Falling for His Duchess

by Donna Cummings

  "There is nothing I desire more," Julian said smoothly, clasping her hand with a grateful look in his eye. Rosalinde nearly gasped at the blatant gesture, but she was even more taken aback by the sight of Mrs. Baird's eyelashes fluttering coquettishly.

  "Now, Emma," Mrs. Pettibone rebuked, elbowing her rival none too gently. "There is no need to state something so obvious. Of course he knows I, rather, we, shall stay close enough that all he must do is whisper and we shall be by his side."

  She glared at her companion before turning her brightest smile on Julian.

  The gesture clearly inspired the usually mousy Mrs. Hales to action. Her manner just short of simpering, she stepped in front of both women and tenderly brushed a hand across Julian's forehead. "You poor dear," she exclaimed. "These women are determined to smother you—with their kindness," she added hastily.

  Rosalinde might have taken pity on the poor man, if he hadn't closed his eyes in what seemed a deliberate bid for more of their attentions. The women fluttered and fussed over him as though he were the original prodigal son, forgetting Rosalinde and their supposed need for her assistance. She would not be surprised if they insisted on staying with him for the remainder of his convalescence.

  "Come, ladies," she urged, sweeping them out of the room before they took up permanent residence. "We shall attempt to finish the recipe, while Mr. Selby spends the time resting. He is not used to so much devoted attention, and we would not wish to cause him a relapse, would we?"

  ***

  Julian was awakened from his nap by a drawn-out, decidedly off-key, "Welllllll," wafting through the hallway towards his bedchamber.

  "What the devil?"

  Unable to contain his curiosity, he tiptoed towards the kitchens, ready to affect a credible limp should anyone catch him away from his bed. He finally halted, peering around the door into the kitchen.

  The sight held him utterly transfixed. Rosalinde, brandy bottle grasped in one outstretched hand, was seated on a tall stool, but it was only a matter of time before her boisterous swaying as she sang toppled her from the perch.

  She was blissfully unaware of her precarious position, however, as she led the equally foxed church ladies in a clamorous rendition of a bawdy tavern song. From their enthusiastic voices, it was obviously not the first time through the ditty, or through the liquor bottle.

  Julian stifled a chuckle before it could turn into uproarious laughter. His efforts were nearly in vain, however, when the unbending Mrs. Baird stood up and belted out a stirring solo that brought her companions to their wobbly feet with admiring applause. The meek Mrs. Hales practically browbeat Mrs. Pettibone into admitting that yes, her recipe could use just a wee bit more of the brandy.

  "A wee bit more?" Rosalinde obliged by attempting to pour the dregs of the bottle into the large mixing bowl, only, to her obvious amazement, nothing came out. After dismounting from the stool in a less than graceful manner, she leaned back, and, still swaying, tipped the bottle over her eye. After a thoroughly detailed perusal of its contents, she cheerily announced, "That's that, then."

  "What's what?" Mrs. Baird asked.

  "Why's why," Mrs. Hales answered sagely, nodding her head before it finally landed peacefully on the oak table with a light thunk. She began to snore, oblivious to the surrounding bowls filled with the failed attempts to perfect the cake recipe.

  "Didn't I say she'd be the first to desert this project?" Mrs. Baird bellowed. "She always is."

  Mrs. Pettibone tittered before wagging a playful finger in Mrs. Baird's face. "You're just grateful you have less competition for Mr. Selby."

  Her comment was met with a heated denial. Mrs. Baird grabbed for the bony finger waving in front of her nose, but clearly she was seeing not one, but a handful. She tilted precariously, clasping Mrs. Pettibone's hand as if it were a lifeline while trying to right herself. Before she could drag them both into a most unseemly position, Rosalinde stepped forward to assist.

  Nothing could have made matters worse. The three weaved as they tried to catch their balance. Julian strode forward and grasped Rosalinde around the shoulders.

  "Julian! Look who has joined us, ladies." She threw her arms wide to announce Julian's presence to the group, nearly beheading Mrs. Baird in the process. He managed to choke back a laugh.

