A Duchess a Day

by Charis Michaels

  In no scenario had he envisioned a captivating beauty, determined to undermine the bloody dukedom. He knew insubordination when he saw it. And brains.

  When she’d entered the great hall, she’d spared not a look at the stained glass or the carved staircase or the chandelier. She ignored the servants. Unless Declan was mistaken, she was looking for a way out. Girdleston had summoned her, and she didn’t obey him so much as charge him. Her posture was upright but not rigid; she was thin but not brittle.

  Declan had blinked, telling himself it was his job to stare. Looking at her was his job.

  I cannot not look at her.

  Fine. Right. So look.

  Her eyes were pale green, the color of a peridot, and her hair was the color of ink.

  She had dark lashes and brows, but her skin was the color of the inside of a shell, pale and luminescent. The contrast of light to ebony was stark and beautiful. A raven’s feather in the ice.

  In that moment, Declan comprehended the level of difficultly—nay, the level of impossibility—of this cursed job. It hit him like a bat to the chest. He was looking at Helena Lark as a woman, not a client.

  And not just any woman, a stunningly beautiful, obviously clever woman. Only a fool or an amateur would fail to admit this.

  This was a problem because—first, distraction. His regard for her, even as an appreciative observer, would interrupt his ability to contain her. Second, beautiful, clever things incited sympathy, and he could not sympathize with this woman; he worked for her enemy. And third, Declan had made a habit of running in the opposite direction of Problem Women.

  Females in Declan Shaw’s life had fallen mostly into one of two categories: convenient and willing . . . and everyone else. Clients were always “everyone else” because he was a professional, and putting his hands on a client was bad for business. Nonclient females—if convenient and willing—were a respite between jobs, so long as they harbored no illusions about pinning him down. Declan had been a natural solider and an even more natural soldier-for-hire. He liked his job. He was good at his job. No woman had ever tempted him to interrupt his success and he preferred it that way.

  But he’d never met a woman like Helena Lark, and this realization shook him to the core. He would walk away from this job if he did not require Girdleston’s money so desperately and if he was not afraid the man had the power to send him back to prison.

  “Well done, Huntsman,” said Girdleston, suddenly beside him. Declan jerked around, unnerved by the man’s omnipresence. “God knows why she consented to you and not the others; her intentions are a maddening mystery to us all. But now you’ve had a glimpse of the impertinence we’ve faced.”

  What Declan had glimpsed was cleverness and contempt, but Girdleston had not hired him for his opinion. He said, “It was ambitious to press five servants on her at once.”

  “By the time she becomes duchess, I will have broken her of the notion that she will ever be alone.”

  Declan paused. He hadn’t known of a larger plan to “break her”—not of solitude or anything else. He swore and glanced at the disappearing form of Lady Helena. She was last in line again, following her entourage.

  He looked away. Something sharp and heavy broke off in his chest and lodged in the pit of his stomach. He forced himself to think of the money, and his sisters, and his father. The decision to go along was no decision at all. He had no choice.

  “Now you will stand attendance in the dining room, listening and watching,” said Girdleston. “You must familiarize yourself with her machinations and insubordinations.”

  “A groom in the dining room?” Declan asked. “That makes no sense. Let me—”

  “I’ll decide what is sensical, Huntsman,” said Girdleston. “You’ve only just been assigned to her. There is much to learn if you’re to be effective.”

  Declan wanted to tell him that he’d learned quite enough already, but he gritted his teeth and thought of prison. Slipping into the dining room, he took up space in a dark corner.

  Chapter Four

  “I beg your pardon,” Helena said, one hour into the family meal. She pushed up from the long dining table, smiling serenely. Up and down the table, conversations fell silent.

  “Will you excuse me to see the duke is settled somewhere more comfortable? His Grace is . . .” She looked down at the Duke of Lusk and corrected, “His Grace has finished his meal.”

