The Winter Duke (A Duke for All Seasons Book 1)

by Jillian Eaton

  And to think he’d actually fancied himself in love with her…

  It wasn’t until Justin glanced down that he noted his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had leeched of all color and turned white as bone. Forcibly commanding his body to relax, he slipped on his customary grin as easily as he’d slipped on his trousers when Herrington appeared in the doorway.

  “The two ladies have left, Your Grace,” the valet announced, his enunciation making it clear what he thought of the women’s titles.

  “Good. Thank you for seeing it handled, Herrington. I apologize if I was a bit forceful before.” One bright blue eye closed and opened in a wink that was as well-practiced – and every bit as fake – as his smile. “Having a ceiling fall on one’s head tends to put one in a bad mood.”

  “Perfectly understandable, Your Grace.” Herrington’s gaze flicked to the window where Billingsly could be seen climbing huffily into a carriage. “I take it the renovations have temporarily stalled?”

  “Do you know how to fix a ceiling?” Justin asked hopefully.

  “Regrettably I do not, Your Grace.”

  “Then I suppose renovations have temporarily stalled. How long do you think it will take to find another architect?”

  “I am afraid finding one isn’t the problem.” Herrington clasped his hands behind his back. “Getting them here is.”

  “You’re damned right about that.” There were times Justin thoroughly enjoyed being so far removed from the hustle and bustle of town, and other times – like this one – where being a seven day journey by horseback (longer if by coach) was nothing but a bloody nuisance. He rubbed his chin, fingers scraping against the bristle he’d been allowing to grow for the better part of a week.

  “Send out word we’re in need of an architect. Go to London if need be. I’d go myself, but with the Season having just started I’m in no mood to have my coattails grabbed by overreaching Mamas and their desperate daughters.”

  The valet’s brow creased, a sure sign he wanted to say something but did not know how the duke would react.

  “Oh go on,” Justin invited with a negligible shrug of his shoulder. “Speak your mind, Herrington. I’ve already reached my quota of firing employees for the day. You’re safe.”

  “I only wanted to point out that remaining at Colebrook Manor may not be the wisest choice, Your Grace. For anyone,” Herrington added with a pointed glance at a scullery maid passing by the door carrying a large silver tray.

  “Why the devil not?”

  “You did just have a ceiling fall on your head.”

  “Ah, yes. I almost forgot.” Justin wasn’t ordinarily so obtuse, but the unwanted memories of Jessica had rattled him more than he cared to admit. Running a hand through his hair, he watched as a few flecks of plaster floated lazily to the floor.

  Bloody Billingsly. He never should have hired the man, but he’d been in a rush to see the project done and the architect had promised results before the start of the New Year. Apparently he’d yet to learn his lesson: if something appeared too good to be true…it was. Particularly if the something was actually a someone.

  “Let’s close the old girl up until she’s brought up to snuff. No need for anyone to get hurt. Take whatever staff you need to London with you, send the rest to the village on extended holiday. My Christmas present to them. Except for the cook. I’m going to need him.”

  Herrington frowned. “And what will you do, Your Grace?”

  “I am going to stay with our friendly neighbor, the Duke of Wycliffe.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “If he doesn’t shoot me on sight, he should prove to be an excellent host.”

  Chapter Two

  Cadence knew she could not stay in London. She prided herself on being a strong woman – she’d grown up in a household with three sisters, hadn’t she? – but the line had to be drawn somewhere, and if she had to endure one more pitying glance or backhanded insult (darling, I’m so terribly sorry…but did you really think you were going to marry an earl?) she was going to scream…or take one of her father’s antique pistols he kept in a long glass case above his bookshelf and shoot one of her so-called ‘friends’. Since screaming and shooting were frownable offenses, particularly if committed by a lady, she had no choice. She had to leave.

  But where could she go?

  The answer presented itself, as answers sometimes do, in a most serendipitous fashion.

  Shortly before Lord Benfield broke off their almost-but-not-quite-engagement, Cadence’s eldest sister had departed London for the feral lands of Nottingshire, a small township comprised of forest and swampland that might as well have been in Scotland.

