The Reluctant Duchess

by Jane Goodger

  Rebecca did her best not to gawk at the beautiful, massive house with its brilliant crystal chandeliers that lit up the grand entrance. In the center of the vast entry hall was a large statue of a shepherdess with three charming little sheep surrounding her. Though Rebecca knew little about sculpture, it seemed clear it was the work of a master, and she had to stop herself from hurrying over to examine it more closely.

  Lady Forrester was there to greet them, along with her son, the Earl of Hampton, a robust-looking man with a full head of dark wavy hair. Next to the earl was his wife, a tiny woman who exuded privilege and class. Her blond hair was perfection, her smile confident yet restrained. Rebecca made a note to observe her in hopes of learning a thing or two about how to act properly. Rebecca had to stop herself from curtsying, something that was so ingrained, it nearly hurt to simply bow her head slightly in greeting.

  “We are so glad you were able to come this evening,” Lady Forrester said warmly. “My other guests are quite anxious to meet you both.”

  Rebecca couldn’t help but wonder why. Was it Oliver’s rank or was there some darker purpose; was it possible the dowager countess simply wanted to put the latest oddity on display? If this was all some sort of mean trick, Rebecca knew she would lose her lady-like demeanor in a second and let everyone attending know just what she thought of them. With those thoughts swirling about her head, they entered the room, Rebecca on edge, waiting for the slightest look, the vaguest comment that gave insult. Instead, they were met warmly by all.

  Because she so feared speaking, Rebecca kept her greetings to low murmurs, allowing Oliver to take the lead, which he did with rather amazing aplomb. She had never seen this side of her husband, the man who was charming and outgoing, who entertained and spoke intelligently on a wide range of topics. She looked at him, wondering who this man was. Had she met him, she would have immediately considered herself far below his notice. It was almost as if she were standing beside a stranger—until he looked at her and smiled.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said softly, and he smiled apologetically.

  “I was raised to be a duke, my love,” he said near her ear. “I do believe this is going well so far.”

  Indeed, the entire evening went far beyond Rebecca’s expectations. The guests—a baron and his wife, an admiral and his daughter, a member of the House of Commons and his wife, as well as the adult children of the house and their spouses—were nothing but kindness. No, it was more than that. It was as if they were all blind to the fact that Oliver was albino, as if they had known him for all their lives and simply accepted him for what he was. Oliver sat on the opposite side of the table adjacent to the earl, with the countess to his right and the dowager countess to his left. Rebecca had been placed between the admiral and the baron, who thankfully shared a love of breeding hunting dogs. They chatted over her nearly the entire evening, not expecting her to join in, for which Rebecca was grateful. Once in a while, one of them would remember she was there and say, “Don’t you agree, Your Grace,” to which Rebecca would nod. The evening thus far could not have been better.

  As the evening progressed, she could sense Oliver relaxing and beginning to truly enjoy himself. The guests seemed to find him witty, and more than once Rebecca would tilt her head in an effort to hear what it was Oliver was saying that was so amusing. From time to time, he would look her way and give her a smile, but the guests kept his attention, leaving Rebecca to her thoughts.

  Everything seemed normal, festive, and relaxed, but Rebecca couldn’t help but feel slightly ignored. It was what she wanted, of course, but still, she was no more important than the chair she was sitting upon for all the interest she garnered. As each course progressed, Rebecca became more aware of one particular guest who seemed to be in thrall with her husband.

  “I saw that miniature,” the admiral’s daughter said—Penelope was her name. She was a lovely girl with blue eyes and blond ringlets that bounced whenever she nodded or giggled. She seemed to giggle quite a lot and mostly at whatever Oliver uttered. “It was the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you, Miss Martins,” Oliver said, smiling at the girl, who blushed prettily. Rebecca found herself fighting not to roll her eyes. Clearly the girl was flirting with Oliver, as if perfectly oblivious to the fact that his wife was seated not three chairs from her.