  All eyes settled on the duke, who slouched in his chair like a pile of laundry. His head lulled to one side and his half-lidded gaze was fixed philosophically on the remains of the goose on his plate. He’d propped his right hand loosely on the arm of his chair, and the goblet of wine dangling from his fingers threatened, at any moment, to drop and shatter on the floor.

  For a long moment, everyone froze, and Helena took pains to gaze upon the duke with affectionate concern. She placed a gentle hand on his sloped shoulder.

  The duke’s uncle was the first to animate, opening his mouth to object, but Helena dropped to kneel at the duke’s side.

  “Would Your Grace fancy a little nap before your evening ramble?” she whispered.

  The duke snorted, blinked, and helpfully leaned into her cheek. Helena maintained a serene smile while he trailed a wet, breathy nuzzle along her neck. She forced herself to laugh.

  “If we may be excused,” she said to the table, “everyone else may enjoy the meal with no rush. I’m told there is to be cake. We are newly reunited, and this meal has lasted an age . . .”

  In the duke’s ear, she whispered, “Up you go. That’s it. Come, come, get up.”

  By some miracle, the inebriated duke climbed to his feet, swaying slightly as she took his arm.

  Girdleston also rose, his narrowed eyes sharp with irritation.

  Helena’s father chortled. “I knew they would get on eventually, Titus. She’s very nurturing, my daughter. She will have a soothing effect on the boy.”

  “Yes . . .” said Girdleston, in a tone that said no.

  Helena splayed her hand on the duke’s hollow chest and leaned in. “Where is your private study, Your Grace?” she whispered. “Let us seek out somewhere dark and cool and quiet.”

  The duke hiccupped and pointed to an opposite door and Helena shuffled them out. “Lovely,” she whispered. “Steady now. There we are.”

  Over her shoulder, she called, “Please pay us no mind and enjoy the meal. I cannot remember ever having goose quite so savory. I wouldn’t dream of missing cake. We will make our way back in time.”

  “Your Grace?” the duke’s uncle called. “Are you quite alright?”

  “Private . . .” mumbled the duke, “dark and cool . . .”

  “Let her serve this wifely purpose, Girdleston,” scolded her father. “With Helena, we’ve found the key to her heart is some manner of diligent caregiving. You should see what she’s done to the bog in the forest surrounding Castlereagh. She will look after him and the result will be better for us all.”

  From the corner of her eye, Helena saw Girdleston reclaim his seat, but not before he gave a subtle nod to the large groom in the corner. The groom fell into close step behind them, and Helena gritted her teeth, hurrying the duke along.

  “Which way, Your Grace?” she whispered. The great hall was marked with doors in every direction.

  “Bedchamber?” the duke drawled, and Helena bit her lip against the gale of wine and goose on his breath.

  “No,” she said patiently, “your study. We’ll want somewhere close, don’t you think? Just a quick nap. They will not allow us to stay away for long.”

  “I’m going out,” he protested, but he allowed her to drag him. “Plans . . .”

  “Of course, your lovely plans,” she assured. “More reason to rest now.”

  “You’re an eager little cabbage,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, that’s me,” she said absently, looking from door to door, “so very eager.” The duke snorted, misting her with another cloud of alcohol and goose.


  Helena held her breath. “The study, Your Grace? Can you not remember? Which way is it?”

  He made a vague gesture that could indicate any direction and dropped his chin to his chest.

  Helena swore and pivoted slowly, trying to remember the layout of the house from previous visits. She was just about to choose the first available corridor when a voice behind her said, “I’ll take him.”

  Helena spun and came up short against a muscled, yellow-clad wall of male. Her newly appointed personal groom. Shill? Sham? She couldn’t remember his name.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, stooping to redistribute the duke across her shoulders.

  “I’ll take him,” the groom repeated.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Shill. And, if you ple—”

  “Shaw,” he said, reaching out. “Declan Shaw.”