  Why had her staid, obedient sister flitted away to the wild countryside with no more than the clothes on her back and her German maid, Elsbeth, for company? Well, as it turned out, the Fairchild’s were in a bit of a financial predicament. One that Cadence had attempted to solve by suggesting Hannah marry a duke. After much debate, they’d set their sights on the reclusive Duke of Wycliffe, a disfigured cripple who hadn’t left his estate in nearly a decade.

  He hadn’t been the sisters’ first choice. He’d been their only choice. And Hannah, much to Cadence’s disbelief, had actually gone and done it. She’d married the Duke of Wycliffe and become a duchess, thus solving all of the Fairchild family woes.

  Well, almost all of their woes.

  As it turned out, money couldn’t fix a broken heart, although Cadence had done her damnedest to try. She had three new dresses, two parasols, a fur-lined cloak with matching muff…and eyes that still filled with tears whenever she thought of Lord Benfield’s rejection.

  Much like they were doing now as her carriage rounded the bend and Wycliffe Manor finally came into view after a long, exhausting journey that had done little to quell her despair.

  She hadn’t told Hannah she was coming. Not because she feared her sister would turn her away – Hannah, sweet soul that she was, wouldn’t turn away a beggar let alone her own flesh and blood – but because putting quill to paper and explaining the reason for her visit was tantamount to admitting defeat, which was something she would never do. No matter how defeated she might feel.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the manor. Three stories high with two wings extending out on either side, it was old and in need of visible repair in several places, but the trim had been freshly painted, the windows sparkled, and the leaves had been raked from the lawn, giving an overall impression of disheveled tidiness.

  Disheveled or not, the ducal estate was a far cry above the Fairchild’s small townhouse on the (far) outskirts of Grosvenor Square and Cadence couldn’t help but feel a tiny twinge of jealousy as she made her way inside.

  She was happy for her sister. Thrilled, truth be told. If anyone deserved to be a duchess, it was Hannah. Why, she’d raised Cadence and the twins – both of whom were set to make their debut this year – every bit as much as their mother had. She was sweet and kind and good. But it was a well-known secret that of all the Fairchild daughters, it was the second eldest who had been expected to make the best match. Yet here Cadence stood, covered in travel dust and rejected by an earl.

  An earl with a button fetish.

  Announcing herself to the footman at the front door, she swept inside with her chin raised high and managed to keep her hysterics under control…until she saw Hannah’s familiar face. With her dark silky hair, tip-tilted blue eyes, and perfect porcelain skin, Cadence had always been considered the prettier of the two sisters, but there was nothing pretty about her swollen eyes or blotchy face as she threw herself into Hannah’s bewildered arms.

  “He’s called off the engagement!” she wailed, wrapping her arms around her sister’s neck. The new Duchess of Wycliffe was no bigger than a strand of thistledown – all of the sisters were diminutive in stature – but in that moment she felt as sturdy as a ship’s mast in a wild, rolling sea.

  “Who has?” Hannah asked, leaning back to study Cadence with wide eyes.


  “Who?” Hating herself for crying but unable to stop, Cadence dashed her palms across her wet cheeks. “Who do you think? Lord Benfield! Lord Benfield has called off our engagement!”

  “Perhaps it would be best if you sat down. Come, over here.” Taking Cadence by the arm, Hannah slowly led her into an adjoining parlor that was sparsely furnished with mismatched chairs and a velvet settee. Guiding Cadence to the settee, Hannah sat down beside her and turned so the two sisters were facing one another. “Now take a deep breath,” she said, her calm, practical tone the exact opposite of Cadence’s shrill, panicked falsetto, “and tell me what happened. I thought you and Lord Benfield were not yet engaged? How could he call off your engagement?”

  Easily, Cadence thought bitterly. Far too easily.

  “We were practically engaged!” Her bottom lip wobbled. “Everyone knew it was only a matter of time.”

