by Lavinia Kent
Lavinia Kent returns to her iconic Real Duchesses of London series of novellas to tell the story of Georgianna, the last Real Duchess.
When Georgianna’s husband, Lord Richard, unexpectedly becomes a duke, the two are brought together and then torn apart as each tries to find a place in their new lives. Georgianna had married for love – only to discover her husband’s mistress.
Now the two find themselves sharing residence at the ducal estate. Are circumstance and passion enough to bring the two together? Can Richard reveal the love he has barely admitted to himself? Can Georgianna forgive him for all the hurt and lies?
Will one night of passion become a lifetime of love?
Georgianna:
The Last Real Duchess
The Real Duchess of London
By
Lavinia Kent
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Lavinia Klein
Cover design © Victoria Sheer
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
The Real Duchesses of London
Kathryn, the Kitten
Linnette, the Lioness
Elizabeth, the Enchantress
Annabelle, the American
Georgianna, the Last Real Duchess
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
The Real Duchesses of London*
Kathryn, The Duchess of Harrington
“I am the perfect duchess. I am beautiful, rich, well read, well spoken, and have a civilized relationship with the duke. What more could a woman want?”
Linnette, The Dowager Duchess of Doveshire
“I have no intention of giving up what is mine. I’ve run the house and the estates for years. Why would I ever give them up now? I don’t care who the new duke is.”
Elizabeth, The Countess of Westhampton
“I may not be a duchess, but I am more of a lady than any of them. You’ll never see me in the scandal sheets. Mind you, I am not saying I haven’t ever been scandalous — just that you’ll never know.”
Annabelle, The Marchioness of Tattingstong
“They say that, because I am American, I have no taste, no grace, no style, no refinement. I have every intention of showing them just how wrong they are—and when the time comes, I will be the perfect duchess.”
Georgianna, Lady Richard Tennant
“My son will be a duke. It doesn’t matter if I get to be a duchess as long as I know my son will inherit from his uncle and will hold the title. My husband may have broken many of his promises to me, but that one is absolute.”
*All quotes as relayed to Miss Jane White, more or perhaps less accurately, by Miss Mary White, lady’s maid to the Duchess of Harrington
The Duchesses
Her grace, Kathryn, Duchess of Harrington, swept into the Duke of Strattington's parlor. "Isabella, we really must do something."
Isabella looked up with a smile, dropping the piece of yarn with which she'd been teasing the fluffy, gray cat that lay at her feet. "Whatever are you talking about? I thought the fun of being a duchess was that we didn't have to do anything."
"Annie," was all Kathryn replied.
"Oh.” Isabella's smile faltered.
"She does not seem happy."
"No." Isabella twisted her hands in her lap. "She isn't even chattering anymore. I don't know what Lord Richard has done to her, but she seems to grow thinner each day. I was so happy she was in London, but . . ."
"Perhaps she just misses her son. You know she is unhappy being here while Robert is in the country.” Kathryn tried to sound hopeful, although it was an odd thing to feel hopeful about.
"No, I fear it is more than that. She has the distinct look of a woman who is unhappy because of a man.” Isabella stood, and paced across the room. "I thought when she held her masquerade that she was working it all out, but something seems to have gone quite wrong."
Kathryn sighed and came to stand beside Isabella. "I fear you are quite correct. I have summoned Annabelle, Linnette, and even Elizabeth and asked them to meet me here. You may have been Annie's friend first, but we all care about her deeply."
"I know you do – even if you are the only one who would extend invitations to my house." Isabella grabbed Kathryn's hand. "But what can we do?"
As if hearing their names the other women swept into the chamber in a cloud of silk and lace.
"What's this about Annie?" Elizabeth asked, her normally haughty features relaxing with worry. "Is she ill? She has not looked at all well recently."
"I don't think it's an illness," Linnette added. "Unless you count a man as a sickness. I know we've all had moments when that idea would not have seemed far-fetched."
There was silence for a moment as each of the women considered her own life, her own love. Yes, men and love and heartbreak definitely could be an illness.
It was Isabella who spoke again. "I can't say that I know for sure what is happening with her. What I do know is that she says she loved Lord Richard when they married, but that then he betrayed her in someway. I am not quite sure how."
"I've heard rumors," Elizabeth chimed in. "We all know that she was supposed to marry Hargrove, not his younger brother."
"I hadn't heard that," Annabelle said, speaking for the first time, her blond curls bouncing about. "It must have been before I came to England."
"It was quite the scandal that never happened." Kathryn glanced at Isabella for permission and then sat upon the settee, patting the seats beside her. "Everybody thought there'd be a huge fuss when Annie married the younger brother, Lord Richard, but it nothing was ever said – by anyone. For a few months Annie and Lord Richard were seen about Town and then when Annie began to increase she moved to the country and Lord Richard went back and forth – and then he just stopped. He stayed in Town and Annie stayed at the estate. I am not sure he even went home when his son was born."
