Duchess by Design

by Maya Rodale

  Dedication

  To everyone who has taken a chance on me

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Announcement

  About the Author

  By Maya Rodale

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  London, 1895

  White’s Club

  St James’s Street

  His Grace, Brandon Alexander Fiennes, the Duke of Kingston, had the good fortune to inherit a prestigious title, exceedingly good looks, and an impressive though impoverished estate. One might think this was enough, but in an ever-changing world, it was not. He also required a fortune. And for that, he needed a woman.

  “The dukedom is broke.” Kingston—for he was Kingston now—confided in his friend and cousin, Freddie, Lord Hewitt. They were in White’s, where generations of noblemen before them had drank, smoked, gambled, and lamented the sort of problems that only the most privileged men in the world had the luxury to suffer.

  “You only just inherited and already you’ve lost everything?” Freddie replied with a quirk of his brow. He would make light of this situation. “And here I thought you were the responsible one of us.”

  “Not that it’s any great comparison.”

  Freddie flashed that grin, the one designed to undo any manner of trouble. It would not work now. Not with a matter this grave. Kingston didn’t even know why he’d brought it up to Freddie—lighthearted, featherbrained Freddie—except that they weren’t just friends or family. They were both, thick as thieves, and had been ever since they’d toddled out of the nursery to charm the cook into serving them extra biscuits with tea.

  Kingston’s utterly irresponsible, wastrel of a parent had gone on to the other side and left his son and heir with a prestigious title, a few cash-strapped estates, some crushing debts, and female dependents. It wasn’t just expected that Kingston would be the one to save them all; people were counting on it.

  “It really is unfortunate,” Freddie said, punctuating the remark with a dramatic pause before he leaned in. That grin again. “Did you see what I did there? Unfortunate. Literally without fortune. Like you.”

  Kingston shook his head.

  “Eton and Oxford were wasted on you.”

  “Glad to see you still have your sense of humor while your ancestral lands are on the chopping block,” Freddie carried on. “But I imagine a thousand acres of prime Berkshire farmland ought to go for a good sum. What will you do with the proceeds?”

  Kingston wasn’t so sure about proceeds. If the lands were sold for any decent amount of money, it was so they might be developed or mined. Farming wasn’t exactly a profitable venture these days. Those lush rolling hills his ancestors had claimed—gone. Those thick forests where generations of Kingstons had hunted and haunted—gone. The feeling that these lands were their birthright and would last forever—cruelly wrenched away.

  “I imagine the lot of it will go toward fixing the roof at Lyon House.”

  Hewitt gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of roof.”

  “It’s a lot of house.”

  “Ever think of selling and settling into something more cozy?”

  “Like Buckingham Palace? The damn thing is entailed. My choices are to keep it in good repair or keep it in disrepair.”

  The upkeep on old castles and crumbling manor houses was not cheap. There was no money left over for investments, improvements, or anything other than the most essential repairs, so that the infernal draft never got fixed. At any of the houses. Plural.

  There wasn’t enough for his sisters’ dowries, modern girls who had ideas about marrying for love. There wasn’t enough to keep his mother, the duchess, in the style to which she was accustomed. It did not help that his mother’s style was best described as wildly extravagant and always au courant. Lord save him from dressmakers and their bills. Lord save him from women with intentions to be leaders of fashion.

  “What about torching the lot of it and collecting insurance money?”

  “Besides the fact that it is dishonorable and illegal? Freddie, the house is made of stone that has survived actual wars. I doubt your attempts at arson will be its undoing.”

  “Have I mentioned that I am so glad to have been born a second son and thus never to have to make such decisions?”

  “I think we’re all glad of that fact.”

  “There is one glaringly obvious solution to your problem.”

  “Of course—something countless generations of men such as myself have done when in dire straits.” Kingston took a bracing sip of whiskey before he said the words aloud. It was one thing to think them, privately in the confines of one’s study when reviewing the tragic account books. It was another to admit it aloud.

  “You’ll have to follow my example, for once. You’ll have to marry an heiress,” Freddie said. “As I have done.”

  “A marriage of convenience.”

  “The stuff love stories are made of.”

  “Be still my beating heart.”

  “Being grossly unsuited for the clergy, army, or any employment—and one who has recently become wed to an heiress myself—I can well advise you on this plan,” Freddie said. “There is only one obstacle. All the other peers—and their daughters—are as broke as you.”

  “I’m sure someone is still doing well,” Kingston said. “Huntley invested in the railroads. We’d all mocked him then—my father especially—but who is laughing now?”

  “Huntley is, all the way to the Bank of England. He doesn’t have any daughters though,” Freddie said. “The problem is that heiresses are not exactly thick on the ground in England these days. And the ones that are here know that blokes just want their money. Makes things dashed hard for a mere second son. That’s why I had to travel abroad to find my heiress.”