  Everyone except for me, apparently.

  She’d been like a rabbit chasing after a carrot that remained just out of reach no matter how hard or how high she jumped. Then, when she’d finally pinned the buggering vegetable down, it hadn’t just been yanked away – it had vanished entirely and she’d been left with nothing but an empty string and the vague pity of a man who liked buttons more than he liked her.

  It was embarrassing.

  It was humiliating.

  It was hurtful.

  And Cadence, who had never not gotten what she wanted, or been genuinely hurt by anything or anyone, was left shaken right down to her core.

  “Good,” Hannah said firmly. “You are better off without him.”

  “Better off?” She stared at her sister in disbelief. Of course Hannah wouldn’t understand. She’d never cared about High Society or fitting in. She’d never even wanted to get married, let alone married to a duke. She would have been perfectly content growing old with a houseful of books and now their positions were completely reversed and Cadence could not think of a worse fate if she tried.

  Unless it was growing old with a houseful of cats.

  She’d never trusted cats. Far too smart for their own good, and the way they played with their food before they killed it made her shudder. She could just see it now. Her sisters would come for a visit and they’d find her crushed beneath a bookcase that one of her feline companions had knocked over. On purpose, of course, because cats were vindictive creatures that answered to no one.

  ‘Spinster Murdered by Purring Pussy’.

  Heavens, what a laugh the ton would have with that headline. Then they’d turn the page and she would be forgotten except for once a year when someone would happen to bring up the story of her gruesome death at a party, and everyone would have a good giggle before they changed the subject and she was once more lost to the anonymity of time. Just another baron’s daughter who had tried – and failed – to land herself an earl.

  “Better off?” she repeated, shaking her head. “I’m ruined, Han! Completely ruined.”

  No man would want her now that Lord Benfield had set her aside. She might as well have ‘Spoiled Goods’ printed across her forehead. It would have been far better if she’d never been courted by him at all. Now everyone would think something was wrong with her. Or, worse yet, that she was no longer innocent.

  There were two ways a woman of the ton could ruin herself.

  By sleeping with a man before marriage.

  And by people thinking she had slept with a man before marriage.

  There was no proof, of course. She hadn’t even kissed Lord Benfield, let alone slept with him. But the truth would not keep vicious rumors from spreading, and it certainly wouldn’t keep her good name from being dragged through the muck.

  Hannah frowned. “Oh, I wouldn’t say–”

  “He might as well have left me at the a-altar.” Her voice broke as she thought of how far she’d almost risen…and how very, very far she’d fallen. “I will never love again.” Burying her head in her hands, she dissolved in a wretched fit of emotion stirred by self-pity. Hannah started to rub her back in soothing circles, but her hand abruptly stilled when a man’s deep baritone growled at them from the doorway.

  “What the devil is going on here?” he demanded.

  Her entire face burning at having been caught in such an undignified state by whom she could only presume was the duke, Cadence kept her countenance hidden while Hannah sprang to her feet and hurried from the room. She closed the door behind her, and for several minutes there was only the indistinct hum of voices before the door swung back open and Hannah returned.

  “I will have a room readied for you,” she promised, pressing her lips to Cadence’s damp cheek. “You can stay with us for as long as you like. I need to have a quick word with my husband, but I shall return straight away. Will you be all right?”

  Cadence managed a jerky nod and Hannah all but bolted from the room, leaving her to wonder if her sister’s wedded bliss wasn’t quite as blissful as she’d made it out to be in her letters home. Not that it mattered very much one way or the other. If things weren’t right, Hannah would soon fix them. That was what she did. She fixed things.

  And I ruin them, Cadence thought with a sour twist of her lips. Leaning back, she draped an arm across her pulsing temple and closed her eyes.

  How perfect she’d believed her life to be! How perfect she’d believed herself to be. Beautiful, witty Cadence Fairchild. The bell of the ball. The toast of the ton. The almost-wife of the Earl of Benfield. She thought she’d held the world in the palm of her hand…until it had been snatched away and replaced with a hard lump of coal.