"That is quite strange.” Annabelle sat beside Kathryn. "But she's here now?"
"She wanted another child," Isabella said it quietly.
"Oh." It was almost a whisper through out the room, as each lady considered that.
"Well," Elizabeth said. "That is clearly not working. I think we must persuade her to return to the country and her son. Perhaps some fresh air might put the roses back in her cheeks."
"And perhaps she'll find a handsome groom to take care of the other matter," Linnette spoke with half-smile.
Kathryn shushed her friend. "Sometimes, my dear, I do not believe the things you say."
"I just say what we're all thinking.” Linnette let her words trail off.
Chapter One
"Hargrove is dead." Kathryn said, marching into Annie's bedchamber.
"Oh, I am so glad you are here. I cannot decide what to pack. I know that is silly when I am returning to the country and should probably just bring everything, but when would I ever wear these at Harsgate?" Annie held
up a pair of silver evening slippers with rose-colored heels and crystal bows. Her mind filled with the coming years of quite. Her friends were quite correct that she did need to leave London, but it had not been an easy thought. At least Kathryn had come to help her pack.
"Your brother-in-law – the Duke of Hargrove is dead." Kathryn repeated.
Annie looked about at the row of trunks and the two maids carefully folding her gowns. When had she acquired so many things? When she'd married, everything she'd owned had fit into two not very large trunks. Now it looked like she was packing for a family of twenty. But as she never intended to return to London perhaps it was good she purchased so much. "Oh, don't take that, Constance," she addressed her maid. "I never liked it. You can take it and sell it. Just please don't keep it for yourself. You would look dreadful in orange.” How was she ever going to finish? She had promised herself she would be gone at first light tomorrow and at this moment it seemed like an insurmountable task.
"Annie, are you listening to me?" Kathryn moved to stand directly in front of her, placing a hand on each of Annie's shoulders and holding her still.
Shaking her head to clear the jumble that filled it, Annie focused on Kathryn's gentle brown eyes. "What? I am sorry. I simply wish to be back home, gone from here and away from all this." She waved about the room, but encompassed all of London. "I don't think I can handle another silent meal sitting across from Richard."
"Annie, Hargrove is dead."
"Oh dear, I suppose he won't be here for dinner. I was so looking forward to saying farewell to him. I've become quite fond of him these last months. He is somehow changed.” And then the words hit, the words that her mind had refused to accept. She sank back on the edge of the bed, her hands knotting in the covers. "Truly? Are you sure? How did it happen?"
"They are saying that he shot himself while cleaning a gun."
"Hargrove cleaning a gun? That can't be true. It must be somebody else.” The very idea was wrong. She wasn't sure the duke had ever cleaned a gun in his life, doubted that he'd have known how to do it – doubted he even knew it had to be done. She'd gone hunting with him once at Harsgate and the groundskeeper had followed along behind handing him a loaded shotgun for each shot he'd taken.
And in London – Why would Hargrove be cleaning a gun in Town? She couldn't imagine any circumstance that would have led to him discharging a gun.
No, there was some mistake. Kathryn could not be right.
Kathryn did not argue with the doubt Annie was sure showed on her face, instead she sat beside Annie on the bed. "No, it is definitely him. Everybody is talking. The stories vary but they all say that he was shot in the chest and died shortly thereafter. I believe he called for Lord Richard and that your husband spent his last minutes at his brother's side."
"Poor Richard.” Annie might have no idea how she felt about her husband, but she knew that she hurt for him now. The two brothers had not always been friends, but there had been a deep bond between them. And these last months they'd spent hours together – hours when laughter had bubbled from the study – laughter that she had not shared in.
It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. She pressed her hands against her belly trying to calm the growing unease.
Her eyes swept about her bedchamber. The maids still stood folding and packing, but their hands had slowed. She could read the conflict on their faces – the desire to wait and hear more versus the desire to hurry below stairs to share the news – and it was big news. Hargrove had owned this house along with everything else.
And then the further meaning of Kathryn's words hit her.
"Richard is the new duke."
"And you are the duchess." Kathryn's voice was smooth and slow.
"Oh.” Annie looked down at her hands. "What do I do now?" None of this made sense. It was too much for her mind to take in. She would be sick if she were not careful.
"What do you mean?"
"I am supposed to leave in the morning. Can I still leave? Will I be forced to stay? I can't bear to be away from my Robbie any longer. Each day I've been here has torn at me. Richard can't make me stay, can he?"