  “Good thing I’m a duke. Will trade ancient and prestigious title for cold hard cash. A love story for the ages.”

  “Aye, you just have to walk in and announce yourself, don’t you? Well, as long as you’re not keen to wed someone who you’ll want to cozy up to in that drafty old house, that plan should work out fine for you. Because let me tell you about the girls who are out this season who come with money . . .”

  Freddie told him about the girls who were out this season who came with money. He listed their names, described their personalities, appearances, etc. The list was not long. The options were not appealing, which posed the question: how much of himself was he willing to sacrifice to preserve his way of life and protect the women in his family from any hardship?

  He’d always been the responsible one.

  He’d been born knowing the right thing�
��the noble thing—to do and he’d been born with the fortitude to do it.

  “If you really want to wed a wealthy bride, there’s only one way to go about it.” Freddie downed the last of his drink, leaned forward dramatically, and said: “You will have to go to America.”

  Chapter One

  Manhattan’s dollar princesses ought to pinch their cheeks and don their finest: the Duke of Kingston is enroute to New York City in search of his future duchess.

  —The New York World

  New York City, 1895

  The Fifth Avenue Hotel

  A chance encounter with the duke was only the second most interesting thing to happen to Miss Adeline Black that afternoon, but that was life in New York City for you. One never knew whom one might meet, what good fortune or disaster might befall you, or when you will crash into the town’s most eligible bachelor in the lobby of the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

  Tuesday. That’s when.

  Tuesday, precisely seven minutes before two o’clock in the afternoon.

  This meant that she had precisely seven minutes to make her way through the vast hall of the Fifth Avenue Hotel on her way to the suite of rooms of Miss Harriet Burnett. Adeline didn’t know her from Adam, but she knew an opportunity to change her life and make her dreams come true when it requested a two-o’clock appointment.

  She could not be late.

  But this lobby was an absolute crush. The great hall was full of everything a hotel guest could want—from tickets to tea—and it was packed with the city’s wealthiest and most prestigious guests. They strutted their stuff, showed off their finery, made deals, and traded gossip in the luscious surroundings of the city’s most exclusive and opulent hotel.

  And they got in her way.

  These out-of-towners walked slowly in front of her, delaying her progress to the elevator, to Miss Burnett’s rooms on the top floor, to her future.

  For the occasion, Adeline wore her best ensemble: a plum-colored walking dress paired with a crisp white shirtwaist bearing a cascade of delicate little ruffles from her throat to her waist. The cropped jacket was darling, edged in gold cord and tailored to show off her narrow waist. A simple matching hat was perched perfectly on her dark hair. On her feet were French-style heels like ladies wore, though hers were purchased from a pushcart downtown for the astronomical sum of a week’s wages. But they were worth it.

  They pinched her toes, but they were so worth it.

  Adeline darted to the left to avoid a trio of Wall Street types in three-piece suits lumbering toward her with no regard for the people in their path. She spun to the right to dodge a pair of ladies, deep in conversation as they walked. She had too much momentum going to stop herself when a man stepped into her path and turned toward her.

  And so she crashed into his firm, muscled chest. Firm, muscled arms enveloped her. She took a deep breath of evergreen-scented soap and clean linen and man. She noted the feel of exceptionally fine cashmere wool against her cheek.

  Adeline stilled. And, in all honesty, she savored the moment. It was not every day that a seamstress found herself in a gentleman’s arms, at least in such a respectable fashion.

  Well, on Tuesdays.

  Except, apparently, on Tuesdays.

  Adeline took a step and tilted her head back to look at the gentleman with whom she collided.

  He felt like he’d be handsome and the truth did not disappoint. He had the kind of good looks a woman just wanted to stare at all day, all night, and then again at the breakfast table. Forever.

  There was something about that well-groomed dark brown hair. Something about those deep blue eyes and the faint lines at the corners. Something about that firm, sensuous mouth cocked into a seductive half smile.

  “Well, hello.” His voice was low, his accent distinctly British. Her heart fluttered. “Are you all right, miss?”

  She was more than all right.

  “Besides being left breathless, I think I am just fine.” She flashed him a flirtatious smile because he was a handsome fellow and she was in the mood to seize opportunities today. “And yourself? Have you recovered from your display of heroics?”

  “Oh, I don’t know that I would call catching you heroic. Any decent gentleman would try to catch a pretty girl when she was falling.”

  Adeline smiled at him the unfeigned way of a girl just complimented by a handsome man and leaned in close to say, “Don’t look now, but everyone is watching us. You’ll be the talk of the town by supper.”

  “You’re assuming I’m not the talk of the town already.”

  “Ah, you’re a confident one. You’ll fit right in. Welcome to New York.”

