The Spring Duke (A Duke for All Seasons)

by Jillian Eaton

  Forcing himself to meet his scornful gaze in the mirror, he ran his fingertips across his freshly shaven jaw and down his chin. After Sophia died he’d grown a thick beard, more out of apathy than anything else, but on the day he’d resolved himself to be the father his daughter deserved he’d taken a straight razor to it and his valet had dutifully been removing any trace of a whisker every morning since.

  Adjusting the fold of his cravat he crossed the hall and entered the nursery. Tradition dictated the children be kept on the opposite wing of the master chamber, but from the day she had been born he had wanted Victoria – Tori, as he liked to call her – close to him. She was the only tangible piece of his wife he had left. To look at Tori was to look at Sophia, all honey colored curls and big brown eyes and sweet smiles. Unfortunately (both for him and the long line of governesses his strong-spirited daughter had left reeling in her wake), that was where the similarities to Sophia ended.

  Victoria’s mother had been gentle and kind, her spirit as light and airy as the clouds that rolled across the sky on a warm summer day. To know her was to love her, which Ambrose had done since they’d been children growing up on neighboring estates.

  There was never any question whom he would marry. Never any doubt. Never even a flicker of hesitation. They were wed the day after his nineteenth birthday, still both children themselves in so many ways, but ready to commit to a life spent together. A life that had started with wonderful possibility...and ended in horrible tragedy.

  “Tori, darling? Are you awake?” Bracing himself for what he would find when he entered the nursery, Ambrose rapped his knuckles against the door. It opened almost immediately and Mrs. Mableton, a middle-aged governess who had started only three days ago, came bolting out.

  “I’m sorry Your Grace!” she gasped, skidding to a halt when she saw him. Her white mob cap, already askew, fell to the floor. “But I cannot tutor that outrageous little pip any longer!”

  It wasn’t the worst name Tori had been called by a fleeing governess, and Ambrose feared it wouldn’t be the last. How many did this one make, he wondered as he knelt and retrieved Mrs. Mableton’s cap. Five? Six? Twelve?

  He’d lost count a while ago.

  “You are dismissed with full pay and a recommendation,” he recited matter-of-factly. “Please have Mrs. Waverly send the next governess with all haste. I will be going out of town at the end of the week, and–”

  “There aren’t any governesses left, Your Grace,” Mrs. Mableton interrupted, causing him to frown.

  “What do you mean there aren’t any left?” He looked into the nursery where Tori was sitting quietly in the middle of the floor playing with a porcelain doll. By all outward appearances she looked to be the perfect young charge...if one ignored the frog she was trying to hide behind her back. He sighed. At least it wasn’t a snake this time. His gaze returning to Mrs. Mableton, he took note of the clear sticky slime on her right cheek. Frog slime, if he had to hazard a guess. “I have it on excellent authority Mrs. Waverly has the largest governess agency in all of London.”

  “Yes.” Plunking her mob cap back onto the middle of her head, Mrs. Mableton nodded emphatically. “She does. And you’ve hired every single one of them.”

  “That can’t be right.” His frown deepened. “Can it?”

  “I am afraid it is, Your Grace. I was the last one.”

  “Well then you must stay. I’ll pay you double.”

  “You could give me the Queen’s crown and it wouldn’t be enough. I’m sorry,” the governess repeated when she saw his pained expression. “I tried. I truly did. But Lady Victoria is...”

  “Headstrong,” he supplied.

  Mrs. Mableton snorted. “That’s one way to put it. If I may be so forward as to offer a suggestion, Your Grace...”

  “Go ahead,” he invited with a wave of his hand. At this point, he’d be willing to try anything if it meant keeping a governess for more than a week. “I am listening.”

  “The girl needs a mother.”

  Anything but that.

  Ambrose had been a widower for eleven years and not once had he considered remarrying. He’d had the woman he wanted. Had her...and lost her. Since then, every female he met paled in comparison to Sophia. And being a duke under sixty years of age without a male heir, he’d met quite a few. Waded through them, more like, as debutantes had a habit of throwing themselves in his path like ducks converging on a particularly tasty breadcrumb. Yet while he hadn’t remained celibate – he was a man, not a monk – the mere thought of taking another wife soured his stomach and left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.