"He is your husband and we will not debate what he can or cannot do, because we both know the answer. Lord Richard can do whatever he wants. However, we both also know that he is not a bad man. He will do what is best. What is needed."
Annie could feel Kathryn's eyes upon her, waiting to see if she would argue that last. She'd long known her friends were curious about the state of her marriage, wondered what had come between her and Richard, wondered why they barely spoke. She'd understood perfectly why they'd all recommended she return to the country – and she'd known they were right. "I suppose Lord Richard must be called Hargrove now. I never thought it would happen. I always knew my son would be duke, but I never thought about my husband."
"Your are correct. And I do understand. I may never have known Strattington's father, but I have known four Dukes of Doveshire and with each death it has been hard to call the next one Doveshire."
"And Elizabeth was married to two of them.” Annie raised her eyes to look at her friend. She had once wondered at what it was like to call one man by a past one's title, but she'd never thought to experience it so personally.
Kathryn did not smile at the comment, but continued to stare at her friend with concern. "Will you be alright? Do you need me to stay until your husband returns?"
As if Richard's being here would help anything. It certainly never had in the past – at least not since those long-past days when she'd dreamed of more, dreamed of so much more. "So do I need to stay or can I return to Harsgate and my son? I have been without him so long and with all of this happening I feel the need to hold him in arms, to feel his soft breath upon my cheek, his downy hair beneath my chin."
"Do you want me to answer as a friend or as a duchess?”
"Can you not answer as both?" Annie desperately needed the answer – her whole life seemed to hang on these coming words.
"I can, but I am afraid they are different answers. As a friend I want to tell you that you should grab whatever is packed now and flee to the country. These next weeks will be miserable. Everybody you have ever met will come to offer sympathy and yet you will sense an ulterior motive in almost all. And your husband will expect you to be there – to support him in ways that you never even knew existed. Your life will disappear."
Annie could only gaze at her friend, holding the muscles of her jaw tight so that her mouth did not gape open. Could it actually be worse than she expected? It was hard enough to manage further months of facing Richard across the breakfast table. She pressed her hands back against her stomach, wishing it would settle.
"I do make it sound worse than it is. It will pass quickly and all happen without your truly being conscious of it. Each day will come and go and you will survive it. And then one day it will just be your life. You will play with your child, laugh with your husband, and somehow fulfill all your duties because they must be fulfilled. You will be a duchess."
Annie focused on the difficulties she was ready to grapple with. "I still can't quite believe it. When I was a girl I dreamed of it – my marriage to Hargrove was arranged before I had time to even consider anything else, but then I married Richard instead and chose a different path – although I suppose Richard is Hargrove now. My head is spinning."
"Excuse me, my lady – or rather, your grace," one of the maids spoke up. "I know I should wait for direction, but do you wish us to keep packing or should we begin to return your dresses to the wardrobe?"
If Annie had not already been sitting on the edge of the bed she would have sunk down to it. How was she supposed to know the answer to that? How could the whole world change in one short day – one short moment?
#
His brother was dead. Richard could not quite get his mind about that simple fact. He'd held Paul in his arms and watched the life fade from his eyes, watched the spirit leave his body – and yet it did not seem r
eal. Paul could not be dead. Paul was his protector, his elder brother, his . . . He didn't even know how to put into words all the things that Paul had been to him.
Had been.
Was it already the past?
And – Paul. Richard doubted he'd thought of Hargrove by his first name in a dozen years.
He placed the still-full glass of brandy down on the table and looked about the large drawing room. This was Hargrove's house. The townhouse of the Dukes of Hargrove. One of the finest homes in all of London – and it was his now.
It was all so wrong.
Paul should have lived another twenty years. Hell, another forty years.
Richard had never even considered what it would mean to be duke – and now he had to.
He picked up the glass and took one large swallow before putting it back down. There were so many tasks waiting. He could not afford the weariness that would come with the numbing drink.
And he was already numb. He knew that even if he knew nothing else. His mind was slow, his thoughts not as focused as they should be.
And his emotions – he wasn't even sure that he had any, if he felt anything.
Tomorrow the pain would come, the understanding of the loss. Now, there was only disbelief.
He stared at the closed door to the hall. An hour ago this vacant room had been an oasis, a spot away from the bustling quiet of the house. Bustling quiet. Such a strange phrase, but one that so aptly described the feeling in a home soon after a death.
He walked to the door and placed his hand upon the handle –then leaned forward letting his forehead rest against the cool wood. If he opened the door, walked through it, then it would all be real. Someone would call him Hargrove, thinking he'd rejoice in the title. A servant would ask what should be done with the pile of correspondence awaiting his brother's signature. And some man he barely knew would ask what had happened – and he was so far from being ready to even think about how to answer that.