  “I remember wishing I could shrink down and explore the halls,” she said. “Have you made others?”

  “A few. I fear it was all that has occupied my time.”

  “I would love to see them some time,” Penelope gushed, and Rebecca found herself bristling. “You could give me a little tour of your tiny creations.”

  “We would love to have you and your father visit Horncliffe someday,” Rebecca said, so astonished by the girl’s forwardness, she forgot to be quite as careful with her diction as she would like.

  Penelope leaned over slightly, as if surprised to find Oliver’s wife at the table. Had the girl not known she was there? “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said politely, if not slightly coolly. Then she tilted her head. “Do I detect a bit of Cornwall in your speech, madam? I only ask because my maid has a similar accent. It is so charming.”

  Rebecca could feel her face heat. “You have an excellent ear for accents,” Rebecca said smoothly and with as much care as she could. “My family is, indeed, from Cornwall.”

  “The end of the Earth,” the girl’s father said, letting out a laugh. “However did the two of you meet?”

  Rebecca shot Oliver a panicked look, one which she prayed he would be able to see. Why hadn’t they come up with a story about how they’d met? They could hardly admit that they hadn’t met at all before marrying, that they had married by proxy.

  “My distant cousin introduced us,” Oliver said smoothly, and Rebecca nearly sagged in relief. “I took one look and knew she had to be my duchess.”

  “How romantic,” Lady Forrester said.

  “Indeed it was. I know it’s not the thing to admit, but I adore my wife.”

  The married women at the table seemed to glare at their husbands. “We all adore our wives,” the earl said quickly, and the other married men hastened to nod in agreement.

  Miss Martin smiled politely but her cheeks were slightly flushed, as if she knew that the duke had been reminding her that he was not only a married man, but one who was in love with his wife. In that moment, Rebecca felt nearly overwhelmed with love for Oliver. Somehow he knew she’d been annoyed by Miss Martin, and likely heard her slight slip into her Cornish dialect. She couldn’t wait until they were alone again so that she could let him know how very much she adored her husband.

  After dinner, the men went into the study for their brandy and cigars and the women went to the parlor. This was the moment Rebecca had been dreading most of the evening. She was the newcomer here, and she had no doubt that people would be curious about her. She imagined Mrs. Habershaw standing next to her, ready to pinch her hard if she strayed from her rigid path of decorum. Already she’d allowed her temper to get the better of her and nearly revealed her common origins. She was under no illusion that she would escape unkind gossip should anyone find out the true story behind her marriage to the Duke of Kendal. Just the thought that her secret would be discovered made her slightly ill. Imagine someone learning that not only was she far below Oliver’s station, but that she had practically been sold to the duke in exchange for the forgiveness of her father’s gambling debts.

  No matter how many times she told herself there was no way anyone in the room could possibly know her past, it still loomed large as she stepped sedately into the countess’s lovely parlor with the rest of the women. The parlor was a long, narrow room, with rich gold drapes pulled back by black silk cords. The furniture was mahogany with silk coverings, the rugs beneath her feet thick and luxurious, all done in gold, blue, and black. Horncliffe’s rooms, while spotless, lacked the warmth
and charm of this room, and Rebecca made a mental note to discuss changing the décor with Oliver.

  This mingling with the women was fraught with danger. No one here was her ally and it would take only a single question to unmask her. Panic was beginning to grow in her chest and she could feel an uncomfortable warmth spread in her body, making her perspire rather unbecomingly. Ladies do not perspire, Mrs. Habershaw had told her more than once. Well, this lady did and this lady was—to a horrifying degree.

  “Are you quite all right, Your Grace?” Lady Forrester asked kindly.

  “A bit warm,” Rebecca managed before taking a seat, remembering to do so slowly and with grace. Mrs. Habershaw would be proud. She sat picturing a board strapped to her spine, an image Mrs. Habershaw said would assist her in maintaining good posture.

