Table of Contents
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
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
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CHAPTER ONE
Staffordshire
Laventhorpe Castle glimmered in the unusually bright sunshine. The gardeners had abandoned their coats, evidently deeming it unlikely that any young ladies or visitors of importance might wander in their direction. Geraniums and peonies flowered, their scarlet and pink colors made more striking by the gray stones of the castle. Old-fashioned battlements rose into the sky, placed there by the first Duke of Framingham in the seventeenth century to frighten all the villagers.
Rupert Andrews, cousin of the ninth Duke of Framingham, shivered. He half-expected to see an arrow dart from one of the conveniently placed arrow holes.
He inhaled, strode up the steps to the castle, then knocked on the heavy wooden door.
Rupert’s cousin’s perpetually dour-faced butler soon appeared. Mr. Barnes cast a withering glance at Rupert, lingering on his imperfectly starched collar and the flawed stitching of his tailcoat. Mr. Barnes had risen from the rank of valet to butler. Perhaps Barnes was calculating the price of the tweed fabric.
“Mr. Andrews.” Barnes’s face remained solemn, as if determined not to waste a single flicker of movement. “His Grace is expecting you. He’s in the library.”
“Thank you, Barnes.”
Barnes’s expression emanated frostiness with such force that Rupert almost considered that the butler might be responsible for the chilly winter climate for which the area was renowned. Snow was not a frequent addition to England’s wildflower dotted meadows, but it snowed in this region of Staffordshire with regularity.
Rupert entered the library, treading on the familiar black-and-red patterned Persian carpet. He marched past the red leather armchairs scattered about the room as if to create the impression he was in one of the worst gaming hells in London, and not in a country manor house, surrounded by fluffy sheep and meek cows. Certainly, the scent of cigar smoke and brandy indicated this desire, and the paucity of books hardly negated this impression.
The view, though, was decidedly un-Londonlike. The large picture windows revealed the dark green meadow, trimmed by the aforementioned sheep, and though Rupert had visited hundreds of times before, his heart still squeezed.
It was beautiful. Staffordshire was beautiful. This estate was beautiful.
Rupert knew. He’d grown up in the unimposing cottage next door, reluctantly built several decades ago to store a younger brother who’d failed to secure a marriage with a woman equipped with an appropriate dowry.
Rupert was now the poor relation, though, unlike his father, he was a duke’s cousin and not a duke’s brother.
“Ah, Andrews!” His cousin Dudley stumbled up from a large oak desk, grasping hold of his brandy as amber liquid sloshed onto the green leather top. He beamed, unperturbed, at Rupert. “How nice to see you.”
“Er—yes.” Rupert gave the duke a tentative smile. Normally, the duke was more inclined to glower at him than glow. “Your letter instructed me to visit at once.” “Ah.” The duke nodded. “That was a wise move on my part. I have a job for you.”
“A job?” Rupert’s eyebrows darted up despite himself.
“Indeed.” The duke gestured merrily to a seat opposite his desk.
Rupert sat down gingerly on the chair. The thin spindles squeaked at Rupert’s average weight.
He’d expected Dudley to talk about money. Rupert’s father might have passed down a baron’s title to him, but it had come with a depreciating cottage in need of repairs. Even though Rupert had told Dudley that the repairs could wait until Rupert returned to live there with a bride, his cousin had scoffed and informed him that he wouldn’t permit Rupert to live in anything besides ideal circumstances. Unfortunately, he’d also sent Rupert the bill for the work, even though Rupert doubted that the odd passersby would notice that the place required a change to its chimneys.
The duke stretched his arms out as if he were basking in sunbeams directed solely at him. “You’re going to like the job.”
Rupert tilted his head. “Are you by any chance making me your estate manager?”
Rupert loved this estate. No place in England was as verdant.
The duke’s wide smile disappeared, and his beady eyes, which normally appeared inconsequential, given the relative smallness of their size, glared. “Nonsense. I would never do that.”
“Er—of course.” Rupert shifted his legs awkwardly, finally forcing them underneath the chair.
The duke’s glower intensified. “You’re rather fidgety. It’s not good to be fidgety.”
“O-of course not,” Rupert said, attempting to be agreeable. He didn’t like arguments.
“What if you were in enemy territory? And your fidgeting led the enemy to you?” The duke leaned forward, evidently getting into the spirit of his condemnation. “And all your team were slaughtered because of your incompetence?”
“That would be horrible,” Rupert said.
The duke narrowed his eyes, and Rupert wondered whether the duke thought he should address him as “Your Grace.” Well, Rupert didn’t want to.
He cleared his throat and struggled to rectify the situation. Situations always had a habit of becoming fraught in his cousin’s presence. “It was only a guess.”
“Er—right.” The duke drew back, evidently appeased. “I suppose you never were that bright.”
