His Duchess for a Day

by Christi Caldwell

  “Enough,” she muttered to herself. “You are no less than they are.”

  Reminding herself of her own worth did little to settle the pitch of her belly.

  A moment later, the well-sprung black carriage with gold velvet seats sprang into motion, drawing Elizabeth away from the place that had been a home to her these past years.

  And the place that would be a home to her in the years to come.

  It was a fate she’d long accepted as fact, although logic said this reunion had been coming, that it had been overdue. A couple could not simply marry and then… part. Not without consequences and not without some closure. Especially when it involved a ducal heir.

  Only, he was no longer a ducal heir. Crispin Ferguson was very much a duke, born and bred to the role. He exuded that masterful confidence and strength managed only by kings and those closest to him in rank and privilege.

  But not all dukes were doddering, and in their time apart, Crispin had… changed. He’d added muscle to his once lanky physique and radiated a primal power that she didn’t know what to do with.

  Drawing back the intricately tailored curtains, she stared out at the modest country manor house where she’d served as a finishing school instructor. The gardens and greenery surrounding the perimeter of the stone structure provided a bright splash of color amidst an otherwise dreary scene.

  Eventually, the nestled-away school faded from view and left only the rolling countryside in its wake.

  Nay, that was not the only sight outside her window.

  Elizabeth squinted, searching for a better glimpse of the figure riding ahead.

  Her heart did a little jump.

  Crispin sat tall and relaxed with his broad shoulders back, a masterful rider wholly in command of his mount. His gaze pointed forward, past the chestnut gelding’s ears, and he maintained an expert focus and ease in the saddle.

  That, however, had always been Crispin.

  From archery and fencing, to every athletic pursuit in between, he’d been accomplished in any and every endeavor. And yet, when the village boys and those visiting his family’s estates had been more engrossed in physical pursuits, Crispin had preferred to have an essay in hand. He’d fluently spoken Latin and Greek and debated the complex concept of metaphysics in those respective languages with the same ease with which he’d mastered other skills.

  Whereas Elizabeth had always been rot at riding or swimming, he’d excelled in… everything, really.

  She dusted a finger over the window, tracing a counterclockwise circle upon the sun-warmed pane, spiraling left of that central line. Her gaze fixed on the circular smudge left there.

  “Give me your palm, Elizabeth.”

  She hesitated before holding it out. Wordlessly, Crispin bent over her ink-stained palm and traced a delicate backward circle. She giggled at the faint brush of his fingers. “Th-that tickles.” When he continued, attending to that pointed task, she leaned forward. “What are you d-doing?”

  “It’s an ancient spiral. It speaks to the winding journey we must take if we are to truly know and love ourselves. And in that”—he completed the circle—“we return with more wisdom and power.”

  Elizabeth abruptly dropped her hand to her lap. Aside from her parents, Crispin had been the only person to never see her as just an oddity and nothing more. He’d engaged with her in discussions that would have scandalized Polite Society for the sheer intellect of them.

  And because of it, she’d elevated him to a level no mere mortal could reach.

  That was why she’d fled. That was why she’d hidden.

  No. She dug her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. That hadn’t been the only reason. There’d been so many more that, when tangled together, the only true course presented was her leaving.

  As such, she’d not truly thought of it as hiding from him. Hiding suggested that another person wanted to find you. Ultimately, Crispin hadn’t truly wanted to marry her. He’d done so out of friendship…

  “It was a mistake marrying her. I know that, but there can be no undoing it.”

  Elizabeth’s fingers curled into reflexive fists, noisily crinkling the fabric of her dull gray skirts. Odd that a handful of words could hurt so, even all these years later. Particularly ones she’d played and replayed in her mind in the hope that the familiarity of them would remove any sting.

  But it wasn’t just about the pain caused by his regret.

  She again found Crispin with her gaze.

  She’d left for him. She’d gone so he wouldn’t have to be reminded daily of the mistake he’d made—and so regretted.