  “A governess is more than capable of seeing to my daughter’s needs,” he said coldly.

  Sensing the matter was not up for debate, Mrs. Mableton nodded. “You know best, Your Grace. Although there is a difference between being cared for...and being loved. I wish you all the luck in the world with Lady Victoria. You’re going to need it,” she muttered under her breath as she turned and walked away down the hall.

  Yes, he was. And yet another new governess besides, it seemed. Raking a hand through his hair and murmuring a quick prayer for patience, Ambrose stepped into the nursery.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Victoria said at once. Scrambling to her feet, she linked her hands behind her back, all wide-eyed innocence save the tiniest hint of a smirk lurking in the corners of her mouth.

  Little brat, Ambrose thought with no small amount of affection. He knew his daughter needed a stern hand, which was why he’d hired – and been forced to subsequently release – every governess in London. Before they left, they’d all said the same thing as Mrs. Mableton. Although she’d been the first one bold enough to imply he take a wife. Dismissing her suggestion from his mind, he focused instead on the little green creature trying desperately to regain its freedom.

  “The reptile attempting to hop out of your pocket says otherwise,” he said dryly. “Where did you even get the poor fellow? The nearest pond is in Hyde Park.”

  Tori pursed her lips. “I found him.”

  “Just like you found the box of crickets you released in Miss Haddock’s wardrobe and you found the mouse you set free in Mrs. Martin’s bed?” he queried, lifting a brow.

  “Yes,” she said, not looking the least bit repentant.

  He crouched down and held out his hand. “Give it here.”

  With great reluctance, Tori handed over the frog. “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Toss him out the nearest window. I’m sure the birds would love frog legs for breakfast.”

  “Papa, you can’t!” she gasped, grabbing onto his arm as he straightened.

  No, he couldn’t. Not with Tori gazing pleadingly up at him with Sophia’s eyes. He would have brought the child every frog within a thirty mile radius if she’d asked it of him, and that was the bloody problem: she had him wrapped so tightly around her finger there was no chance of him ever getting loose, and they both knew it.

  “A house is not the place for a frog, Victoria,” he said sternly. “Or a mouse or crickets or snakes, for that matter. Particularly snakes.”

  “Sir Geoffrey wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

  “Sir Geoffrey was four feet long and nearly made Mrs. Samsel’s heart stop.” The damn thing had nearly made his heart stop as well, but that was beside the point. “Outside creatures do not belong inside, nor are they instruments to be used to frighten your governesses. You know better, darling.”

  Her lower lip jutted out. “But I don’t want a governess.”

  “And I don’t want to have to keep hiring new ones. You will remain in the nursery,” he instructed. “I’ll have one of the maids see that you’re dressed and readied for the day. We can return your frog friend to the park this afternoon.”

  Tori’s face brightened. “Can we get a sweet at the tea shop afterwards? Please? Please, Papa?”

  “If you can behave yourself between now and then.” His brow furrowed when he suddenly heard the
raised voice of his butler from downstairs. A somber sort of chap who took his position incredibly seriously, Evans never stepped so much as a toe out of line and he never shouted. Come to think of it, Ambrose hadn’t heard him this upset since...

  “Tori, did you bring home another piglet without telling me?”

  “No.”

  “Victoria...”

  “I didn’t,” she insisted.

  He believed her. His daughter may have snuck mice into beds and released crickets into closets, but one thing she never did was lie. She was an outrageous little pip, but at least she was an honest outrageous little pip.

  Sometimes too honest, truth be told.

  “Then I’d best see what is going on. Stay here.”

  “But I want to–”

  “Stay here,” he repeated. And then, tucking the frog into the inside pocket of his waistcoat, he strode briskly out of the nursery to see what the devil all the commotion was about.

  Chapter Two

  “I am afraid his Grace is not receiving visitors at this time,” droned a short, pompous looking butler with disapproving brows tightly bunched over squinty, disapproving eyes.