“I graduated top in my class at Eton.”
“That says only bad things about the assessment process at Eton.” The duke sneered, clearly satisfied to insult both Rupert and the alma mater of most of the country’s elite.
“What would you like me to do?” Rupert asked uncertainly.
“I want you to write some letters for me.”
“Letters?”
The duke nodded and waved his hands expansively. “Use those big words you know about. Give them some flair.”
Rupert scrutinized him.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten big words,” the duke said.
Rupert’s shoulders eased, and he smirked. “Of course not.”
“I knew you were perfect for this.”
Rupert tilted his head. “Who exactly do you want me to write letters to?”
The duke placed his legs nonchalantly on his desk, and his eyes twinkled. “My future wife.”
Rupert’s mouth dropped open. “You plan to marry again?”
The duke’s wife had died years ago, before the duke’s son had even gone on his multiyear continental tour. Since then, the duke had been alone, only visiting London on occasion.
The duke
grinned.
“And just who is the future Duchess of Framingham?” Rupert asked.
The duke’s smile broadened. “She’s a princess.”
“Oh.”
“Her uncle is the King of Sweden, and her mother was an Indian princess.” He leaned forward. “Very wealthy woman. Excellent jewels. Rubies, sapphires, diamonds...” The duke’s face adopted a pleasant flush. Heavens. Rupert’s cousin truly was in love. Rupert had never seen him look so pleased.
“I’m happy for you.”
“I’m happy for myself.” The duke rubbed his hands together. “It will be wonderful when she agrees to become my wife.”
Rupert drew his eyebrows together. “She hasn’t agreed yet?”
“No.” The duke jerked his thumb at Rupert. “That’s where you come in. I need to woo her. Well, you need to woo her.”
Rupert was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t do that.”
“Nonsense,” the duke said. “Just grab a quill, dip it into some ink, and write some embarrassing statements to her. Women always like ridiculous statements. Effuse about the softness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair, and her—er—figure.”
“How is her figure?” Rupert asked.
“Spectacular.” The duke’s eyelashes may have fluttered.
“Then you have met her.”
“Oh, of course. I had to see if she would be a suitable Duchess of Framingham. And she is.”
The tension in Rupert’s shoulders eased, and he smiled. This woman wasn’t some stranger his cousin wanted to pursue. “So you’re truly in love.”
For a moment, the duke’s gaze appeared calculated, but he soon heaved a heavy sigh and cast a glance into the middle distance. “Quite.”
Rupert smiled. It was nice to see his cousin look so smitten. The man seemed far less intimidating than normal.
“Where did you meet her?”
“At a ball in Bath,” the duke explained. “She and her father were accompanying her aunt to take the waters.”
“How very kind.”
The duke nodded, then turned to Rupert. “I need to make certain this goes well.”
Rupert leaned back in his chair. The duke already had an heir. He didn’t need another one. If the duke wanted to marry this woman, she must truly be spectacular.
“I understand.” Rupert frowned slightly. “Though if she’s as fond of you as you are of her, she won’t care about the language of your letters.”
The duke gave Rupert a sharp look. “She deserves the very best.”
“Still, I think the words would be better coming from you.”
The duke furrowed his brow. “Perhaps you consider yourself romantic. Do you think she would be disappointed when she meets me again?”
“O-of course not.”
“Do you think she’ll be clamoring for the true author of the letters?” the duke sneered. “She wouldn’t know. I am titled. She’s met me, she likes me, and soon we will be wed.”
Rupert gave a reluctant nod.
“And,” the duke smiled, “I’ll pay you. You need the money. Unless you don’t mind that you still have not repaid all your mother’s debts?”
“Of course I mind,” Rupert said.
The duke grinned.
“Besides, my hands are strained. Arthritis is a terrible affliction. You know, your parents suffered from that, too. Or did you only pretend to care about them?”
Rupert shook his head rapidly. Rupert knew all about the pains of arthritis. “Forgive me. I didn’t know you suffered from that affliction.”
“It is something I do not like to dwell upon,” the duke said stiffly.
Rupert nodded. That certainly seemed characteristic. The duke was a proud man. It had been half a year since Rupert had last seen him. Then he’d met the duke at a ball, when even the very threads of his tailcoat—gold, naturally, had seemed to conspire to give him extra flourish. Now though, the duke’s hair had thinned, and more gray than was necessary to lend him a sophisticated air was speckled throughout. The duke wouldn’t like admitting his vulnerability to the passing of time.
Still... The duke had found love again after his wife had passed. Perhaps the duke’s son rarely visited, favoring the continent, but the duke would no longer be alone. What better thing was there than that?
“Naturally, I’ll help,” Rupert said.
CHAPTER TWO
Five weeks later.