  After all, many lords and ladies carried on their own existences apart from their spouses. They had pragmatic unions bent on lineage and carrying on ancient titles.

  Eventually, Crispin would have required an heir. As one who attended to details, Elizabeth had known as much. She’d just not allowed herself to consider the proper time to reunite with him. Time had simply… passed, until ten years divided them.

  He’d not, of course, given any indication that he wanted to bed her.

  “That is not why I’m here.”

  Elizabeth cringed. Why, with his dimpled grin, he’d all but laughed at her for even suggesting he might have located her for the sole purpose of begetting an heir.

  Except, for the very briefest moments in time in Mrs. Belden’s parlor, as he’d stared at her mouth, something had passed in his eyes. Something dark and dangerous, and inexplicably enticing for it—desire. Even as it was foolish for her to think he desired her in any way, there had been a flicker of passion.

  A sound of disgust escaped her. “You pathetic ninny.”

  He was a rogue. By the very nature of the reputation he’d earned, he seduced and bedded grand beauties and wicked widows all over London. Never once in any of the scandal sheets had she read of Crispin being paired with a reed-thin, uncurved, bespectacled miss. No, they’d been lush and earthy and… not like Elizabeth in any way.

  And she hated it. And Elizabeth hated him for his reputation and all those women who’d known him in the one way she hadn’t.

  You left, Elizabeth. You did. Not me.

  She caught the inside of her lower lip hard between her teeth and silently damned him for being correct.

  She had left, and she’d left him behind. And not for the first time since that early morn departure by mail carriage through the English countryside onward to an uncertain future, she considered what life would have been like had she stayed. Would she and Crispin have remained friends poring over journals and attending lectures in London, debating topics as they’d always done?

  “How very different your reading and knowledge content is now.”

  Elizabeth finally looked at the aged brown leather journal beside her on the bench, a title that she’d had little time to read at Mrs. Belden’s, but had pulled free as soon as her meager possessions had been packed in Crispin’s carriage.

  He was correct. She’d undertaken a whole new school of learning, topics and matters they’d both despised and mocked, but had ironically proved the basis of Elizabeth’s existence.

  She hesitated, and then picking up the small journal, she proceeded to flip through the volume.

  The pencil markings upon the pages, renderings made in her quick, eager hand, had been faded by time. Elizabeth smoothed her palm over one drawing, faintly smudging the butterfly sketched there. How many times had she sat side by side with Crispin on a hillside, completing each sketch, both silent, no words needed, as they’d studied those texts?

  Elizabeth pored over each sketch, the beloved works that had kept her awake as she strained to complete them with nothing more than a lone candle’s flame to illuminate her efforts. She, as Crispin had aptly pointed out, had missed these studies in ways she’d not allowed herself to consider—until now. Until him.

  She lingered on each piece they’d worked on together.

  Mayhap they would have carried on with that same enthusiasm for learni
ng.

  Or would they ultimately have been pulled apart anyway, by resentment and the weight of his regret?

  Her throat bobbed. She’d been too much a coward to remain behind and find out what happened to a young couple born to completely different societal ranks and who’d rashly wed. Particularly when one of that pair regretted the miserable, uncomfortable journey to Gretna Green.

  Elizabeth snapped her book closed and glanced out the window once more.

  From up ahead, Crispin cast a look back over his shoulder. Their gazes briefly collided.

  Her heart knocking hard against her rib cage, Elizabeth tugged the curtain shut, welcoming even that illusory hint of privacy.

  I can do this. It’s merely one ball and a handful of days. And then, from there, she could return to Mrs. Belden’s and live the remainder of her life apart from Crispin.

  Except, why, reunited as they were all these years later, did that realization make her suddenly want to cry?

  With a groan, Elizabeth dropped the back of her head against the carriage wall. “Enough,” she muttered to herself. She was not one of those woebegone sorts who lamented what might have been.

  She’d not begin now.

  And certainly not for the man he’d become: a rogue, a scoundrel, scandalizing Society by his attendance at wicked masquerades and the string of lovers he’d taken through the years.

