My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  This was a big job. And how many more ducal estates were in as poor shape, thanks to her father’s mismanagement? It was daunting, it made her anxious, but it was also the most fun she’d had in her entire life. Most importantly, it was her fun.

  “What are you looking at?”

  She jumped at his voice. “Nothing. There’s nothing to see out there. Only . . .” and then she paused, since she felt foolish. But if she was to consider him a friend, she should treat him as one, shouldn’t she?

  “Only there’s so much to do.” She turned around to face him. He was so very large, it struck her anew each time she saw him. “And it’s not as though I think I can’t do it—I know I can. It is that there is so much to do, and so many people are going to want to see me fail, and—”

  “And just as many are going to want to see you succeed,” he interrupted.

  “Yes, of course.” She waved her hand to brush that aside. “Those people, however, are people like me. That is, not precisely like me, I am the woman in charge, but I am a woman. I don’t have any intrinsic power. If it weren’t for this external thing that has happened to me, I would be as powerless as any of the people who depend on the duchy for their livelihoods. It’s unnerving.”

  He stayed motionless. That unnerved her also. When he did speak, however, it was as though he’d actually heard her. “I have never thought about that. Coming at it from that perspective.” He drew closer, and she could make out the fierce lines of concentration in his expression. “I have always accepted that people in power have more power than the people who don’t. And yet—and yet why is that? It’s just something we accept. Which is why your estates are in such a tangle. Because no one told your father, or he didn’t recognize it, that his title was more than just power. It takes a lot of bravery to be the person in power who comprehends that their power is a responsibility, not a right.”

  “So you’re saying that by being concerned that I am actually brave?” She put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. “That is an equation I am not certain I can sort out.” She walked forward to stand in front of him, putting her hands on his forearms. Looking up at him in the dark, feeling the piercing light of his eyes focused on her. “I do know I don’t think I could be brave without you.”

  He looked at her, not speaking, and she saw how his throat moved as he swallowed. And felt the muscles in his forearms shift, as though he were about to move. And then he grasped her elbows and drew her into his body, lowering his head to place his mouth on hers.

  Letter

  Genevieve:

  I couldn’t help myself.

  Archie

  (not sent)

  Chapter 12

  He hadn’t meant to kiss her. But as soon as she spoke, he couldn’t help himself. And when he did?

  Well, when he did he had to wonder why he hadn’t done it before.

  Because she tasted delicious. Not that he knew precisely what she tasted of; it wasn’t as though she had just been eating strawberries, and so her lips were berry-flavored. It was that her mouth was warm, and soft, and tasted sweet.

  He licked her mouth and she sighed. He could feel how she leaned into him, her exhalation making something unbend within her. Toward him.

  Her hands were working their way up his arm, her fingers gripping as they slid up, toward his shoulders. He heard her make a small sound in the back of her throat, and he felt his cock harden in response. She twined her fingers at the nape of his neck and he could feel how she stretched up, her mouth pressing as much against his as he was pressing his mouth against hers.

  He licked her mouth again, this time pressing in, hoping she would widen her lips so he could thrust his tongue inside. Taste her even more thoroughly.

  She did, and he felt her start of surprise and how her fingers tightened in his hair as his tongue entered. She had never been kissed. At least not properly.

  There was something so primal and male about being proud that one was the first one to kiss a lady, but he couldn’t deny how it made him feel—like he should go beat his chest and proclaim her his. Even though she was absolutely her own woman, and what was more, she had infinitely more social standing than he.

  But he wouldn’t spend time thinking about that, not now, not when she was melting in his arms, a palpable warmth licking between them, her tongue now chasing his as she learned—quickly—the proper way to kiss.

  He had decided to come here to ensure she was doing things properly, hadn’t he?

  Although he couldn’t have anticipated this.

  This was chaos, but it was a delicious, welcome chaos.

  Now she was leaning more into him, so close he could feel how her breasts pressed against his lower chest, how her body was moving insistently toward him.

  His hands had found their way to her waist, and he spread his fingers so his fingertips were at the small of her back. It took everything in his wavering willpower not to reach lower, to caress the curves of her arse, to slide his hand around to the place he longed to bury himself. He couldn’t do that, though. A kiss was one thing, but all of that? Given that he was likely the first gentleman of her approximate age that she had ever met? He could not take advantage of her. If he did, he would be as reprehensible as all those grasping relatives he was trying to keep away from her.

  Although the experience would be far more pleasant for both of them than just doling out money and power.

  Instead, he reached his hand up to cup her cheek, caressing the soft skin of her face, burying his fingers in her thick hair as he continued to kiss her. Plundering her mouth with his tongue as she reciprocated, a delightfully equal balance of power that made him want to cede control to her, to see what she’d do with him.

  The thought made him even harder, the image of her practicing on him, only instead of asking for her wrap, it would be for more. So much more. Which he would be pleased to give to her.

