My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  “No.” A moment. “I’m not.”

  Was that why she had turned so readily to Archie? Why it felt so good to be held by him? She couldn’t help but think it was more than that, far more, which made it only too dangerous to think on.

  “Let me slide your sleeves off,” Clarkson said, oblivious—thank God—to the turmoil inside Genevieve’s mind. The fabric slid over Genevieve’s breasts, and she shuddered, recalling his fingers. His touch.

  She had had no idea that the simple act of a man touching a woman there would be so powerful. And imagine if he put his fingers elsewhere. Did men put their fingers there? She had to think so. At least, she could see Archie doing just that, sliding his fingers down her arm, to her waist, then lower down.

  “Are you cold?” Clarkson said in a concerned voice. “Because it seems like you’re shivering.”

  No, I’m burning up, Genevieve wanted to retort, only of course she couldn’t.

  “I am fine.”

  Clarkson placed the back of her hand to Genevieve’s forehead. “I hope you’re not getting sick.”

  If only it were that simple, Genevieve thought. She stepped out of her gown and waited as Clarkson picked it up and shook it out. “I feel fine, I cannot get sick, there is too much to do.” And there was—there were more workers arriving tomorrow, and she had to go over more paperwork with Archie—Mr. Salisbury, that is—and now she had houseguests, of all things, and she also had to plan when to return to London.

  She should return soon, she knew that. Not just because she was dreading it so much that she knew it was something she should face. She should ask Archie as to the best way to approach it—to devise some sort of strategy for it, so she wouldn’t be caught unawares, and so she had the best chance of facing it all without feeling panicky, or having to leave early.

  Although if she had to leave early, he would leave with her, which would mean—no. She couldn’t think like that. Gran would be with her, would be chaperoning her. Even though Gran was blind. What if they—?

  No, that wasn’t right, either.

  She had to pretend none of it had happened.

  Ha. As though she could forget any of it. She had the feeling she’d be reliving those moments in the carriage for a very long time. She could just see herself—a spinster duchess hiding out in one of her numerous estates—thinking about that one time that she had been treated as a woman, not as a duchess, or really as a lady.

  When she had done something, acted on her desires, and reveled in the consequences.

  “Now your chemise,” Clarkson said, gesturing to Genevieve.

  “Oh yes, of course,” Genevieve replied, undoing the ties at the neck. Clarkson bent down to draw the garment over her head, then held her night rail out to her, her eyes averted.

  “Thank you,” Genevieve replied. “Clarkson,” she said from the depths of the gown, “do you think it is wrong for me not to wish I had to do all these things I apparently have to do?”

  She emerged from the gown, her hair coming entirely undone. She blinked at Clarkson, who was regarding her with a raised eyebrow.

  “What?” she asked. Did she look ridiculous? Well, of course she did. She’d been thoroughly kissed in a carriage, was entirely in a muddle about it, and her hair was untidy. Again.

  Clarkson didn’t say any of those things, however. “I would have to be concerned about your intelligence if you felt any differently.” She adjusted Genevieve’s night rail, then stepped back and nodded. “I believe the remainder of your gowns should be on their way here soon, likely arriving within a few days. Mrs. Hardwick included a note with this one saying as much.”

  More gowns. More duties. Less time to be able to spend with him.

  At least she’d be dressed gorgeously as she slid toward the inexorable twin terrors of panic and responsibility. So she had that in her corner.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.” Miss Evelyn glanced shyly up at Genevieve, a teacup in her hand. She looked very pretty, dressed in a morning gown made of light-colored fabric and stamped all over with tiny flowers. “I hope you are feeling better this morning?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Genevieve replied, gesturing to the footman—one of the new gentlemen—that she would like some tea. “Did you stay at the assembly for much longer?”

  Miss Evelyn shook her head, sending a cascade of curls dancing about her shoulders. “My brother didn’t see what the point was if you—that is,” she corrected, blushing furiously, “we had traveled a long way yesterday and we were both tired as well.”

  Genevieve hid her smile as she drank her tea. Sir William was going to have to find a way to keep his sister from making artless comments once they were in proper London society. And she did have to admit she was flattered he was so intent on the possibility of wooing her. Not that she could even think about such a thing, not with what had happened in the carriage.

  Maybe that was an indication that she wasn’t as susceptible to gentlemen as she had worried? Since she had never met any, she had thought that when she did meet some, she would be swept away by their general . . . gentlemanliness.

  No, it turned out she could be swept away, but only by one gentleman in particular. At least one out of the two in her current acquaintance.

  She should probably test out the gentleman waters more thoroughly before she made a decision about how susceptible she was. So there might be hope for Sir William after all.

  “Your Grace, would you be so kind as to show me around the gardens this afternoon?” Miss Evelyn took a bite of toast after she spoke, a dab of butter landing on top of her lip.

  “That would be lovely,” Genevieve replied. She gestured to Miss Evelyn’s mouth. “You’ve got a bit of . . .” she began, then Miss Evelyn turned an even deeper shade of red as she wiped at her mouth with a napkin.