Princess Aria Eleonora Ingrid Petronella of Sweden clutched her latest letter from the Duke of Framingham to her chest. He’d asked her to marry him. She’d already reread the letter three times. Her heart surged and soared, reaching heights it had never ventured to before.
Dearest, darling Dudley loved her.
They’d exchanged opinions on literature, on art, on music.
His letters had been filled with humor, and when she told him about the escapades her father’s dog, Galileo, got into in Bath, he’d written back asking for more details.
He’d never once opined about the magnificence of his castle and he’d never asked her pressing questions about royal life in Sweden and for gossip about the king.
He’d been interested in her.
And now he wanted to marry her.
Aria leaped from her seat and scampered through the townhouse, nearly sliding over the black-and-white marble tiles and narrowly avoiding various faux-Grecian columns. She needed to tell her father. A few maids sent her surprised looks, but it didn’t matter. They could be surprised. Soon everyone would know. She was going to get married.
She slowed her steps only when she reached her father’s library. Then, she smoothed her dress and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” Her father’s voice boomed, and she stepped inside.
The library might be devoid of most of the books that were in their home in Sweden, but a fire still crackled pleasantly. It might not be cold in Bath, but her father was not going to give up the coziness of a fire.
“Father, I have something to tell you,” she said.
Her father leaned back in his chair, and a pleased expression darted over his distinguished face. “Since you’re smiling, I imagine it’s something good.”
Her heart swelled. She was happy. She was so happy.
“You’re right,” Aria admitted.
Large sunbeams splattered over the library, illuminating the vibrantly colored books her father adored. Green and blue leather gleamed with the force of emeralds and sapphires.
This moment was perfect. Aria inhaled, conscious her life would change forever.
Her father’s lips twitched, but that didn’t matter.
“I’ve found my future husband,” Aria said in her most regal manner, using the enunciation she’d honed from years of exceptionally qualified governesses.
Her father’s smile disappeared, and he no longer leaned back. “You’re not old enough to marry.”
“Of course I am. I’m twenty.”
He frowned slightly. “Well, you’ll always be my baby.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you’ll always be my father. That won’t change. But soon, I will have true love and happiness. I will be living happily ever after.”
Her father smothered a laugh. “Well, if that’s the case, I’m delighted for you. But please tell me he’s an appropriate match.”
“He’s a duke.”
Father widened his eyes. “Well, that is appropriate.” He drew his eyebrows together. “I thought most of the young dukes had married last season. There was an article about it in Matchmaking for Wallflowers.”
“I assure you he’s very appropriate.” Aria pressed the letter against her heart and sighed.
“And just what is this man’s name?”
Aria closed her eyes dreamily. “Dudley Granby, Duke of Framingham.”
The agreeable expression vanished from her father’s face, and he jolted from his seat. “You want to marry Framingham?”
Her father paced the room and raked a hand throu
gh his blond hair.
“Yes,” Aria breathed, unperturbed by her father’s uncharacteristic pacing, as if he’d decided to turn the library into an exercise room.
She placed a hand on the chair rail and gazed out the window. She surely had a frightfully dreamy expression on her face, but it didn’t matter. She was in love. She didn’t care who knew it. Her heart floated, as if it were one of the fluffy clouds that flitted in the sky. The windows might be closed, but she was certain she could hear birds chirping and smell the small flower garden outside the townhouse. “I’m happy, Father.”
“But F-framingham?” Father sputtered. “He’s hardly a Prince Charming.”
She drew herself up and frowned. She refused to allow Father to criticize the dear man. “Just because you are a prince and Mama was a princess when you married her does not mean that I am required to marry a prince. There simply aren’t enough in the world. And what have things come to if even a duke does not possess a sufficiently lofty title?”
Her father exhaled and settled back into his chair. “I have no reservations about his position.”
The tension eased from her shoulders. Somewhat. She still eyed him suspiciously, as if not entirely certain what he would say next. “I thought you would be more supportive.”‘
Her father bit his lower lip. “He doesn’t have the best reputation. Besides, the man is old.”
“Not that old.” She glared. “And you’re old.”
“I’m not marrying a twenty-year-old maiden.”
“I love him.”
Her father tossed his blond locks in an exasperated manner. “Truly? Framingham?”
“Why do you keep saying his name? Why wouldn’t I love him?”
Father was supposed to be supportive. He was supposed to be overjoyed at her happiness. He should be ringing the bell pull for the butler to bring out champagne. He certainly wasn’t supposed to be frowning.
Father rarely frowned. She supposed there wasn’t much reason for him to do so normally. She despised that he decided to make an exception now, at her moment of greatest happiness.
Her father tapped his fingers against his desk, as if he were working out each word to say before he spoke. Finally, he sighed. “You didn’t seem particularly taken with him when you met him at the Fitzgerald’s ball.”
The Truth About Princesses and Dukes (The Duke Hunters Club) Page 1