  Miss Martins took the seat next to her, much to Rebecca’s dismay. She certainly hoped the girl didn’t intend to strike up a conversation with her. Her hopes were dashed when Miss Martins turned toward her. “I do not recall seeing you during last season,” she said. “I’m sure I would have remembered.”

  “I did not attend the Season,” Rebecca said. Short sentences. Keep calm.

  “Last year was my first Season.”

  Rebecca smiled and nodded.

  “I do adore all the parties and balls, though my father finds them wearying.” She fiddled with her gloves for a moment, and Rebecca had a feeling Miss Martins was itching to ask her something. “The duke is… unusual, no?”

  “Strikingly so.”

  The girl frowned a bit. “But a duke.” She looked up shyly. “However did you—” She snapped her mouth closed, realizing she was being a bit crass, no doubt. “Everyone is curious, you see. My friends were terribly jealous that I got to meet him this evening.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s all anyone can talk about. A mystery. And so exotic.” She leaned forward. “It’s said he hasn’t been to London since he was a child, has lived the life of a recluse. Yet here he is, in Lady Forrester’s home, and here I am in the very same house. It’s quite exciting.” She clasped her hands together as if she could hardly contain her excitement. What on earth was going on with this girl? They had only been in London a few days—how could word have spread so quickly?

  “Exciting?”

  “He is the Ghost Duke!” she said, as if that explained everything. Seeing Rebecca’s expression of dismay, Miss Martins looked immediately chastened. “I do apologize, but it is what people call him. That lovely pale skin and white hair. Marvelous, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, my husband is quite handsome,” Rebecca said, emphasizing the word husband. This girl was going on as if Oliver were some famous opera singer or a star cricket player.

  “Yes,” she said, somewhat subdued. “You say you were introduced to him by his cousin?”

  “A distant cousin, yes.” This was true, so Rebecca felt no twinge about lying.

  “But if he was a recluse, how did you meet?”

  Rebecca felt her heart pick up a beat. “I first met his cousin, an older gentleman who acted as His Grace’s guardian since his father’s death when he was a boy. Mr. Winters thought we would suit and so introduced us.”

  “Mr. Winters was in Cornwall?”

  Rebecca smiled tightly. “Yes.”

  “How…fortuitous for you.”

  “Very.” The girl might look like a china doll, but she was clearly intelligent and rabidly curious—a combination that was more than a little disturbing.

  “And he brought you back with him?” She tilted her head and smiled.

  “Your Grace, you must sit in our box tomorrow evening.” Rebecca wanted to kiss the baroness for interrupting their conversation. “Vivaldi’s Argippo is performing and we have two extra seats.”

  “That sounds wonderful, my lady, but I shall have to ask His Grace first. I am afraid I do not know if he has plans.”

  “Of course. We would be honored to have you attend with us.”

  When the lady left, leaving Rebecca slightly perplexed about their sudden popularity, Miss Martins leaned toward her and whispered, “Your husband is in high demand and the baroness knows it. I predict you’ll have far more invitations than you can possibly accept. People are curious, Your Grace. They want to see His Grace. And you, of course,” she added hastily.

  A furrow appeared between Rebecca’s brows. “I shouldn’t like for people to put His Grace on display like some sort of pet,” she said, feeling slightly ill at the thought. Was this what was happening?

  Miss Martins looked horrified at the idea. “Oh, no, Your Grace. That is not it at all. It is only that his father was well-known in the ton and when he died, it seemed as if His Grace disappeared. Some even wondered if he were still alive. To have him here, in London, back where he belongs, is causing a bit of excitement. Yes, his appearance is unusual, but he is the Duke of Kendal! It is one of the most prestigious titles in all of England. And he is here in this house. I sat next to him and had a lovely conversation. You cannot know how jealous all my friends will be. The Duke of Kendal.”

  To say Rebecca was taken aback by the starry-eyed Miss Martins would have been a vast understatement. Her husband, apparently, was gaining celebrity.