  Sniffling, she opened her eyes and stared blindly at a long, narrow crack in the plaster ceiling. She knew pity was for the weak and wasteful, but wallowing in it did make her feel a teensy, tiny bit better. As long as she didn’t get too comfortable, surely there was no harm in feeling bad for herself for a little while. A day or two at most, she vowed silently. Then she’d pick herself up, dust herself off, and find a way out of this awful, awkward, terrible mess.

  Lord Benfield would rue the day he broke their almost-engagement.

  She’d make sure of it.

  Unless she was devoured by cats first.

  Chapter Three

  The Duke of Wycliffe hadn’t exactly welcomed Justin with open arms, but he hadn’t killed him either, which Justin took as a sign their relationship was moving in the right direction.

  The two dukes had been neighbors for several years. Certainly long enough for one to think that Justin and Wycliffe might occasionally get together for a brandy, or a hunt, or a visit to the local tavern to drink some ale and woo some wenches. Unfortunately, Wycliffe wasn’t exactly the wooing type (or the friendly type, or the neighborly type, or any sort of type which might invite a cordial acquaintance) which was why Justin had been amazed to learn the curmudgeonly old bugger had taken a bride.

  Of course he’d had to see the chit for himself. Half-expecting a donkey-faced debutante with all the charm and personality of a turnip, his amazement had doubled when he met the delightfully demure Duchess of Wycliffe, a beautiful, intelligent woman who Evan Wycliffe definitely did not deserve and was lucky to have. Something that everyone seemed to realize except for him, stubborn bastard that he was.

  Still, Justin was hopeful the duke and duchess would find their happily-ever-after. One might think after his ill-fated affair with Jessica that he’d have given up on such fairytale notions as true love and soul mates and happily-ever-after’s, but he still believed in love just as much as he ever had. How could he not, after witnessing firsthand how devoted his parents had been to one another?

  He simply did not believe in love for himself.

  If certain people were destined for happily-ever-after, then it made sense others were not. After Jessica he’d firmly ensconced himself in the ‘not’ category. And he had no intention of switching back.

  Idly tying off his cravat as he descended the staircase, Justin paused at the bottom, gaze flicking curiously to
the parlor door. He knew Wycliffe Manor was infested with mice – something he’d learned shortly after his arrival when he’d woken to a pair of beady black eyes peering up at him from the middle of his chest (yes, he had screamed like a lady who’d just discovered a vacancy on her dance card and no, he wasn’t proud of it) – but the sniffling and snorts coming from the parlor didn’t sound like any mouse he’d ever heard before.

  His curiosity getting the best of him, he crossed the foyer and entered the parlor without bothering to knock. What he saw had his eyebrows lifting all the way up to his temple.

  It was a woman. A rather pretty one, or so he thought. It was difficult to tell with any great degree of certainty whether the tear-streaked face beneath the tangle of dark, frizzy curls was in possession of a bulbous nose or crooked teeth, but the body encased in a dusty maroon traveling habit was becomingly slender with perfectly sized breasts and hips that were just the right width for a man’s hands.

  Just the right width indeed.

  “I say,” he drawled as he sauntered into the room. “Do you need a handkerchief? Although at the rate you’re going might I suggest a towel. Mayhap two.” His gaze lifted to the tears dripping off her chin and his nose wrinkled. Unlike most men, Justin didn’t mind a woman crying. There was something beautiful about a single diamond teardrop slowly sliding down a female’s cheek in a soft, silken caress. But there was nothing remotely beautiful about a snotty nose, swollen eyes, and blotchy cheeks.

  Good lord, he hoped the wretched thing wasn’t contagious.

  He was considering a full retreat when she choked back a sob, dashed her hands across her face, and lurched to her feet.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, Your Grace.” Dark hair tumbled into her eyes as she performed a quick curtsy. She tucked a thick curl behind her ear as she straightened, revealing a nose that was decidedly not bulbous. “Due to some…unforeseen circumstances, I needed to leave London.”