  Forcibly thrusting thoughts of him aside, Elizabeth grabbed her valise from the opposite seat and set the heavy bag on her lap. She grunted. Wrestling with the rusty brass latch, she forced it open and rustled through the meager contents.

  Decorum for Dancing Debutantes.

  “No,” she muttered, shoving aside the small leather tome, searching the others for the best reading option to occupy her for the course of their journey.

  Curtsying for a Queen… and Other Ceremonious Expressions of Greeting for the Peerage.

  “Blah.” She grimaced, giving voice to the annoyance she’d long been unable to share at Mrs. Belden’s over the miserable topics and the even more foolish titles. Her fingers collided with The English Dancing Master. Elizabeth drew it out, briefly flipping through the pages, and then tossed it into the bottom of her valise. It landed atop the small stack with a satisfying thwack.

  For the first time since Crispin had reappeared and her world had been tilted on its axis, Elizabeth found herself smiling. She paused and drew a deep breath into her lungs. Oh, this was a journey she made with Crispin, the scoundrel of a husband she’d abandoned days after their wedding who would see her thrust amidst Polite Society. There would be room enough for horror and unease for the remainder of the carriage ride—and then their arrival.

  And yet, there was something… invigorating in all of it.

  Leaving Mrs. Belden’s.

  She shoved aside another book.

  Talking to herself if she wished.

  Elizabeth dug around, rustling through her bag.

  Uncaring if she was too quiet or too loud.

  Humming a country reel from The English Dancing Master, Elizabeth reached the bottom of her bag and stopped.

  She puzzled her brow.

  That was it.

  She rummaged again through her bag. There had to be… something she wanted to read there. And yet…

  Elizabeth sat back in the plush squabs of her bench. There wasn’t. Everything she’d read or studied or lectured on had been dreary topics required of her. They’d become such a part of her existence, as common as plaiting her hair or rising in the morning.

  And you’ve despised every last moment of it…

  As soon as the traitorous thought crept in, she sat upright.

  “I didn’t hate it,” she muttered to herself. “I’ve enjoyed some of the teachings.”

  To prove it, if even to herself, she grabbed the book at the very bottom of her collection. Proper Rules of Proper Behavior and Proper Decorum. She groaned and then quickly caught herself. Snapping the well-read volume open to the first page, she proceeded to read.

  It is an essentiality that all young women, regardless of station, birthright, or rank.

  She pulled a face and turned the page so hard it tore in the corner. “Redundant,” she muttered.

  A memory trickled in. Those earliest days of her arrival, with false references crafted in the late Duke of Huntington’s offices. She’d been young, alone, scared, and so very miserable.

  “Do you have a problem with the selected texts, Mrs. Terry?” Mrs. Belden thumped her cane, hard, and Elizabeth jumped.

  “No. No. None at all, Mrs. Belden. Your text is…”

  “Perfect.” She whispered to the page before her the lie she’d given the old harpy. There’d been nothing perfect or good in any of those dratted teachings. They’d simply been a routine that she’d eased into and accepted as the new norm of her life.

  Her throat bobbed. How dare Crispin ride in all these years later and recall a different life? One where she’d read… whatever it was that she wished and had been wholly supported in those endeavors.

  Tears blurred her vision, and she frantically blinked them back. “Dust,” she said softly, swatting at her eyes. “Merely dust.”

  Giving her head a clearing shake, Elizabeth settled into her seat and, with the calm, rhythmic back-and-forth sway of Crispin’s carriage, read.

  It is a universal truth widely recognized by those of venerable birth that dignified norms must be honored and upheld by all those desiring an equally venerable match. The union of a nobleman and lady maintains centuries-old connections that pay homage to the greatest foundations of all the kingdom was built upon and—

  Her lashes fluttered, and she jerked herself awake. Drawing in a breath, she found the place she’d left off.

  …decorum, decency, deportment signify the d’s by which all ladies should live.