  It was good to know that there was someone in the world who blushed as furiously and deeply as Genevieve did.

  The door to the dining room swung open to allow Sir William to enter.

  “Good morning,” he said, allowing the footman to draw his chair out for him. “Your Grace, I trust you are feeling well this morning?” His brows were drawn together in an expression of concern.

  “Yes, thank you. Your sister and I will be touring the gardens this afternoon, if you would care to join us?”

  He leaned back in his chair as the footman placed a plate of food in front of him. “Yes, that would be pleasant,” he said as he put marmalade on his toast.

  Genevieve drummed her fingers on her thigh under the table. Was this what life was going to be? Was this what it should be? Tea and blushing and marmalade and gardens and talk of things being pleasant? It all just felt so dull. Not at all what she’d hoped for when she’d thought about what it would be like to have friends or be an adult, never mind be a duchess.

  She stifled a yawn and drank more tea. At least the tea was delicious, even if everything else was bland.

  Letter

  Dear Mr. Salisbury,

  We should begin discussing plans to return to London much as I don’t wish to enter Society. Then again, I don’t seem to want to do anything but spend time with you.

  Sir William and Miss Evelyn have expressed that they wish to accompany us, since Miss Evelyn has a particular friend she wishes to see is desirous of renewing her acquaintance in town.

  Sir William is no doubt trying to secure me as a wife.

  Do you suppose we will be able to return within a week? We should endeavor to spend time alone together practicing what I will face upon entering Society.

  Duchess

  Chapter 19

  “What do you want to practice first?” Archie clenched his jaw as he tried to keep his voice neutral. Not the voice of someone who’d been thinking about an event for the last five days.

  The estate was on its way to not being the worst of the duchess’s holdings; more former soldiers had arrived, and Mr. Wickes had been officially appointed as the steward, despite his protestations that he
wasn’t worthy. Archie retorted that the only thing he wasn’t worthy of was being the sole cook, for the aforementioned shepherd’s pie reason.

  Sir William and Miss Evelyn were still in residence, but Sir William seemed to have recognized his earlier misstep with the duchess, and was now being more discreet in his pursuit of her.

  If the sight of him didn’t enrage Archie, he might even admit the gentleman was going about his courtship the right way—asking her for her opinions, complimenting her gently on her appearance. Being there when she needed it, but not stepping in to take care of things. Allowing her to ask for help rather than just assuming she couldn’t handle it herself.

  “We should practice my interacting with people.” She sounded anxious, and he wished he could just step toward her and take her in his arms.

  It wouldn’t reduce her anxiety, but it would make him feel better.

  It was a feeling he’d had most of the past few days, when he hadn’t been engrossed in reviewing accounts, calculating potential expenses, and instructing the new employees as to their positions. He’d also heard troubling news that Mr. Leonards had been hanging around the village, making pointed comments about what the duchess and her temporary steward were doing together so often.

  Not what Archie wished they were doing, that was for certain.

  This was one of the first times they’d been alone together since that evening in the carriage. It was early afternoon, and he’d seized on the chance to be with her after he’d received her letter.

  “Interactions like social interactions? With people you have just met?” He hadn’t realized the impact her isolated childhood had had on her, not until he’d seen how she’d come close to panic that evening at the assembly. She was so much more comfortable among the servants, with people who weren’t constantly assessing her importance versus theirs. That distinction existed, of course, but she was so much more comfortable that she was able to put everyone—including herself—at ease.

  “That would be best.” She bit her lip, keeping her gaze fixed past his shoulder. As she did when she was thinking of something that made her feel awkward. That he had gotten to know her so well to recognize that sign was—well, he was grateful for it, but he also already missed her in his life. Even though she was directly in front of him.

  “We will start slowly,” Archie replied. “How about I am a debutante who has just made your acquaintance? We can move up to the Queen.”

  She laughed, as he’d meant her to. “I will have much in common with a debutante,” she replied. “Not as much the Queen.”

  “Although you are both powerful women.”

  She grimaced. “Don’t remind me. The Queen, at least, knew she might be Queen someday. And she has a mother who is there to help her, even if that help might be unwelcome.” She shook her head as she flapped her hands in the air. “But never mind that. You are a debutante. Excellent.” She drew herself up to her full height and arched one eyebrow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” she said in a voice nearly befitting the Queen, to be honest.

  Archie took her hand in his and did his best version of a curtsey. Which was not very good. “The pleasure is mine, Your Grace.” He edged the tone of his voice higher, but apparently he sounded ridiculous, since she couldn’t help but start to smile.

  “No smiling,” he said in a mock-serious tone. “No humor at all; we are having a conversation. There is no room for enjoyment.”

  She rolled her eyes at his comment, but then resumed her serious mien. “Are you enjoying the party, my lady?” She wrinkled her nose. “What is your name in this scenario anyway? It feels odd speaking to someone when you don’t know their name.”

  “Uh”—he wasn’t very good at this, he hadn’t even thought about what his name might be. “How about Lady Arch?”

  She closed her eyes in an exaggerated horrified response. “I think you should be Lady Anne. That is a real name.”

