She should have spent less time imagining that cold possibility and more time facing the reality that she would be inheriting the duchy.
But it hadn’t seemed real. And that was the problem. Nobody had thought it would happen, even though theirs was an ancient peerage that granted any heir (not just a son) the title. A bit of royal legerdemain that allowed women to become duchesses in their own right provided there was no male heir. Her father had remarried after Genevieve’s mother’s death, and it seemed certain that her father would have a son to inherit the title. But he had not, and then his wife had died, and now he was gone, too. The only ones who had paid her any type of attention were the servants in the house she’d grown up in. Who’d loved her, and been kind to her, and who’d brought her books, and biscuits, and smiled as she explained the intricate plot of the novel she’d just read.
But who didn’t have any clue of what it would take to be a successful duchess.
Although she should be grateful she hadn’t learned how to be any kind of ducal entity from her father, who had apparently been terrible at the whole thing.
He was far more interested in sampling London life to pay attention to pesky things like estate management. Genevieve’s strongest memory of her father was of him kissing her cheek and making some sort of inarticulate approving noise at her.
Which reminded her that she was about to get some help in the form of the unknown Mr. Salisbury. Help that she sorely needed, even though apparently it also made her squeak.
She rang the bell, making both her grandmother and Byron jump. She heard footsteps, then the door opened to admit her butler.
“Your Grace?”
Thus far, Chandler had treated her with the utmost external respect, but Genevieve had caught an expression of disbelief on his face at times he’d thought she hadn’t been looking at him.
She couldn’t fault him for it; it was the same expression that she had when she looked at herself in the mirror.
She pretended she was the princess of Snowland again. It was easier than dealing with the reality of who she was now. “A Mr. Archibald Salisbury is arriving in a few days,” she said in what she hoped was a suitable tone. “He is my aunt Sophia’s steward, and he will be attending to my affairs until we locate a suitable person for the position.” Was she explaining too much to him? Not enough? Why didn’t she know? Oh, of course, because she hadn’t been raised to become a duchess. It had been thrust onto her, through a variety of mishaps and unfortunate demises.
“Yes, Your Grace. I will place your guest,” and was it Genevieve’s imagination, or did the butler seem to sneer the last two words, “in one of the guest rooms on the third floor.”
“Excellent. Oh, and,” she added, as though it was an afterthought, “Mr. Salisbury is not precisely a guest. But he is to be treated as one for the duration of his stay.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied, bowing. She thought there was a tinge more of a thaw in his manner—because she was behaving as a duchess ought? And since when did she care so for the opinion of people she’d just met, and who worked for her?
Of course. Since she recognized that even the barest hint of talk would undermine her position and her ability to carry out her duties. Since then.
She hoped Mr. Salisbury was as stuffy, appropriate, and efficient, not to mention boring, as his letters implied. The last thing she needed was someone else to upset her peace of mind.
“Your Grace?”
Genevieve paused in the act of dropping a bit of cheese for Byron, whose expression of expectation turned to disgust as Genevieve’s hand stilled in mid-air.
“Yes?”
She and her grandmother were in the Duchess’s sitting room again, since her grandmother was most comfortable navigating her way around the furniture here. Genevieve knew she would have to redecorate eventually, all the furnishings were worn, or old, or both, but she was hoping to be able to keep everything in the same basic location so her grandmother wouldn’t fall.
“Your Mr. Salisbury is here.” Chandler’s sharp eyes focused on Byron, and his gaze narrowed. He had not said so in so many words, but he did not have to—it was clear he did not approve of Byron’s being in the household. Of course, he probably didn’t approve of Genevieve, either, so she couldn’t pay heed to his opinion on either of them.
“Do show him in, Chandler.”
She took a deep breath and settled her hands in her lap, her thumb and index finger rolling the crumb of cheese into a ball as Byron continued to glare at her. Drat, and her hair was likely untidy. She’d felt it unwinding when she came to the room, but then her grandmother had needed help with some yarn, and then Byron came begging, and now the likely very proper and properly dull Mr. Salisbury, Capt. (Ret.) was about to come in, and he would be shocked at her impropriety. And her hair.
Although as far as impropriety went, an unmarried duchess living on her own with only her grandmother and a hungry cat as companionship was far worse than untidy hair.
“Mr. Salisbury,” Chandler said, then stepped aside to let the gentleman in.
Oh goodness.
The man was so tall it seemed he filled up the entire doorway, blocking out the light that streamed from the large windows in the hall. All she saw was an enormous shape that looked vaguely man-like. And then he came into the room and Genevieve was able to focus, and then it felt as though he’d blocked out all the air from her lungs. Even though he hadn’t, he was just standing there holding his hat in his no doubt equally compelling hands.