  “Well, when will he be receiving visitors?” Undeterred by the servant’s open hostility, Athena kept her foot wedged firmly in the door. She and Dana had managed to secure a hackney that had taken them from the docks to 47 Cherry Lane, the exact address specified in The Letter.

  She brandished it in front of the condescending butler as though it were a sword and she intended to run him through with it, for how else did you vanquish the dragon at the gate than with a sharp, pointy object? Or in this case an old, faded piece of parchment upon which rested all of her future hopes and dreams.

  “His Grace will not be receiving visitors at any time today.” The butler tried to shut the door but Athena, having the stubbornness of a mule (her mother’s words, not her own), refused to move her foot.

  “Is he ill or otherwise physically impaired?” she demanded.

  “No, His Grace is not ill–”

  “Then we shall wait for him inside. Come along, Dana.” Pushing her shoulder against the door, Athena grabbed her maid’s hand and marched into the foyer, the outraged butler hot on her heels.

  “You – you cannot go in there!” he blustered as she swept into the parlor with her head held high.

  Tastefully decorated in subdued tones of grey and pale blue, the room overlooked a generously sized lawn. In the middle of the lawn was a large alder tree, its long branches dotted with small buds. By the end of the month the branches would be covered in leaves and the grass would be a deep, glossy green framed with yellow and white daffodils. Then before one knew it summer would arrive, bringing waves of heat and angry afternoon storms.

  How quickly time passes, Athena thought absently as she ignored the butler’s huffing and puffing and sat down, neatly crossing her legs at the ankle. Two months ago she’d discovered her great-grandmother’s letter and now here she was, about to meet the man whose great-grandfather had written it.

  The Duke of Blackburn.

  Would he be tall or short? Dark-haired or fair? The letter hadn’t been accompanied by a portrait and as her great-grandmother had never spoken of any dukes, let alone the one she’d once been secretly engaged to, Athena hadn’t the faintest idea what the past Duke of Blackburn had looked like...or the current one, for that matter.

  Handsome, she imagined. Weren’t all dukes supposed to be handsome? Handsome and charming and oh-so-chivalrous. Certainly he’d be a step above her previous crop of suitors, all of whom had been nauseatingly arrogant and horribly boorish. They’d thought only of themselves and their needs. Their primary need being an obedient wife who acted more like a well-heeled terrier than an intelligent, free-thinking woman.

  But surely the Duke of Blackburn wouldn’t be like that. If he was, she’d wasted an inordinate amount of time coming all the way over here. And if there was one thing Athena Dogwood did not do, it was waste time.

  Speaking of which...

  “How long do you think the duke will be?” she inquired. “Dana and I would love some coffee while we waited, if you’d be so kind. And if you have any scones, I should like one of those as well. My great-grandmother was terribly fond of British scones. She was from England, you know.”

  The butler’s face reddened. “You will not receive any refreshments as you are departing at once!”

  Athena smiled politely. “I am afraid I cannot do that. You see, I have traveled a very long way to meet your employer and I fear I cannot leave until we have spoken. If you would be a dear and fetch him for me–”

  “Fetch him?” the butler blustered. “Fetch him? His Grace is not a dog to be beckoned at will! Lords and ladies wait months to be granted an audience with him–”

  Athena’s smile dimmed. “Well that seems a bit excessive.”

  “–and you barge in here without so much as a calling card! No. No.” He pointed imperiously at the door. “My lady, you will see yourself out this instant.”

  “Oh, I’m not a lady.” She lifted her chin a notch. “I’m an American.”

  The butler’s face drained of all color, then turned such a deep red that Athena felt a twinge of concern for his health. “An American,” he sputtered. “An American in the parlor. This – this will not do. This will not do at all–”

  “What is going on in here?” a deep voice snarled.

  One startled glance at the doorway and Athena knew at once, without needing to be told, that the large man scowling down at her as if she were a piece of dust he expected to be swept under the rug was whom she had traveled across an ocean to meet.