  “Fine,” Archie replied in a terse tone. “Lady Anne.” He spread his arms out. “May we begin, please?”

  And then she smiled, a real smile, and tilted her head to him. “Yes, we may. Lady Anne, are you enjoying the party?”

  Archie tried to imagine how a young girl would feel when conversing with a duchess. Certainly not like she wanted to kiss the duchess in question, which was unfortunately how Archie himself felt. He clasped his hands in front of him and tried to slump down so as not to be towering over her. “It is lovely.” He glanced around, as though absorbing the room—the candles, the people, the music. “I have never been to such a grand event before.”

  Her smile turned even warmer, if such a thing were possible. “I am just recently from the country myself. It is all rather grand, isn’t it?” she said, lowering her voice as though she were confiding a secret.

  Archie paused.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Once again, her voice was higher, almost squeaky, and he felt the impact of her stress right in his chest, which suddenly felt tight.

  “No.” You were merely yourself. “I just want you to keep in mind that you should maintain a certain distance from the people to whom you’re speaking.”

  The thought occurred to him, as he was talking, that in fact he did know more about being a duchess than she did. Lady Sophia had been right to send him, even though he knew from her ever-increasingly strident letters that his employer was eager to have him return.

  Apparently she was lonely since fewer of the town’s ladies came to visit once word of his absence became known.

  He tried not to grin at how Lady Sophia was likely complaining to Bob about it all.

  She stepped back from him, her eyes sparkling. “A certain distance? Should I carry a measuring tape and make sure I remain remote and unapproachable at all times?” And then her eyes widened, as though recalling—as he couldn’t seem to stop recalling himself—the times when she had not been remote and unapproachable at all. When she had been the opposite; approachable and, perhaps, mote. Even though he didn’t think that was an actual word.

  “A measuring tape is not required, Your Grace,” he said, allowing his lips to curl into a smile. “You can just judge the metaphorical duchess distance.” He glanced down at the space between them. “This is the approximate space I would suggest keeping between yourself and another individual.”

  She glanced down as well. “How far is that? I am not certain I can gauge it.”

  He put one foot directly in front of the other, then again, until he was nearly touching her. “It is three of my footsteps, Your Grace, so perhaps three feet apart?”

  His measuring tactic had worked, yes, but now he stood in front of her. Where he’d been longing to be, and yet should not be at all.

  “Three feet is the duchess distance?” Now she sounded less squeaky and more—breathless.

  He knew how she felt. He was having difficulty breathing as well.

  He was right here. Standing in front of her, so close she could make out the tiny lines that spread out from the corners of his eyes, so close she could see the blackness of his pupils against the deep blue of his eyes.

  She tried to take a deep breath, only to stop when she realized that that motion would put her chest in even closer contact with his. So she stopped, mid-breath, swallowing as she exhaled through her nose.

  Who knew that her prurient interest in him would affect the way she breathed?

  Well, likely anyone who’d had the experience before. But she hadn’t, and so she hadn’t known.

  “Archie,” she began, just as he stepped back away into the required duchess distance space.

  “Your Grace,” he replied. His jaw was clenched, and his hands were as well, the whites of his knuckles indicating his emotion.

  That shouldn’t make her glad, to see how affected he was, but she couldn’t help but feel delighted that this whatever it was wasn’t entirely on her side. He felt it, too, felt it so much he was holding himself back, was using her honorific rather than her name. As though usin
g her name would be too intimate for him.

  “Let us practice again,” he continued, the words coming out in one low order. As though enunciating enough to make the words less monotone would open him up for—for something.

  It did thrill her, even though she regretted that he had so much self-control.

  “Yes,” she said, “let us practice.” She allowed some of what she was feeling to seep into her voice, suppressing a smile as she saw his eyes widen. And his fingers flex.

  “My lady, this is a lovely party.” She gazed off into the distance as though assessing the people and the refreshments and finding them adequate, but still wanting. He regarded her intently. “I do so enjoy meeting such . . . unexceptionable individuals,” she continued, keeping her voice as autocratic as she could.

  She ruined the effect by turning to him with a wide smile. “That was good, wasn’t it?”

  He folded his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. “It was, Your Grace.” He uncrossed his arms and gestured toward her. “But you’ll have to maintain your duchess demeanor for longer than a few seconds.”

  She regarded him for a moment, then tilted her head back and placed her hands on her hips as though in challenge. Which it was, wasn’t it? A challenge for her to be worthy of the position she had, a challenge to meet people and to handle their disdain and possible dismissal of her with grace and no small amount of haughtiness.

  A challenge not to give in to the feelings she had now, concurrent with the feelings of being a duchess. Of being a woman, someone who wanted and felt things that she had never felt before. Specifically, wanted to feel him.

  Her father had been able to indulge in his desires because he was a man, even though he had been a terrible duke. But even if she was a terrible duchess—which she knew she would not be—she could not be a wonderful woman, not with how she imagined a wonderful woman would be. A wonderful woman would be one who loved where she wanted to, who was happy. Who was loved in return.