  "Rosalinde, I thought you and the ladies were to work on the 'secret' recipe for the fair."

  Her brow puckered in momentary confusion. Then, she triumphantly gestured to the many depleted brandy containers strewn amongst the half-filled crockery. "It should be fairly obvious what we have been doing," Rosalinde answered in an unmistakably chiding tone.

  Julian nodded solemnly. "You must have gone through at least four bottles—"

  "Sssh!" Rosalinde frantically placed her fingers to her lips before looking around as if certain that spies were in their midst. "Julian," she whispered loudly, attempting in vain to conceal the empty bottles with her body, "you will divulge the secret recipe should you not be more circumspect."

  "Circumspect?" he snorted. "Is that what you call this gathering?"

  Giving the notion great thought, Rosalinde turned to look upon her companions, all but the comatose Mrs. Hales standing at ragged attention as if awaiting further orders from their erstwhile leader. Rosalinde grinned and executed a snappy salute to them before pivoting towards Julian again. The cocky gesture threw her off balance, however, and straight into Julian's arms.

  "Julian," she breathed, clearly reveling in the feel of his arms supporting her. In truth, his heart hammered at having her in his embrace. When her knee buckled, Julian pulled her closer until she was once more upright.

  Rosalinde beamed with patent delight, but, in what only she considered a confidential voice, she asked, "Hadn't you best wait until we have a bit more privacy?"

  Unmindful of her own warning, she leaned forward and tried to kiss the smile that refused to leave Julian's lips. He hated to thwart her delightful plan, but Julian knew he had to see that the church widows made it home, and quickly.

  "Rosalinde, I am going to go fetch Frederick—"

  "Capital idea! I am certain Frederick knows a great deal more songs than I do."

  "No!" He chuckled as he tried to hold her wildly flailing arms. "I mean, Frederick will take these ladies to their respective abodes."

  At Rosalinde's crestfallen expression, quite as if she had been unfairly reproached, he hastily added, "We can't have anyone tampering with the secret recipe, now that its exact proportions have been, er, scientifically determined."

  His statement was met with a rousing chorus of "Hear, hear". Julian carefully placed Rosalinde in a nearby chair before attempting to leave to fetch Frederick. His departure was delayed, though, when Rosalinde dragged his head to hers for a proper show of gratitude.

  Though amenable, Julian knew Rosalinde would not indulge in the reckless pursuit under normal circumstances. Thinking to remind her of the situation, he gently nodded his head in the direction of the avidly watching audience.

  Rosalinde grinned broadly. "Ladies, I would ask your indulgence. If you could turn away for one moment while Mr. Selby and I discuss a most private matter."

  To Julian's amazement, Mrs. Baird and Mrs. Pettibone did not rush forward to save him from Rosalinde's clasp. Instead, they chuckled and nudged each other knowingly before marching out the door, single-file, leaving the young pair chaperoned by the snoring Mrs. Hales.

  "How on earth did you manage that?"

  "Oh, I suppose they've grown tired of you already," she answered, pulling his face to hers for a kiss.

  Julian knew he should protest, for Rosalinde's sake, but found it impossible to resist her saucy demeanor. She placed her lips against his, sighing as if utterly content by the contact.

  "One," she murmured against his mouth.

  "What?" He could barely think coherently, but he managed to lift Rosalinde out of the chair and then sat down, placing her on his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, the p
icture of seductive innocence.

  Julian nearly groaned aloud, for the prim Miss Hewitt was nowhere to be found—precisely what he had hoped for the past sennight. Only now that she was gone, he was in an even worse predicament. It would be ungentlemanly, entirely unchivalrous, to take advantage of the presence of this amorous Rosalinde.

  He could ask her to marry him and she would probably agree with alacrity. But it was not how he wanted it. For the rest of his life he would wonder what her answer would have been had she not been asked while in a brandy-fogged state.

  Julian sighed. Rosalinde leaned forward and kissed him lightly once more, as if intending to provide comfort. "Two," she said softly. All at once Julian realized she was claiming her winnings, and the thought brought a fond smile to his lips.