  The most important of all the d’s where the text was concerned… distressingly tedious…

  Elizabeth briefly closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, she registered an absolute still.

  In a bid to push back the blanket of darkness surrounding her, she blinked slowly.

  Her surroundings were unfamiliar and blurred, with the errant chitter of insects her only sound. Panic pounded at her temples. Where… what?

  Elizabeth fished around for her spectacles.

  As her fingers collided with the cold, familiar metal spectacles on her lap, reality came flooding in.

  Crispin.

  His request that she return with him.

  Scrubbing at her eyes, Elizabeth jammed her glasses back into place.

  At some point, the carriage had stopped.

  On the heels of that came a dawning horror.

  We’ve arrived.

  Except…

  She peeled the curtain back and did a sweep of the rolling emerald hills. The rich shades of green lent a darker hue under the cover of the night.

  What in blazes…?

  She searched for a hint of Crispin, straining for anything, even the steady beat of his horse’s hooves.

  Elizabeth swallowed hard, fighting back the earlier vestiges of sleep. Mayhap they’d stopped for the evening? But here…? In the midst of nowhere?

  Her mind raced.

  Or perhaps there were highwaymen.

  An owl hooted an eerie night song.

  With a squeak, Elizabeth dived for the handle. Shoving the door open, she leaped out, her boots sinking into a thick puddle of mud that splattered her skirts and cheek.

  She shot a palm out, resting it against Crispin’s ducal crest, to keep her balance. The abruptness of her movements sent her glasses tumbling from her nose.

  Elizabeth scrabbled with the metal frames, her fingers tangling with them before they sailed through her fingers.

  Her heart plummeted, and she glanced down in vain at the blurry, darkened earth.

  “Blast and damn,” she muttered, dropping to a knee. She winced as the ground squelched, dampening her skirts. If Mrs. B
elden could see her now, there’d be no post awaiting her upon her return. Elizabeth felt around.

  Crispin’s dark-clad driver, Brambly, came rushing over. “Is everything all right, Your Grace?”

  Her heart sped up, and she did a nearly blind search for Crispin.

  The servant, with more gray at his temples than when they’d last met, doffed his hat. “Your Grace?”

  Me. He’s talking about me, you ninny.

  “I’m quite fine, Brambly.” She plastered on a smile that went unreturned. “Thank you for asking.”

  “Your Grace.” He sketched a stiff bow.

  Yes, because a duchess could run through the English countryside sans garments, and the world would simply ask if she required help in her travels. She and Crispin had alternated between jesting and rolling their eyes at the attentions given those of that exalted station.

  As though he himself wouldn’t one day find himself filling their noble ranks.

  They just hadn’t acknowledged it.

  Or ever entertained that she, Elizabeth Brightly, a village girl, would find herself joining Crispin’s ranks.

  At last, her fingers brushed cool metal, and triumph filled her. “Ah.” Wiping the damp frames on the front of her coarse wool cloak, Elizabeth stood. “Wait!” she called out, and the graying servant turned back.

  The portly man who’d always been ready with a grin and a jest now met her with coldness. “Your Grace?” he asked as he returned. A palpable dislike poured off his round frame.

  Elizabeth frowned, knocked off-center again. Everything had changed, even with the servants who’d once treated her as though she were a cherished member of the Ferguson family.

  The driver stared back at her impatiently.

  She cleared her throat. “Why have we stopped?” she brought herself to ask through his annoyance. Crispin had been clear that they’d ride without stopping. There was the ball to consider… and the fact that he wished to conclude their business together.

  Brambly nodded, and she followed the direction of the gesture. “Problem with His Grace’s mount.”

  Pressing a hand over her brow to tunnel her vision, Elizabeth peered off into the distance. “His mount?” A memory flickered of she and Crispin watching as that cherished horse was foaled. They’d been two friends joined in equal awe and joy at the wonder of that moment, when any other lord would have merely waited for the delivery of a prized mount, a material possession that would exchange hands.