My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  “Sparkle! That sounds perfect.” Apparently Mrs. Coster thought his idea was brilliant. Although judging by how she kept appraising him, if he’d told her to dye her sheep green she’d probably be as enthusiastic.

  The thought made him want to chuckle, which meant, perhaps, that he was on the road to recovery. Excellent. He’d only have to suggest a few dozen or so more ridiculous things to do to livestock to get him feeling like himself again.

  It was a plan.

  “Are you feeling well, Mr. Salisbury?” Mrs. Coster asked, looking worried. “You are breathing oddly.”

  “Oh, fine, ladies. I feel fine,” he replied, straightening up in his chair and concentrating on not laughing.

  It was better than how he’d felt in a while. Since—well, he knew since when.

  “I’m going to throw a ball,” Genevieve announced.

  Given that she was alone at the time, the announcement was not particularly noteworthy. But it was to her; if she was going to do this, was going to continue trying to do what she’d set out to do, she’d have to succeed on her own, without any man in her life.

  It hurt, but it was what she’d practiced for. If she could just show them, show all of her new world, that she was perfectly able to handle being who she was on her own, then perhaps she could decide her own future, without worrying about gossip or being challenged.

  Her mind shied away from what she would do after she’d proven herself. “One step at a time,” she reminded herself, walking to the wall where the bellpulls were. She yanked the two for Chandler and Clarkson and waited.

  “It’s the right thing, you know,” Clarkson said. She stepped back to appraise Genevieve’s appearance, nodding after a few tension-filled moments.

  Mrs. Hardwick had delivered the remainder of the gowns Genevieve had ordered, and she was wearing the most beautiful evening gown of them all: pale pink, it fit her curves perfectly, and had an overlay of sheer material studded with sparkles. Clarkson had dressed her hair in a more elaborate style than usual, and Genevieve had taken ownership of the ducal jewels, so she wore a diamond necklace and matching earrings. Her gloves were an even paler pink, as were her evening slippers.

  She looked like a princess from a fairy tale, which was only slightly more unbelievable than what she was, a female duchess in her own right.

  She just wished he was here to see her. But the whole point of this was that he was not here, she didn’t need anybody to succeed in this whole duchess venture.

  He’d given her the guidelines she needed, but now it was up to her. Alone.

  “There are so many people coming,” Genevieve murmured.

  Clarkson patted a curl, since there was only one ribbon on the gown. “Everyone who is anyone, plus a few people who think they’re someones,” she said with a sniff.

  The countess was coming, thank goodness, so at least there would be one friend in attendance. The Garrys were coming as well, and Genevieve had promised herself to try to find a nice young man for Evelyn. Sir William hadn’t yet made clear his intentions, and she was hoping he held himself back from it for just a bit longer. It would make things awkward between her and his sister after her refusal.

  Because if she couldn’t have Archie, she didn’t think she wanted anybody. She was a privileged person, the most privileged person in England with the exception of the Queen, and if she didn’t want to marry someone, she shouldn’t have to. That was the point of tonight’s event; to show everyone who she was, and who she was not—she was not a mealy-mouthed, husband-accepting-for-the-good-of-the-title person. She was Genevieve, Duchess of Blakesley, and she was throwing her own party.

  She just wished she felt happier about it all. This kind of thing had been unthinkable a few years ago, when she’d been tucked in the country with no friends and fewer hopes and dreams.

  She was content to be proceeding, however, and that would have to be enough. Unless she could somehow undo the mess she’d made, it would have to be enough. Forever.

  “How are you, dear?” the countess asked. Her friend had arrived nearly as soon as the party had begun, for which Genevieve was grateful. The countess wore a gown of dark blue satin, setting off her dark hair and blue eyes perfectly.

  She couldn’t think about dark hair and blue eyes, however, or she would cry. And that would not be appropriate for her own party. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.

  “I am perfectly well,” Genevieve replied, widening her mouth in what she hoped was a credible smile. It wasn’t that she was miserable—well, fine, she was miserable—but she could find pleasure in a few moments, and spending time with her friend should be one of them.

  So why did she keep wishing he was here to share it with her?

  Oh, of course, because she loved him and he had helped her with all of this and he should be here to share in the triumph.

  Because it was a triumph. Chandler had ensured that the newly hired staff was properly trained in how to plan and execute an event on this grand a scale. The food was delicious, the wine was flowing, and there were no histrionic singers in earshot. Instead, Genevieve had hired a trio of musicians to play continuously during the party, providing a pleasant backdrop of sound rather than being the focal point of the evening.

  “You have done well,” the countess said, speaking in a low tone so as not to be overheard. “Everyone is saying what a success tonight is, and how perfectly you suit your new position, despite not having been trained since birth for it, as so many of the males in your situation were.”

  “Thank you,” Genevieve replied. “That is good to hear. And thank you for being a good friend, I have so few of them.” One less, now that he had left. And left furious with her for suggesting something she should have known would never suit him.

  For perhaps the millionth time, she found her mind wandering back to when she’d said it. Wishing she hadn’t assumed he’d want something like that as well, that he wouldn’t want to be affiliated with her permanently. That it didn’t mean as much to him as it would to her.

