Falling for His Duchess
by
Donna Cummings
When a duke meets a vicar’s daughter, he falls instantly in love—with a little help from the goddess Aphrodite. But the lady no longer believes in love. Can he change her mind?
Julian Selby, Duke of Enfield, comes from a long line of people who fall deeply in love. Love that can be either a blessing or a curse, depending on whether it is returned. When Julian rescues a lovely lady from a country storm, he knows at once she’s the one for him. To gain time for his courtship, he tricks her into believing he’s a simple gentleman. But when she learns the truth, she may never trust him again.
Rosalinde Hewitt, daughter of a country vicar, accepted another man’s offer of marriage to escape her quiet life. She’s crushed when her suitor doesn’t appear at their assignation—that is, until Mr. Selby sweeps her into a flirtation that opens her heart to joy and laughter. At last, she’s found a man she can trust with her heart…until she learns who he really is. Can even a meddling goddess convince her a duke may truly love a country miss?
Copyright 2016 Donna Cummings. All Rights Reserved.
Cover by Carrie Peters, http://www.cheekycovers.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
Dedication
For Mae
One of the best writer-friends anyone could ask for.
Hope Julian's story was worth the wait!
Table of Contents
Dedication
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Connect Online
Other Available Books
Future Releases
Excerpt of The Debutante's Wager
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"It never goes smoothly when we get personally involved with the mortals."
~ Ares, God of War
"But that is what makes it so entertaining."
~ Aphrodite, Goddess of Love
Chapter 1
What a glorious day.
Julian Selby, Duke of Enfield, stretched out in his traveling coach, grinning at his rare good fortune.
For the next fortnight he could do whatever he pleased. He had no responsibilities with which to concern himself, no family member needing his assistance, no one requiring rescue from yet another scrape. He would spend every minute of his unexpected holiday being frivolous, carefree, and positively selfish—once he determined precisely how it was done.
Best of all, he also had a fortnight's respite from the ton's marriage-minded females. Ever since his sister Felicia had fallen instantly in love, thanks to the Enfield family curse, he had been pursued more diligently than usual. Debutantes and their persistent mamas had employed a wealth of creative methods in the hopes he would fall instantly in love, too.
Yet it had not happened, nor was it likely to. How could it? All of the marriage prospects openly desired his title and status, not the man who possessed them. It was as if he were an afterthought, or an impediment, to what they truly wanted.
He shook off the disheartening notion. In two weeks' time he would take up his responsibilities once more, and begin seeking a bride who was a good candidate to be his duchess. Until then, he would put love and family curses and the unlikely hope of marital bliss completely out of his thoughts.
The carriage rumbled, and then began to slow as it headed down a hill. Julian glanced out the window and saw an inn in the distance, one he had encountered months ago while attempting to halt one of Felicia's unsuccessful elopement attempts.
He rapped on the roof of the carriage, and then stuck his head out the window to call to his coachman. "Frederick, let us stop at the inn ahead. As I recall, they had a rather fine ale."
Frederick grunted his assent. Julian sat back against the carriage cushions, content with being a man of leisure. It was turning out to be a great deal easier than he'd imagined.
***
"You may as well face the truth." Rosalinde Hewitt dabbed the last of her tears with a lace-edged handkerchief. "You have been jilted."
She gazed numbly at the inn's comfortably furnished private parlor, having memorized its contents while waiting for her betrothed to return from London. A fire continued to crackle cheerfully in a corner of the room, as if mocking her earlier optimism for this ill-fated elopement.
Rosalinde allowed herself one last sniffle and then she stood, straightening her shoulders. There was no reason to put off her return home any longer. In truth, there was nothing she wanted more.
She gave the ribbons of her jaunty chip-straw bonnet a determined tug. Oh how she wished her hands were tightening around the neck of the absent Mr. Moulton instead.
She merely needed to retrieve the small portmanteau containing her few essentials. A rather muscular ostler had brought it in—was it only hours ago?—but she had been too busy planning her upcoming excursions in London to concentrate on anything else.
Not only had those hopes failed to materialize, her leather bag had seemingly disappeared too.
Rosalinde paced the private parlor, her exasperation growing with each unsuccessful attempt to locate the missing luggage. She was tempted to leave it, and return for it on the morrow. But if anyone were to see the bag, and learn of her misadventure…
She set to searching even more diligently. Perhaps she could ask the ostler for assistance. Or the maid who had given her a conspiratorial wink while bringing in some refreshment earlier.
Rosalinde opened the door to seek them out—and immediately plowed into an unexpected obstacle.
A hint of bay rum and starch tickled her nose, and no wonder, since her face was nearly buried in a snowy-white cravat, thanks to the arms that encircled her so protectively. She tilted her head back to see, not Mr. Moulton, but a gentleman with a strong, well-defined jaw, an aquiline nose, and sculptured cheekbones. Her heart beat faster at the handsome sight, until she saw his finely shaped lips tipped up in a smile.