  As a dedicated reader of The New York World, particularly the gossip columns in said paper, Adeline had a hunch about just who this handsome stranger was.

  He would more than fit in; this man was poised to conquer the Four Hundred and the rest of New York society. It wasn’t just his good looks or his fine suit of clothes, either. He wore his wealth and power effortlessly. It simply radiated from him. All these New York new moneymen dressed the part in fancy wool coats and satin waistcoats; they built veritable palaces along Fifth Avenue, they dropped cash and coin on diamond-studded trinkets and every imaginable, outlandish entertainment. But none of them managed to radiate power and authority as this man did, dressed plainly but excellently.

  She had an eye for fashion; she knew these things.

  She wanted to breathe it in. Bottle it. Sell it at the counters at Goodwin’s Emporium on the Ladies’ Mile. She’d make a fortune. That was the New Yorker in her. Everything was for sale.

  Adeline glanced at the large clock towering over the lobby hall and saw the time was five minutes before two o’clock. If she kept her wits together and remembered her priorities, if she didn’t allow herself to get distracted from her one true purpose by a man, there would be just enough time for her to get there without rushing and arriving gasping for breath.

  “Thank you for the heroics. Lovely to make the acquaintance with your chest, if not the rest of you. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

  She gave him another wide smile and continued on her way toward the elevator. To the top floor. To the chamber of Miss Harriet Burnett. To her best shot at the future she’d always dreamed of.

  Oh, but she could not resist a glance over her shoulder; there stood the most eligible bachelor in town in the middle of the Fifth Avenue Hotel lobby, smiling, with his gaze fixed on her bustle as she walked away.

  Brandon Alexander Fiennes, the duke of Kingston, was definitely not in London anymore. In fact, New York City was something else entirely. The crowds of people pulsed and surged around him; everyone in this town seemed to be in a mad dash to get someplace, to meet someone, to do something. Right now, no, yesterday! It was exhilarating and exhausting all at once.

  The pace was nothing like that of England, where one had a sense of centuries stretching into the past and presumably forward, too.

  Though Kingston hadn’t time to waste in finding his bride, he had expected to spend a month or two in the city enduring rounds of soirees and introductions before finding someone suitable, which is to say someone rich, respectable, and keen to trade her fortune for his prestigious title. To say nothing of a girl who felt like perfection in his arms, who had a sparkle in her eye that enchanted him and who had a sway of her hips that captivated him.

  He’d only just arrived and already he’d met a girl, quite possibly the girl.

  How very New York.

  He watched the sway of her hips, mesmerized.

  She was headed in the direction of the elevator banks. As luck would have it, so was he.

  “So we meet again,” he said, coming to stand beside her as she waited for the elevator carriage to arrive. “What a small world.”

  “Well hello again.” She smiled. “You’re not following me, are you?”

  Kingston would feel like the worst sort of rogue were it not for the sparkle in her dark eyes and the amu
sed upturn of her lips. She was flirting with him. There was something between them and she felt it, too.

  “No, of course not. That would be unseemly. I’m returning to my rooms to lie down. Such a display of heroics takes a lot out of a man. I fear I might need some tender ministrations to help me regain my strength.”

  “I hope you’re not propositioning me,” she said in a way that made him very much think about propositioning her. She shook her head and lamented, “Here I thought you had potential.”

  “I’m afraid I’m too much of a gentleman to proposition a woman. Especially when we’ve only just met.”

  “Too much of a gentleman?” She raised her eyebrow and gave a little laugh. “I haven’t heard that one before. As it happens, I’m quite busy.”

  And not that kind of woman. She didn’t need to say the words for them to be understood. And in truth, he never thought she was. Her attire and manners were as fine as any society woman of the Haute Ton or Four Hundred. That she was waiting for the elevators to her rooms in the Fifth Avenue Hotel indicated that she was a woman of a certain wealth. She had the potential to be suitable.

  Those lips, though. He wanted to kiss them. Here. Now.

  “I must confess that I find you enchanting.”

  “Of course you do.” She rolled her eyes heavenward, but her lips reluctantly curved up in a small quirk of an indulgent smile that made his heart stop for a moment. Then it struck him: they were flirting but she wasn’t falling for him. She was politely flirting with him.

  Well, that was a first.

  A novelty.

  He was a duke. One easy on the eyes, if empty in the pockets. And women fell for him, hard and fast. It took nothing more than his seductive smile, a wink, a charming quip, a hint of a kiss, a promise of pleasure. But that was with English girls.

  Perhaps this girl didn’t know who he was. Perhaps she was well aware and not impressed. Not for the first time since arriving in New York did Kingston feel his entire equilibrium rocked.

  “I’ve only just arrived and already I can see that New York City girls are different than the ones in London.”