  She was an idiot. Truly.

  Albeit a titled, wealthy idiot. Meaning she fit in even better in her new world than she could have anticipated.

  It was comfort. Cold comfort, to be sure, but comfort nonetheless.

  She plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and toasted her new life before taking a sip.

  “It was a wonderful party,” Miss Evelyn enthused the next afternoon. Genevieve had been up until three o’clock in the morning, dancing and talking and ensuring everyone was having fun.

  Everyone except her, that is.

  When had she become so—so morose?

  Ah. Of course. When she had completely ruined her own life with her thoughtlessness.

  “Thank you, I am so pleased you were able to come.” And Genevieve had introduced her to several young gentlemen, including Mr. Salisbury. The lesser Mr. Salisbury, she had come to think of him. Because he wasn’t anything close to his brother, although he was perfectly pleasant.

  “You have served our family well, Your Grace,” Sir William added.

  She opened her mouth to retort that merely not being an addlepated drunkard would serve their family well, but she did not wish to point that out, not if he harbored the misconception that their family was tolerable.

  Perhaps he had relatives she hadn’t met yet, perfectly respectable relatives who didn’t discard their children when it was inconvenient to have them around, or who hadn’t squandered great wealth at the gaming table.

  Hope springs eternal, she thought ruefully.

  Genevieve was dressing for more afternoon calls when the post arrived, including a letter from her aunt Sophia. She sat at her dressing table as Clarkson worked on her hair, opening the letter and trying not to wish too hard for news about him.

  She shook the pages out and tried to make sense of Aunt Sophia’s letter. Which was nearly as confusing as Aunt Sophia herself. She scanned the letter, chortling to herself as she read t
he convoluted thoughts.

  “Is that from your godmother?” Clarkson asked. She’d finished Genevieve’s hair, and was picking things up around the room.

  “Yes, it is. She goes into great detail about what is happening,” though she doesn’t mention him. “Apparently there is a very grand event she refers to as the festival. She says that ‘the annual festival showcases the best in a variety of items,’ but she doesn’t say what items, or what the point is. Or showcases to whom.” She waved the paper in the air and looked over at Clarkson, who was fussing with yet another ribbon. This time on a gown that was not currently worn by Genevieve, but still fussing.

  She’d been fussing nearly continuously in the time since Mr. Salisbury had departed, as though she knew something was amiss, and wished she could fix it, but couldn’t. Hence the fussing.

  “I would assume the festival is similar to what occurred in my own village,” Clarkson replied, her hands stilling. Thank goodness. “It’s primarily an excuse for everyone to come together and socialize.” She shrugged. “The local farmers would bring the best produce and livestock, there would be food for sale, and entertainment. The highlight for me was always in the evening, when the best musicians would begin to play and we’d all dance under the stars. If it wasn’t raining, of course,” her ever-practical lady’s maid said.

  “It sounds delightful,” Genevieve said. “I believe there were such things in the village in which I grew up, but of course I was never allowed to attend them.” Because she was a duke’s daughter, even though she had been entirely forgotten.

  “Perhaps you should go. Get out of London for a while.” Clarkson smoothed a ribbon. “You have not been quite yourself for the past few weeks.”

  Three days and three weeks, Genevieve corrected in her head.

  But if she went, she’d see him.

  But if she went, she’d see him.

  “I think I will,” Genevieve said, her tone just a bit shakier than before. Clarkson shot her a suspicious glance, but then resumed fussing even faster.

  She’d go to see him. If he’d listen to her—which she wasn’t sure he would—she’d explain. Or try to explain.

  Or something.

  “If you can just bring the tables over here,” Lady Sophia said, gesturing to the spot they’d just been in, before she’d asked Mr. McCready and him to move them.

  Archie exchanged a glance with Bob as they hoisted the first of the three tables up again.

  “Remind me why this is better than the army,” Bob muttered as they began to shuffle back to where Lady Sophia pointed.

  “Because you won’t run the risk of dying?”

  Bob snorted. “No, there’s only the chance I’ll kill someone,” and he glared at their employer.

  Archie couldn’t help but laugh.

  “That’s the spirit,” Bob said. “I haven’t heard you laugh in weeks. I’ll need to remember this moment, maybe make other inappropriate jokes about work just to bring some sparkle to your life.” Bob emphasized the word “sparkle,” which made Archie want to kill someone now, too. Preferably Bob.

  Mrs. Coster had run with the idea of “Sparkle Sheep,” and now all the local ladies were using a variety of hair products on their poor livestock.

  “Is it time to rinse?” Lady Sophia called.

  Including their employer.

  “Not yet, my lady,” Archie replied, steadfastly avoiding Bob’s snicker. “Another half an hour.”

  “They’ll be dry by the time we bring them to town, though?” She sounded worried now. As though a damp sheep was going to ruin the festival.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Plus she had asked the same question only fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps he should just make up a sign that displayed the answers to all of Lady Sophia’s questions: “Yes, we will leave in enough time to make it to the festival by nine o’clock.” “No, I don’t think so.” “Only if Mr. McCready counts to ten.” And so on.