  “Mm,” she murmured, and her fingers began to travel down his back, toward his—

  At which point he broke the kiss, stumbling back from the contact. From their contact.

  She looked steadily at him, not shrieking, or pouting, or doing anything but just standing there, an intense look in her eyes. The weak candlelight sent flickers of shadow over her face, and he caught his breath at how beautiful and mysterious she looked.

  Before, when he’d just met her, he’d thought her pretty. But now? Now he was entirely fascinated by her looks, from the dark hair that was coming undone because of his fingers, to her dark eyes and kiss-swollen mouth. She looked gloriously undone, and he had made her that way. He’d disheveled her, he’d untidied her, and he couldn’t regret it.

  “That was . . .” she began, and then he felt relief, because she sounded as shaky and confused and chaotic as he felt. “That was . . .” she started again, then shook her head in clear frustration. “I should go to bed.” And then she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, her eyebrows raised. “I didn’t mean—mudpies,” she said, sounding entirely embarrassed.

  “I will show you to your bedroom,” Archie replied, stressing the “your.” He kept his tone as calm and measured as he could, given that all he wanted to do was claim her mouth again and thrust his cock into her, all warm and willing.

  “Yes, please.” She walked past him to the chair with his coat, picking it up and holding it out to him. “You should take this; Clarkson can likely do something to set it to rights. Once she arrives, that is,” she added, another reminder that they were essentially alone. In a large house. With bedrooms that were not too far from each other.

  Stop it, Archie, he warned himself. She is not for you, and you are not for her. No matter that kissing her felt like home. Or that he had never felt the layered emotions of protection, and desire, and a sympathy that made him want to be a better man.

  He’d be a worse man if he acted on his emotions. More than he had done already, he noted ruefully to himself.

  “As for this,” he said, gesturing to
the space between them, a space that hadn’t existed when they’d been kissing, “I do apologize, it was entirely my fault. I should not have . . .” and he paused, the frustration at not being able to do or say what he wanted—to kiss her and to tell her he wanted to take her to bed, respectively—making his breath short and his chest tight. “I should not have, and if you would like me to leave, I would understand.”

  “No!” she burst out, almost before he was done speaking. She advanced toward him, his coat over one arm. “No,” she repeated in a softer tone. She held his coat out to him. “You cannot leave, not just because of a kiss. It didn’t—it doesn’t mean anything, I need your help.”

  It doesn’t mean anything? Had she experienced the same kiss he had?

  Suddenly he wasn’t so certain about the warm and willing part. Perhaps it was just another experience she had yet to have that she could now cross off her list. It was his duty to help her do things she had no experience with, after all.

  Perhaps she just saw the kiss as another extension of his duties.

  He took the coat from her, not speaking, then gestured for her to leave the room, picking the candle up as she began to walk. She didn’t turn around, didn’t even seem to notice that he was directly behind her. That he could step forward and enfold her in his arms again.

  Damn it.

  She paused in the hallway and then she did look at him, her head tilted questioningly.

  “Just up here,” he muttered, walking up the stairs. He held the candle aloft so she could see her way up, a coiled tension moving through his body.

  Doesn’t mean anything. He was tempted to just stop right there on the stairs and give her a kiss that would mean something, but that wouldn’t be right. And besides, he wasn’t confident he could kiss any better than he just had—he’d felt more connected and engaged than he had ever felt with a woman before, but if she thought it didn’t mean anything? Was just another experience?

  His masculine pride, he had to admit, was shaken. Which absolutely meant he should pretend it didn’t mean anything, either, just continue to advise her and try to forget how her mouth felt, how she moaned and stroked his hair.

  All of that.

  “Here is your bedroom,” he said as they reached the next floor. Wickes had flung the door open and had managed to build a small fire in the fireplace. It was otherwise dreary, but at least she wouldn’t be cold. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about her in a cold bed, wondering if he should—

  “Thank you, Mr. Salisbury,” she said in a low voice. “I hope Clarkson and the second carriage has not suffered an accident. Please do wake me if they arrive in the middle of the night?”

  She didn’t have a night rail with her. All of her clothing was in the second carriage, and she was still wearing one of her old, drab gowns.

  But he couldn’t inquire about that, could he, since that would be inappropriate even if he hadn’t kissed her. But more so because he had.

  He nodded, unable to find the right words. All the wrong words buzzed around in his brain—what do you mean it doesn’t mean anything? Were you just being kind, as you are to all the servants?—although he knew that wasn’t the case.

  Were you just being kind, as you would to a friend? Is this how you think friends behave with each other?

  “Good night, Mr. Salisbury,” she said at last. “Sleep well.”

  And she walked into the bedroom without another word. Without another glance back at him.

  Leaving him alone with his chaotic thoughts.