Even worse, his eyes were dancing with merriment.
She tried her best not to cringe. She was certain to be an amusing sight—a watering pot of a country spinster stumbling into the arms of unwary travelers from London.
And there could be no doubt he hailed from that august city. The impeccable cut of his chocolate-brown coat confirmed he did not frequent the local tailor. Nor could his elegant beaver hat be obtained in any of their humble village shops.
"My apologies." Rosalinde stepped back, though it proved to be a most difficult task. She had nearly forgotten she was in a hurry to return home and put the humiliation of this dreadful day behind her.
Where was that portmanteau?
She finally spotted it, tucked beneath a distant chair. "How did it possibly find its way there?"
"Allow me," the gentleman offered.
She ignored him, reaching for the bag just as he did, and their shoulders collided. Rosalinde rocked backwards but the gentleman grabbed her. She instinctively clasped his arms to keep her balance, while fighting off an unseemly urge to melt into the embrace.
It was not at all how she had felt with Mr. Moulton—
She bolted from his arms.
"Thank you for your assistance,
but I must—" She nearly blurted the need to return home before her father, the vicar, discovered she had gone missing. "I really must go."
"At least permit me to give you a ride to your destination. My carriage is just outside. Miss…"
He gazed at her with upraised eyebrows, politely waiting for her name.
Rosalinde faltered. She did not wish to appear rude or ill-mannered, yet she also did not wish to prolong this improper encounter any longer than necessary. Especially since she found herself intrigued by the thought of prolonging this improper encounter.
She shook her head. "It is a most generous offer, but I must decline."
"It would be no trouble at all. And I hope you shall allow me to introduce myself." His eyes began to twinkle anew. "As there is no mutual acquaintance I can call upon to make the introductions."
"We shall overlook the formalities this once," she managed with a prim tone, struggling to fight off a smile.
He gave a slight bow, and then it almost seemed he hesitated before declaring, "Julian Selby, at your service."
She extended her hand, only it was the one holding the drenched hanky. Biting back a groan, she jammed the offending item into the other hand.
"Rosalinde." She hesitated, too. There was little chance he might recognize her name. There was even less likelihood he would have reason to remember it. "Rosalinde Hewitt."
He lifted her gloved hand to his lips, smiling at her the entire while. She gazed at him, fascinated. For years, her mother had regaled Rosalinde with tales of how the streets of London were overflowing with gentlemen just like Mr. Selby. Handsome, dashing, and clearly possessed of a quick wit. He was also quite charming, probably turning the heads of women of all ages—
Dear heavens, she had been staring at him like a mooncalf, mere minutes after tumbling into his arms, not once but twice. She had no doubt provided him with a story he could dine out on for a month.
She tugged her hand out of his grasp.
"Mr. Selby, thank you for your kindness," Rosalinde said in a rush. "I cannot apologize enough for intruding on your person. It is quite unlike me, I assure you."
"It is of no consequence."
Rosalinde blushed when his gaze did not waver from hers. She wanted nothing more than to get away from this man and his understanding smile and kind regard. Or was it pity? That would be too much to bear on the very day her silly hopes for the future had been dashed forever.
"My gratitude, once more."
Her cheeks aflame, Rosalinde rushed out the open doorway, not permitting herself another glance at Mr. Selby. She sighed with relief when she reached the innyard, the cool spring air touching her heated face.
Thank the merciful Lord the worst of this day was finally ended.
***
"Miss Hewitt! Wait!"
Julian followed the beauteous blonde out of the private parlor, halting as he sought her amongst the bustling occupants in the inn's main room. He dodged numerous patrons, as well as staff scurrying to serve them, finally finding his way to the entrance.
He had never chased a woman his entire life. He wasn't entirely sure why he was now.
Perhaps it was because her violet-blue eyes had been a bit watery, and the handkerchief had seen very recent service. It was second nature to want to ease such obvious distress.
Of course, there was also the matter of his body's less-than-chivalrous responses at having her in his embrace, something that was definitely worth repeating.
Julian paused in the innyard for a moment. He finally caught a glimpse of her walking at a brisk pace in the opposite direction he had intended to travel. He glanced once at the clouds darkening ominously above, and then back at Miss Hewitt's trim figure as she scurried to outrun the threatening rain.
She was not his concern, he reminded himself.
She was not interested in pursuing their brief acquaintance.
Julian started to turn away.
She was not carrying her portmanteau.
He spun on his heel, returning to the private room. He could at least provide Miss Hewitt the kindness of returning her luggage, even if she would not permit him to drive her to her home.