  Her constant questions kept him from thinking too much of what he had turned down. The possibility of being with her, even in the capacity she’d suggested—well, he couldn’t deny he was tempted. Had even gone so far as to put on his trousers in the middle of the night, preparing to rush to London to see her.

  But he couldn’t and wouldn’t do that. She’d have to get married eventually, he knew as well as she did that she wouldn’t allow the title to fall to one of her ne’er-do-well relatives. She’d have to get married and have legitimate heirs.

  And he’d seen his mother’s face often enough when his father had left the house for several hours “on business.” He wouldn’t do that to another man, even though that sounded so odd, and even though another man would have the legal honor of sharing her bed.

  “What do you want done now, my lady?” he called to his employer, who was currently consulting with Truffles.

  He’d immerse himself in work for the foreseeable future, until he was too old or too tired to care about the state of his heart.

  Letter

  Archie

  I am on my way.

  Genevieve

  (not sent)

  Chapter 28

  “Your Grace!” Genevieve heard Sir William’s voice from behind her and winced. She had been trying to depart without running into the gentleman, since she knew he was set on proposing, and she did not want to put either of them into that awkward situation, since there was no possibility she would say yes.

  Even if he said no.

  “Yes, Sir William?” she replied, turning back around. She was relieved to see Chandler walking up from the coatroom carrying her cloak. He slowed his steps, clearly not wishing to intrude, but she shook her head and held her hand out to him to indicate she wanted her cloak.

  “I—I was hoping we could speak on a private matter,” Sir William replied, nearly glaring at poor Chandler.

  “No time, Sir William, I am afraid,” she said in a breezy voice, allowing Chandler to assist her into her cloak. “I am on my way on very important business.” More important than anything you might have to say, she added in her own head. Even though she knew it was important to Sir William—from what his sister had said, he was in debt up to his eyeballs, and marrying Genevieve would obviously solve that problem.

  He was also trying to marry his sister off to the highest bidder, which made Genevieve want to invite Miss Evelyn to live with her permanently, so she wouldn’t be in danger of ending up with some gentleman who wouldn’t appreciate Evelyn’s quiet manner.

  Sir William was not to be so easily dissuaded, however, stepping closer to speak quietly into Genevieve’s ear. “I understand you are quite busy, Your Grace. I wish to ease your burden, if I might. That is, I would like to share your burden”—and my money, Genevieve thought—“and I believe if you could just spare a few moments of your time, it would be to our mutual happiness.” And then he looked at her with a significant expression on his face, so there was no doubt about what he was talking.

  She was going to have to have this conversation after all, wasn’t she?

  “I can spare a few moments. Just tell Coachman I will be out shortly,” she said to Chandler. “In here, Sir William,” she said, gesturing to the library.

  She preceded him and wasn’t surprised when he shut the door behind them.

  “I know you cannot help but have noticed my marked attentions,” he began, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “Yes, I have.” How was she to answer that anyway?

  He looked startled, so apparently she’d answered that incorrectly. She wished she had a book on How to Receive and Politely Decline Marriage Proposals from People You Don’t Wish to Be Married To. Then again, perhaps she would have done better with a book that was about How to Trust That the Person You Love Loves You Back and Wants to Marry You After All, You Idiot.

  “Well, then,” he said, and began to lower himself down onto the carpet. She started at him as he positioned himself just so. He looked up at her and smoothed his hair with one ha
nd, placing the other over his heart. “Since you understand my intentions”—and wasn’t it ironic that she understood this man’s intentions when she hadn’t understood the other man’s—“I would like to ask if you would do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage.”

  He smiled, a satisfied smile that seemed to anticipate her assent to his question. He was going to be so not satisfied in a moment.

  “Thank you, Sir William,” Genevieve replied in a firm voice. “I very much appreciate your honor, but I must decline.”

  Now he looked confused. “Decline?” he repeated, still on his knees, his hand coming away from his heart.

  “Yes. Decline,” she said, even more emphatically. “I must say no.” And this time she used the voice she’d acquired during Duchess Practice, the tone that should indicate, if she was doing it properly, that she knew best and she was altogether far better than you.

  He struggled to his feet, his face taking on a purple hue. “You cannot mean this,” he said, sounding furious.

  “I do.” She raised her head and looked down her nose at him. Archie would be proud.

  “You know that people are talking about your—your unusual situation,” he said, as though she weren’t aware of it. “And while I wouldn’t have mentioned it, it has been made clear that there are certain members of our family who are considering challenging your right to be duchess. As your husband, I could assuage those concerns.”

  Genevieve felt her eyes narrowing as she glared at him. He swallowed, and his expression got more belligerent.

  “You will marry me,” he said. “Or else—”

  “Or else what?” She stepped forward, placing her hands on her hips. “Or else you will allow the family to tear the duchy apart as you attempt to toss aside a written legal document? Or else you and whoever you have found to speak against me will come face-to-face with my noblesse oblige, and you can be sure I will oblige you with how much noblesse I can muster.” She spoke in a low, furious tone that made him blanch. Good.