  By the time the men had settled in with their brandy and cigars Oliver, who could not stomach cigars and politely declined, was having a wonderful time. His life had been so constricted, he’d never had the pleasure of male companionship, and he found he was quite enjoying himself. Just listening to the others, who had experienced far more of life than he had, was fascinating. The admiral, of course, regaled the men with stories of adventure and heroism, and was such a good story teller, one could almost close one’s eyes and taste the sea spray. Never in his life had Oliver been with such a diverse group of peers and he found himself feeling quite at home. No one stared at him, made him feel less of a man. No one whispered behind his back or treated him as if he were some sort of imbecile who could not understand the King’s English. This experience was so far removed from his one disastrous foray into society, it was quite heartening.

  The only time any of the men noted his appearance was one of Lady Forrester’s sons, Michael Henley, who found his spectacles fascinating.

  “Clever design,” he said, when Oliver handed them over for his inspection.

  “People with my condition tend to have poor eyesight and are excessively sensitive to light.”

  Mr. Henley gave him a look. “My wife said you are the most dashing member of the peerage.” He handed back the spectacles. “If I were you, I’d count myself lucky that I found a bride without having to attend London’s marriage mart. I have a feeling if you had arrived looking for a wife, the mamas would be on you faster than a starving flea on a dog.”

  Oliver laughed as he put his spectacles back on. Each time he did, he was surprised anew at how well he could see with them. “I am a lucky man, indeed, Mr. Henley.”

  “How did you go about that?” Baron Ashly asked, turning toward the pair. “I still have two daughters I need to marry off and the thought of spending two seasons putting them on display is enough to produce nightmares. Not only the expense, but the tears and hysterics.”

  “I was lucky enough to be introduced to Her Grace by my distant cousin. I was immediately besotted,” Oliver said sheepishly.

  “Do me a favor, will you?” Michael said. “Don’t let on to all our wives how much you love Her Grace. We shall never hear the end of it.” He spoke in a falsetto, “If the Duke of Kendal can publicly declare his love, why can’t you? Why can’t you be more like the duke?”

  “My apologies,” Oliver said, chuckling. “I shall endeavor to scowl at Her Grace whenever we are in public.”

  “A few of us are going to be at Whites tomorrow night,” Michael said. “I know your father was a member and I’ve no doubt you would be welcome. Why not join us?”
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  A wave of happiness hit Oliver with unexpected force. Here he was, in a room full of strangers, men he should have known his entire life, men who had accepted him without question. He could not have created a better outcome of their trip. It was as surprising as it was welcome.

  “I should like that. Thank you.” He paused. “What is White’s and where is it?”

  Silence followed; then the baron and Michael burst out laughing. “By God, Your Grace, you have been out of London far too long. Whites is an exclusive men’s club, one that only those of the highest rank are allowed to join. Your father and I used to play faro for hours when we were young, before…”

  “Before he married my mother.”

  Lord Ashly cleared his throat. “Yes. Indeed, yes. To be able to meet his son is a privilege that I’m sure you cannot fully appreciate.”

  “Perhaps some day you and I can sit and you can tell me all about my father’s youth. I was so young when he died, I have very few memories.”

  “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

  Once the brandy and cigars were finished, the men rejoined the ladies, and Oliver went directly to Rebecca’s side. It struck him hard that not a week ago, he would have been unable to find her in a crowd of women. But there she was, looking beautiful, if not a bit overwhelmed by her surroundings. He had to remind himself that she was unused to such gatherings. Though he had never participated in society, it seemed this was all second nature to him; years of polish had well prepared him for such evenings and any shyness he’d initially felt was long gone. By god, he was enjoying himself immensely. It was almost as if he’d been missing something without even knowing it, and now felt as if he’d come home.

  “You look pleased,” Rebecca said when he joined her.

  “I am,” he said softly. “Everyone has been incredibly welcoming, a far cry from the last time I socialized. I’ve been invited to White’s tomorrow evening. We don’t have any plans, do we?”