  Rosalinde appeared to want to claim number three, but before her lips could reach his, her head fell heavily to his shoulder. She began to breathe deeply, and Julian held her closer, cradling her while she slept so peacefully.

  His duchess. He brushed a kiss across her hair.

  His delightfully foxed duchess.

  ***

  The following morning Rosalinde seriously considered sending for Dr. Bentley, for her head throbbed painfully. The only problem was she could not fathom why. Surely she was not coming down with a cold. Perhaps she had eaten something—

  Memory found its way through the haze surrounding her brain. She groaned, only to cringe at the reverberation in her head. Even the cringing caused agony. It seemed all she could do was lie still and pray for deliverance, as undeserving as she was.

  While prostrate with misery, her memory took the opportunity to remind her of yet another reason to feel wretched. Had she truly forced her kisses on Mr. Selby? How could she ever bear to face him after this?

  Her plan to demonstrate to him, as well as herself, that she was as much of a model of rectitude as the church widows had failed miserably. Instead, she had assisted the matrons into drunkenness and then thrown herself at Julian. She quickly amended her plea for deliverance to one for a swift departure from this mortal coil.

  The answer to her prayer was a solid thumping on the door to her bedchamber. She opened her mouth to croak out something, and found that she had apparently been stricken mute overnight. She rolled her eyes heavenward, wondering what else the fates had in store for her irrepressible wickedness.

  She pulled the pillow over her head.

  "Rosalinde?"

  She heard Dr. Bentley's voice as he lightly dropped his bag by the side of the bed. The pillow was lifted and she gazed gratefully at the man so considerate of her weakness.

  If only he had come to visit her alone.

  "Julian?" She nearly moaned at his unerring ability to see her at her absolute worst moments. His eyes twinkled merrily and, since she did not have the strength to upbraid him for his misplaced merriment, she managed a weak replica of her most frosty expression.

  Rather than contrition, however, Rosalinde was certain she saw a flash of genuine concern in Julian's smoky-gray eyes. His next words confirmed it. "Dr. Bentley, it is just as I feared. Miss Hewitt is suffering from—"

  Rosalinde died a thousand times over waiting for him to divulge her misbehavior of the previous day.

  "—a touch of the ague," he finished smoothly.

  Dr. Bentley bent over Rosalinde and carefully examined her, his touch gentle and reassuring. From the corner of her eye, she could see a quite-serious Julian watching the proceedings. For all of his lighthearted teasing, the man had a wealth of compassion.

  When he caught her watching, he gave her a jaunty wink. He had likely awoken many a morning in the same state. She blushed anew at the thought of how no one of her acquaintance would even believe her capable of misbehavior, yet Julian saw her wickedness on a constant basis.

  Dr. Bentley finally concluded the examination. "You shall be fine, Rosalinde. I suspect you've simply overdone it."

  "This has never happened before now," she cried out.

  Julian's eyebrows lifted in a decidedly disbelieving fashion.

  "I swear it!" She looked at Dr. Bentley, imploring him to set the record straight.

  "Now, Rosalinde, there's nothing wrong with admitting you have a tendency to try to do too much. Forgetting yourself in the process."

  She sank back against the pillows with relief, not surprised to hear a choked laugh from Julian. The wretch! He had known all along what the doctor meant. If only it did not hurt so, she would frown at him until he slinked out of the room, suitably chastened.

  She settled on as fierce a glare as she could manage. It was only then that Rosalinde realized Julian was standing.

  "Julian, your knee…"

  A frown puckered his forehead, and then his eyes widened. He slumped and grasped the back of a nearby chair. "Such an amazing recovery," he said. "It borders on the miraculous."

  Rosalinde heard a snort from the doctor, but when she turned his direction, his face was impassively bland.

  "You are able to walk now?"

  "I am, indeed." He began walking around the room in a spry fashion, even spinning on his heel before coming back towards her.