He burst into the room, glad to see the bag sitting on a nearby chair. A serving maid was in the room, also seated on a nearby chair. She gave him a lazy grin, surprising him to no end, but it was not his place to chastise her for taking a probably well-deserved respite.
Her extraordinary beauty was quite out of place in this roughened environment, however. It was easier to envision her bedecked in jewels, holding court in a sumptuous ballroom, driving all the London swains mad with passion.
Her grin widened. For a moment he imagined she had read his thoughts. He shook his head at such a fanciful notion.
"So you have finally arrived," the maid said.
Julian frowned. "I do not take your meaning."
"The young miss you were meeting, so you could elope."
His shock was complete. Miss Hewitt eloping? Then where was the groom? No wonder she had wanted to flee the inn. However, he could not explain why he felt a surge of relief that Miss Hewitt remained unwed.
"I am not the groom," he said.
The maid tilted her head and studied him, quite boldly. For some reason it compelled him to explain his actions, and his motives.
"I have merely come to fetch her luggage, so I can return it to her."
"I shall take care of it," the maid said. "Do not trouble yourself."
They both reached for the leather bag at the same time. Julian's hand brushed against hers, ever so slightly, but all at once he felt the most curious warmth speeding through his arm and spreading throughout his entire body. Something like a flash of lightning hit his heart, setting off an equally intense pulsing in his brain.
Every thought, every desire, was focused completely on Miss Rosalinde Hewitt. His earlier admiration for her intensified into something remarkable, and exquisite, and wholly unexpected.
He had fallen instantly in love.
"I must find her!"
There was nothing more important, and never would be. The family curse ensured a long, lonely life if he did not wed this woman he now loved.
"You'd best make haste. There's a storm on its way."
Julian grinned. There was indeed a storm brewing, inside him, with a host of emotions swirling around, making him giddy yet optimistic, all at the same instant. He grabbed the portmanteau and raced outdoors, motioning his coachman Frederick to fetch the plain carriage.
What a singular day it had been. He had escaped into the countryside for a well-deserved respite from marriage-minded chits, only to stumble—literally—into the very miss he had been praying for the past decade. The one female he had despaired of ever finding.
His one true love.
He settled into the cushions of the coach, happier than he had been in ages. Now he merely had to convince Miss Hewitt to be his bride. He was confident his quest would be a relatively easy one, since she was not betrothed, as his sister Felicia's true love had been.
Miss Hewitt would be his duchess before the week was done.
***
Aphrodite smiled as her own true love entered the private parlor. "I adore that moment when they fall headlong into love."
"Entirely unable to see the obstacles that will befall them." Ares chuckled when Aphrodite frowned at him. "It has always happened that way previously."
"True," she admitted, "but what makes you so certain it shall happen this time?"
"Hmm, perhaps it is the fact that the young miss has been jilted, this very day, and is not likely to give her heart again easily."
Aphrodite waved her hand airily. "I am not so certain she gave her heart the first time."
"Still," he said, "she is bound to be nervous about attempting it anew. Especially so soon."
Aphrodite sighed. He did have a point. Her plans to help young couples find their true love never did seem to go smoothly, despite her best efforts.
> "At least this gives us an opportunity for a different setting."
She sauntered over to him, not surprised when his eyes did not stray from the expanse of bosom her serving maid costume exposed to his view. She had some difficulty keeping her gaze away from his muscled physique, displayed to perfection in his humble ostler's attire.
"I confess you surprise me with your willingness to endure this more roughened atmosphere," Ares said. "After all of the luxuries, and jewels, London provides."
She snuggled closer to him, treasuring that moment when his breath hitched. She always loved how he found her so irresistible.
"I know this country setting is more to your liking, dearest. So how could I possibly deny you that pleasure?"
He grinned. "I've heard there's to be a fancy next week."
"That sounds promising." And it was, until he explained exactly what it was. "Darling, when you said 'fancy', I had anticipated something a little more genteel. Not men pummeling each other until blood is spilled everywhere."
"It shall be a bare-knuckle event, which I always prefer." His eyes started to twinkle. "It often involves baring the chest, so the shirt cannot get in the way of the actual fighting."
Aphrodite's eyebrows raised. "Perhaps I have rushed to judgment. I should like to see this exhibition."
Ares gathered her into his arms, his eyebrows drawn down in a frown. "Shall I participate? Show these mere mortals what the God of War can do?"
She smoothed her hands up his chest, sliding them inside his shirt. "I would love to see such an event. Even if it is not fair for them to face your unearthly powers."
He brushed his lips against hers. "Just as it is not fair for mortals to face your unearthly powers involving love?"
"I am assisting them! Not squaring off in battle."
"Yes, I can see the difference entirely." He grinned before nibbling on her bare shoulder. "I almost thought you planned a love potion this time, when you brought in the refreshment for Miss Hewitt."
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