  Helena’s eyes widened. She couldn’t remember ever having a male servant introduce himself by his given name. Or follow her from room to room. Or try to take something—well, in this case someone—out of her own hands.

  She rarely scolded servants, but she cleared her throat and raised her chin. “That won’t be—”

  The groom wasn’t listening. He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, watching the duke’s limp form slowly slip from her grasp.

  Helena held more tightly and changed tact. “How lucky you’ve happened along,” she said brightly. “Could I trouble you to point me in the direction of the duke’s private study?”

  “Don’t know.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You do not know?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  The duke slipped another four inches, and his boot began to slide. Shaw extended his own foot to stop it.

  Helena broadened her stance and took tighter hold of Lusk. “Are you not—”

  “I work in the mews,” he said. “Typically.”

  “Typically?”

  “I’m going to take him,” he told her. Before she could refuse, he reached out and rolled the duke from her shoulder, draping the smaller man’s arm behind his neck. The duke hung against him like a limp scarf.

  A burst of laughter rose from the direction of the dining room, and Helena was reminded that she had so little time.

  Frowning, she set out across the hall. “If you are not familiar with the layout of the house, we’ll ask.”

  A maid rounded a corner and Helena inquired for the direction of the duke’s study. The girl pointed left, and Helena asked her to return with a basin of water and cloth.

  “Put him there, if you please,” Helena directed when they reached the study.

  A floor-to-ceiling window rose above a leather divan in the corner; the groom deposited Lusk in an inebriated sprawl. Helena took a candle from the hallway and hurried to light the lamps. Each flickering wick revealed polished mahogany, grommeted leather, and books—so many books. Naturally, the study would keep pace with the grandeur of the house—more a library than a study, with a maze of bookshelves towering behind a giant desk.

  When the room glowed with soft candlelight, Helena leaned over the duke. “Now, Your Grace, isn’t that better?”

  Lusk made a snorting noise and flopped onto his back.

  The maid arrived, and Helena applied a warm, damp cloth to the duke’s eyes. “Simply rest, Your Grace,” she soothed, and took up a blanket for his legs. Within moments, the duke began to snore. Helena backed away, willing him to remain unconscious for at least ten minutes.

  “Now what?” asked the groom beside her.

  “Shhh.” She shot him a look.

  “Trust me, he’s out for the night.” The groom cocked an eyebrow. “But I assume that’s what you want.”

  “You’ve no idea of what I want. You may go, Mr. Sham.”

  “I’ll wait,” he said.

  “Wait? Wait for what?”

  If she hadn’t seen his eyes before, she saw them now. They were deep, molten brown. Gone was all trace of shyness or chagrin.

  “You may go,” she repeated firmly. She nodded to the door.

  On the divan, the duke jerked, flopping one arm over his head. He stretched his other arm, flexed his fingers, and then flopped his hand in the area of Helena’s skirt and made a clumsy grab for her leg. Helena skittered back.

  “I stay,” the groom said, stepping up. Helena stared at him in wonder.

  He added, “In case you need me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You might.”

  Helena blinked at him. “Actually,” she said, “I haven’t the time to argue. Go or stay, I don’t care.”

  If a voice in her head told her she should care, she did not hear it. She wasn’t ready to admit that she’d been wrong to agree to this groom. It was too early in her plan to be making wrong decisions.

  She looked around, noting that the study looked wholly unused. Exactly what she would expect from a man who did not manage his own estates, write his own correspondence, or enjoy anything so cerebral as “reading.” There was a scattering of paper on the desk, and Helena lifted the top sheet.

  “What’s that?” asked the groom.

  Helena glanced up. “You should be aware that I will go about my business without explaining myself.” She looked at the paper in her hand, a bill for hair tonic, and then back to Shaw.

  “You came to the library for some other reason than settling the duke,” he said.

  “And you came to the library for some other reason than conveying a drunk. I propose that I not ask why and you not ask why.”

  “I could be of more use,” he said, “if I knew what you were doing.”