  The Duke of Blackburn.

  It wasn’t because he was handsome, even though that was what she had been expecting. His jawline was too prominent for handsomeness. His dark brows too thick. His nose too crooked. He had a large muscular build, almost like a boxer or a common laborer, and he filled out every blessed inch of his waistcoat and trousers in a very attractive way.

  His black hair was sleek as a wolf’s pelt. His skin a golden tan. And his eyes...his eyes were the icy blue of a cold, unforgiving sky in the middle of winter. When his gaze raked across her Athena found herself suppressing a shiver and she could have sworn the temperature in the room suddenly dipped by several degrees.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Is someone going to give me an answer or not?”

  “Your Grace.” Wanting to make an excellent first impression (she hadn’t sailed across an ocean for him not to like her), she jumped out of her chair and sank into a deep curtsy. “My name is Miss Athena Dogwood, and I–”

  “You got here quickly,” he interrupted, causing her to frown.

  “I don’t know if I would call six weeks quickly, but–”

  “Did Mrs. Mableton send you?”

  “I am afraid I don’t know a Mrs. Mable–”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He waved his arm in a curt dismissal that had her brows arching towards the brim of her hat. “You would have been wise to schedule an appointment, Miss Dogwood.”

  The butler squared his shoulders. “I did tell her that, Your Grace.”

  Athena barely managed not to roll her eyes. The British and their ridiculous rules. One would think she had crashed through the ceiling on an elephant for all the fuss they were making. All she’d done was arrive at a perfectly reasonable hour and politely requested to speak with the duke. Hardly grounds for an arrest.

  “If I can explain–”

  “Fortunately for you,” said the duke, rudely cutting her off yet again, “I have a few minutes to spare. We will conduct the interview in my study.” Then he turned and strode out of the parlor, leaving her gawping after him in disbelief.

  This was who she had journeyed across the Atlantic to meet? This was the great-grandson of the man who had written the most beautiful love letter she’d ever read? Her nose wrinkled. The apple hadn’t just fallen far from the tree, it had landed in a prickle bush on the o
ther side of the orchard. Where was the charm? Where was the chivalry? If he had been any colder her eyelashes would have turned to ice!

  “You should consider yourself fortunate His Grace is in such an amicable mood,” said the butler. “He would have been well within his rights to toss you out on your ear. Come with me, if you would.”

  Athena blinked. If that was amicable she’d hate to see what the duke was like when he was angry. She looked at Dana over her shoulder and the maid shrugged helplessly, as clearly befuddled by their frosty reception as Athena was.

  She hadn’t been expecting roses and confetti, but more than a curt, ‘We will conduct this interview in my study’ would have been nice. Especially since she didn’t know what in the world the duke was referring to.

  He couldn’t have known she was coming. Even she hadn’t known she was coming until two months ago. The trip had been completely impulsive and, she was beginning to fear, an enormous mistake. She bit the inside of her cheek. What had she been thinking, basing so much on an old letter that hadn’t seen the light of day in nearly five decades?

  But she’d made it. She was here. And she owed it to herself – and poor Dana, who was only now starting to look less green – to put her best foot forward and give the duke a chance. To give love a chance. A chance her great-grandmother and the duke’s great-grandfather never had.

  “Miss Athena Dogwood here to see you,” the butler intoned when they reached the study. The door was partly ajar, affording Athena a glimpse into the room. It was handsomely decorated with dark green wall hangings and heavy leather furniture. There was an enormous stone fireplace at one end and the duke’s desk was at the other with a sitting area in between. The back wall was comprised of rows upon rows of shelves, and on those shelves were books, far too many to count.

  At least we have one thing in common, Athena thought, for she was an avid reader herself, and had never met a book she didn’t like. If only men were more like books she suspected the world would be a much happier place.

  “You don’t have to announce me again. I just introduced myself two minutes ago.” Breezing past the butler whose horrified expression revealed she was breaking yet another archaic rule, she closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, hands tucked neatly behind her back and the weight of her entire future resting on her slender shoulders.