But the rest of him seemed so improper it really did take her breath away, now that she could see him. Properly. He was so ruggedly good-looking it seemed impossible, and yet here he was—dark hair with just a hint of a curl, a strong blade of a nose over a full mouth, blue eyes that gazed at her unrelentingly. As though he could see inside her soul.
Which Genevieve knew perfectly well could be characterized with the word “confused.”
And his build was—well, impressive was one word for it. Genevieve imagined there were other words, far less proper words, words that deliberately untidy-haired women would know. He was tall and also broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, and he stood in her sitting room with an easy grace that nonetheless seemed as though he could move at any time. To attack, to defend, to—
Not that. She could not even think that.
“Your Grace?” His eyebrows had drawn together, and he was looking at her as though she were an oddity he had run across, and wasn’t certain he liked.
That was the expression she’d seen on most people’s faces since inheriting. It shouldn’t discomfit her; on a less impressive gentleman it wouldn’t. But him, with his height, and his looks, and his general (no, Captain! her mind corrected hysterically) air of command—well. Well, it seemed as though she could be discomfited after all.
And here she thought the worst part about being a duchess was the whole inability to handle anything part.
“Yes, Mr. Salisbury,” she said, keeping her voice low so it wouldn’t tremble. Or squeak. “Thank you so much for arriving, and so promptly, too.” She glanced toward Chandler and nodded. “That will be all.”
Her butler withdrew, closing the door behind him. Leaving her with him and—“Oh, goodness, please allow me to introduce my grandmother.”
“The dowager duchess?” he said, walking forward to bow in her grandmother’s direction.
Gran giggled and held her hand out. “Heavens, no, I am Lady Halbard. My daughter was the Duchess’s mother.”
How, in goodness’ name, could Gran tell that he was so good-looking? Because she was preening, at least as much as a sixty-year-old woman could. Which is to say she was wriggling in her seat and smiling in a nearly coquettish way.
The only time Genevieve had seen her grandmother behave that way before was in the presence of the butcher, who had apparently been quite comely in his youth, when Gran had much better eyesight.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Gran wriggled some more, and Genevieve found herself almost wishing she were ten years old again, and could roll her eyes with impunity.
“Would you excuse us, Gran? Mr. Salisbury and I have some business to discuss.”
Her grandmother began to rise, and Mr. Salisbury reached out to hold her elbow as she stood, a delighted smile on her face. “Byron and I will leave you alone. Byron!” she called, even though the cat had yet to acknowledge it had a name, much less that anyone was in authority over it.
“Byron?” Mr. Salisbury asked, that look of confusion on his face again.
“Byron. Named after the poet. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage?” Gran replied.
“Ah. Of course,” Mr. Salisbury replied, even though he still looked confused.
“The cat,” Genevieve explained.
“Ah!” The look of confusion cleared somewhat.
“I spoke with him once,” Gran said dreamily.
“The poet, not the cat,” Genevieve said hastily.
“He was the most handsome man,” Gran continued. Apparently Gran had long been a connoisseur of masculine beauty.
“Let me help you, Gran,” Genevieve said, going to her grandmother’s other side. The one not currently occupied by the handsome observant man. Not Byron, but Mr. Salisbury. And now she was doing it. She shook her head at herself as she began to walk.
“Thank you, dear.” Gran patted Mr. Salisbury’s arm. “It is such a pleasure to meet you, I am hoping you will be able to help my granddaughter with whatever she needs.” And then to make matters worse, she punctuated her vague and somewhat leading words with a knowing chuckle.
Genevieve felt her face start to burn in embarrassment. Gran wouldn’t see it, of course, but he likely would. The realization of which only made her face burn brighter.
They waited until the door shut behind Gran, as Genevieve tried frantically to get her face to cool.
“Well Your Grace,” Mr. Salisbury said, regarding her with an intense gaze. “How may I be of service?”
Oh dear, Genevieve thought. That was certainly an open-ended question. Where should she begin?
About the Author
MEGAN FRAMPTON writes historical romance under her own name and romantic women’s fiction under the name Megan Caldwell. She likes the color black, gin, dark-haired British men, and huge earrings, not in that order. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and son. You can visit her website at www.meganframpton.com. She tweets as @meganf, and is at facebook.com/meganframptonbooks.
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By Megan Frampton
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from My Fair Duchess copyright © 2017 by Megan Frampton.
why do dukes fall in love? Copyright © 2016 by Megan Frampton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition AUGUST 2016 ISBN: 9780062412836
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062412829
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Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel Page 27