  “More use as my groom?”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded knowingly. “Unless I am mistaken, grooms manage horses and carriages and shopping and umbrellas. What use would I have of a groom in a library?”

  “Well,” he began, the word heavy with facetiousness, “if I knew—”

  “Why were you in the dining room?” She’d dropped the paper and glared at him. “Why did you follow us?”

  “I—” began Shaw, but he stopped.

  She nodded to herself. Direct questions had that effect on all but the most astute liars. He didn’t have the look of a liar, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t another of Girdleston’s puppets. How could she have been so foolish as to accept anything or anyone offered by Titus Girdleston?

  “Are you a spy?” she asked casually, returning to the papers. Certainly he behaved less and less like a groom.

  “What?”

  “You’ve admitted to a new post inside the house, despite your insistence that we regard you as a groom. You’ve tailed me from dinner. And you are still here, in the library, where no groom ever need tread.”

  She came to the bottom of the stack and found only markers for gambling debts and bills for hair tonic and snuff boxes.

  “Are you suggesting that you could have dragged the duke all this way yourself?” he asked.

  “I could have managed. Never let it be said that I am ungrateful for your assistance. Thank you, Mr. Sham.”

  “It’s Shaw.” A frustrated pause. “Look, sweetheart, I’m here to serve. Whatever you need.” Another pause. “Obviously.”

  Helena felt color rise into her cheeks. No servant had ever referred to her as anything but “my lady” or “Lady Helena,” and she’d never been called “sweetheart,” not once. She slid from the desk, twitchy and unsettled. Two parallel bookshelves stretched to the back of the room, and she disappeared between them, studying titles. First insubordination and impertinence and now sweetheart?

  “What’s to be found in the duke’s study?” Shaw asked—same question, new variation. He was definitely a spy. How stupid and careless had she been? Acquiring a spy within ten minutes of her arrival? She cursed under her breath.

  “Can you read, Mr. Shaw?” she asked.

  “Yes, I read.” His tone made it obvious that she’d insulted him. She told herself that she didn’t care. She told
herself that she would send him away, in earnest this time. She kept walking.

  “You’re searching for something?” he guessed.

  “I’m searching, and you’re spying,” she said. “How astute we both are.”

  “I’m not a spy.”

  “No?” she asked. “So you’ve not been hired by Titus Girdleston to follow, and observe, and report like a spy?”

  She reached the end of the shelf—a vast collection on dog breeds and animal husbandry—and turned, disappearing down another cavern of shelves.

  “Nope . . .” He followed her.

  “If you are not a spy,” she said, “and you are not a groom—”

  “I am a groom.”

  She whirled around. “You look nothing like a groom. You’re too large, you show absolutely no deference, and you look ridiculous in livery. No man of your . . . your . . . bearing would pursue employment that stipulated yellow velvet. No groom would stalk me through a library.”

  “If you thought I was something other than a groom, then why did you agree to my service?”

  Ah, the question of the century, she thought. Second only to, Why am I arguing with you now?

  He persisted. “When Girdleston offered, why not refuse?”

  She said, “You looked useful.”

  “I am useful.”

  “And you looked biddable.”

  “I’m—”

  He struggled to confirm this. She wanted to laugh. If her time in the study had not been so incredibly risky, and fraught, and fleeting, she would have laughed. But every moment in Lusk House was risky, fraught, and fleeting and there was no time for laughter. There was also no time for this conversation, and yet—

  “You thought I was stupid,” he realized.

  “Your face did not have the look of inherent cruelness,” she corrected, speaking to the books. “You did not look mean.”

  “You thought you could manage me,” he corrected.

  She looked up. “I can manage you.”

  “You cannot,” he shot back. “And you should know that I am very . . .” he swallowed, “. . . mean.”

  Now she did laugh, and they heard the duke stir. Helena clamped a hand over her mouth, looking at Shaw with wide eyes.