course, but she could see a large row of trees flanking the driveway they’d driven up. The window itself was large, running from floor to ceiling, and there were more windows along the length of the room. It was probably a lovely, impressive room at one point, before the dust and the spiders and the general dilapidated state of the entire house.