  Rosalinde frowned. "I thought it was your left knee—"

  He halted, favoring the left knee, and then the right. "I found the other knee stiffened during my enforced bedrest," he announced with utter cheerfulness.

  Another snort from the doctor made Rosalinde wonder what she was missing, but then the doctor was gathering his bag and instructing Rosalinde she was to remain abed until that afternoon. "Then you may return to your normal activities. Just do not overdo it."

  "I'll see that she doesn't," Julian replied. "I have learned a great deal from Miss Hewitt on how to be a capable nursemaid." He turned to her with an innocent expression. "Let me know whenever you require your pillows to be plumped."

  Rosalinde would have rolled her eyes heavenward again, but it was too painful to even contemplate.

  Dr. Bentley chuckled and then headed toward the door. "I am glad your knee has healed so nicely, Mr. Selby. There is an assembly in a few days' time. You can test your recovery with a country dance or two."

  "It sounds utterly delightful," he answered. "The timing is absolutely perfect."

  The doctor nodded, and then let himself out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Julian pulled a chair close to the bed, seating himself. "Best not put too much pressure on the knee. I am looking forward to some of those dances with you."

  "Julian. About yesterday—"

  "How perspicacious of you." He carefully extracted a pair of dice from his waistcoat pocket. "As I recall, you were a veritable Captain Sharp whilst I was bedridden, and I mean to see if the same will hold true for me."

  Rosalinde found her heart melting a fraction more. The man was incorrigible. Rather than chastising her for her atrocious behavior, it seemed he meant to encourage her to new heights. Thank goodness he had no more serious designs than to amuse himself during his convalescence.

  "Mr. Selby," she said with mock primness. "If you mean to imply that I took advantage of your weakness, I will have to show you quite clearly you are not, and never will be, a dice player of any renown."

  "Miss Hewitt," Julian chided, giving the dice an expert toss. "How you wound me."

  "I do my best, Mr. Selby."

  Chapter 9

  "My apologies for pressing you into valet service, Frederick."

  Julian continued to whistle cheerily while Frederick put the finishing touches on the cravat, despite Frederick's obvious disdain for Julian's musical abilities.

  Julian grinned, unable to contain his elation. "Frederick, I am confident when tonight's assembly is over, she will agree to be my bride."

  Frederick stood back to admire his handiwork for a moment, and nodded as if pleased. "How did you rid yourself of your betrothed?"

  "Oh, that was easy enough," Julian replied. "I simply informed her you had brought round a message that the faithless
woman had cried off. In fact, she even eloped."

  Frederick rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

  Julian adjusted his shirt cuffs, casting one final glance in the mirror before turning his full attention on his coachman-valet. "It does not sound as though you are wishing me happy."

  Frederick appeared to consider his answer carefully before replying. "I find myself rather protective of Miss Hewitt, that's all."

  "I have no fiendish designs upon her. I mean to make her my duchess!" He frowned. "Unfortunately I have had to practice quite a bit of deception to accomplish it."

  Frederick snorted, but his reluctant smile appeared to reflect his intentions to continue as Julian's co-conspirator.

  "And it's not as though I don't have my work cut out for me," Julian mused. "I still must tell her about the curse."

  "You have not told her?"

  "Only in a roundabout way. As though it were merely some London gossip."

  "When shall you tell her of your title?"

  "I have not decided just yet. She's likely to believe I have some sort of brain fever once I do." He bit back an oath. "How did falling in love cause so many complications?"

  Frederick merely shrugged, but there was a decided gleam in his eye. "If you do not meet with success, you still have that trio of church widows. Their interest hasn't waned a bit."

  "Too true. And they quite clearly informed me they shall be at tonight's assembly."

  "Your sore knee is bound to feel a twinge or two from all the dancing the widows will be expecting."

  "I would press you into service, to keep their attentions away from me, but I know with a certainty my great-aunt would have me flogged if I did."

  Frederick chuckled. "Then you'd best see to it that Miss Hewitt readily agrees to your proposal."

  "That is precisely what I intend to do."