  Letter

  Dear Archie,

  That was by far the most wonderful experience I have ever had, kissing you (as though you didn’t know to what I was referring). I am shaken. I am shook. I want to storm down the hallway and demand you kiss me some more, only that is not at all what I can possibly do.

  If I hadn’t become a duchess, and needed help, I would never have met you. But because I am a duchess, I can never—well, you know. That. Again.

  I wish it were possible to both be yourself and be someone else. What would it have been like if I had been just a governess? Meeting the steward of a nearby estate?

  Would you have wanted to kiss me as much then? Would you have kissed me at all?

  Sincerely,

  Genevieve

  (not sent)

  Chapter 13

  Genevieve leaned against the door, her heart still pounding from the kiss. The kiss. Her first and likely the best she would ever have. Because how could anything be any better?

  Her fingers still tingled from where she had touched him. She raised her hand to her mouth and touched her lips. They still tingled also.

  From where his mouth had touched hers.

  She still couldn’t quite believe it had happened. That he had wanted to kiss her, even though she was frightened of lightning, and spiders, and needed help with almost everything she had to do.

  She wished she had a friend—well, a friend besides him—with whom she could discuss all these feelings. It felt, in fact, as though the feelings were almost too much for her body; it felt as though they were going to burst out of her and land on the floor in a profusion of feelingness.

  A wry grin curled her mouth when she thought about his reaction to her words after—so obviously piqued that she hadn’t said it was the best thing ever. But she couldn’t, not without meaning to take the next logical step, and she knew she was unable to take that step—marriage, and everything that went with it—with a man who worked for a living, who wasn’t one of the lofty few upon whom she could bestow her hand.

  That he was a viscount’s son wouldn’t matter if he had sullied his hands with any kind of work.

  She walked to the enormous bed, glancing around at the room. It—obviously—appeared as though it hadn’t been used in some time, but it didn’t look neglected. The furniture was light and elegant, typical of the style in previous decades, and she thought she preferred that to the heavy stuff that decorated her London home.

  The bed’s covers were pulled back invitingly, and she got onto the end of the bed, entirely forgetting she was a duchess and should be more regal about it.

  And then stopped short as she realized she did not have anything to sleep in, and more to the point, couldn’t get out of the gown she was wearing.

  Mudpies. Either sleep in her gown, which was the gown she had for tomorrow, or she’d have to go down the hallway and ask Archie—Mr. Salisbury—to undo her buttons.

  Neither choice was good.

  She weighed her options.

  And came to the inevitable conclusion.

  “Drat,” she said, picking the candle up and stepping back out into the hall and toward his room.

  The door swung open quicker than she would have thought. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he had opened the door—it was his door, after all—but she jumped nonetheless.

  Or perhaps that was because of his appearance.

  He’d taken off his coat, and rolled his shirtsleeves up. Not to mention removed the cravat at his neck so she was presented with a tremendous amount of skin. Salisbury skin. All exposed, with some intriguing black hair on parts of it, and she heard herself inhale rather suddenly.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together in concern.

  “Fine,” she managed to gasp out, trying to keep her eyes fixed on his face. Not on his strong throat, or bare forearms, or the hint of where his chest began.

  Now she wished she could summon a stronger expletive than “mudpies.” But she couldn’t think of anything at the moment. Her whole vision was filled with him, with his height and his skin and how his eyes showed concern, yes, but also a hint of what she thought was interest. In her.

  “What are you doing here?” he said at last.

  “Uh,” she began, wondering if it was too late to scurry back to her room and just sleep upright so she wouldn’t wrinkle her gown, “I can’t . . .” and she raised her arm and pointed down at her back, hoping she wouldn
’t have to ask him.

  “Can’t what?” His eyebrows were no longer pulled together in a concerned vee, but now he just looked confused.

  She would have to ask him.

  “Can you undo the buttons in back here so I can remove my gown?” She felt her face get hot.

  And watched as his cheeks started to turn pink. It only made him look better, whereas she was willing to bet she looked like she had stuck her face into a fire.

  He made a gesture that indicated she should turn around, accompanied with some inarticulate murmurings. At least it seemed he was affected as well.

  His fingers brushed the nape of her neck, and she shivered. He undid the buttons swiftly, faster than her previous terror-stricken maid. Not as fast as Clarkson, of course, but it wasn’t his profession.

  “Uh—that is done,” he said in a low voice. “Unless you need more undone?” The last part of that sentence emerged as a croak.

  “It should be fine,” she replied. She turned back to face him, acutely conscious that his fingers had been undoing her buttons and now her gown was partially undone, and here they were, just the two of them. “Good night,” she said, nearly sprinting down the hall back to her room.

  Because if she had stood there any longer she might have said something she would regret. Well, not she, but the duchess part of her. The only reason she was here at this forgotten estate in the first place.

  She slammed the door behind her, wincing as she heard just how loud it was. And now she had embarrassed herself yet again in front of him.