“I’m sure there are some who will not wish to know me. But my situation no doubt means that my circle of acquaintances will be, by necessity, exclusive. If any woman wishes to withdraw herself from contention for a place there, she is more than welcome to do so.” She smiled at the gathered men.
As she spoke, they transcribed her words in shorthand. They would appear verbatim in half the papers around the nation. But while they all wrote, a few men lifted their heads to look at her.
She looked undoubtedly feminine; she’d shown them a weakness and put them at ease. But the gray-haired reporter on the side—Parret, Robert thought he was—was giving Minnie an interested look. He’d been covering London gossip and politics for longer than either of them had been alive, and he was perhaps recognizing what Robert already knew. The Duchess of Clermont had just issued a challenge to the ladies of London. She wasn’t going to beg for their company or grovel for their good opinion. Her friendship was a singular, original honor, and she would bestow it with care.
Parret raised his hand. “Your Grace,” he said, “was your talent for chess a…childhood fluke? A fraud?”
A little smile played across her face, this time genuine. “No,” she said simply. “It wasn’t.”
He raised an eyebrow and contemplated her. “You said you were nervous. You don’t look nervous.”
“When I used to feel anxious, I would once tell myself that I felt nothing. It helped, a little, until I could get away by myself.” Her hand folded around Robert’s. “Now I know I’m not alone. And that helps even more.”
Not alone.
It wasn’t just her hand in his, their bodies side by side on the divan. It was a sense that they were facing not just this trial together, but a life. It wouldn’t be easy. It wouldn’t even always be fun. But even at the worst times, it would be better for her by his side.
Not alone. It filled him, that certainty. To their side, Oliver was smiling faintly. Minnie set her other hand atop Robert’s, and for a second, he looked into her eyes. When this was finished—when they’d sent these men running to tell the world that the Duke and Duchess of Clermont were a force to be reckoned with—he’d show her how not-alone she was.
He’d leave the necklace on, he decided. Everything else…
“Your Grace,” someone asked, interrupting his reverie, “if we could talk about those handbills? What was your intention with them?”
“Ah, yes,” Robert said. “It’s quite simple. I’m a duke. As such, I consider myself responsible for not just my own welfare, but that of the entire country.” He smiled, met his brother’s eyes, and leaned forward. “If we silence those who wish to speak, how can I do my job? Captain Stevens’s arrest was just the beginning.”
Now Minnie’s hands tightened around his.
“I don’t know how much I’ll achieve in my lifetime,” he said, “but this is just the beginning.”
Epilogue
Four years later.
IT MIGHT HAVE LOOKED LIKE ANY OTHER DAY to anyone else, but Robert knew better. The tension in the air was thick; a gentleman beside him clenched his fist and leaned forward. Beside him, Oliver and his father sat, looking on. Lydia and her husband were perched on chairs across the room. Lydia knew little of chess, but still she watched with her hand on her mouth. Three others made those present eight, not counting the two people in the middle of the room.
But eight was no longer enough to make Minnie nervous. Indeed, she looked to have forgotten everything. She sat at the small table that had been set up in the middle of the room, and she appeared to be the only one in the room who felt no nerves at all.
She had taken London by storm—which was to say, as with any good storm, some people stayed indoors when they saw her coming. But by and large, the people who mattered hadn’t shunned her. There had been more curiosity regarding the Duchess of Clermont than there had been ill feelings. She’d given salons—exclusive salons, limited in number—and people had come. Important people.
Gradually, she’d relaxed into the role. She still wouldn’t go to large parties; she still tried to avoid people watching her on the streets. But in settings like this… In settings like this, everyone could see her for who she really was. She was dressed in a gorgeous blue silk gown, and she didn’t seem to be put out at all, even though the man across from her had begun to sweat.
Finally, he picked up his piece. He held it in his hand and then set it down. Gustav Hernst, who had ended up as the winner of the first International Chess Tournament in London some fifteen years earlier, played his piece.
Minnie studied the board casually. She picked up a piece after a moment’s contemplation and then, with everyone watching, gave it a kiss.
Hernst shook his head and toppled his king on the board. He slumped in his chair. “You are still very good,” he said. “Too good. You should have won the last time we played.” His German accent was barely noticeable. “But I could not resist.”
Minnie stood and held out her hand. “A good game,” she said.
“An excellent game. I am glad your husband invited me. What happened all those years ago…it should never have taken place. The game should not have been stopped, most particularly not when you were about to win. It always rankled. It is my pleasure to make things right.”
At that, Minnie looked over at Robert. After all these years, the warmth he felt when looking into her eyes hadn’t faded. It had grown deeper still, familiarity lending him a knowledge of her moods. She smiled at him and held out her hand.
“Come,” she said. “There’s a little refreshment laid out in the main hall.”
But when everyone left the room, they let Oliver serve as guide. Minnie and Robert lingered behind, and once everyone had disappeared down the corridor, they opened the door across the way.
The Dowager Duchess of Clermont had refused to watch what she termed the spectacle, claiming that it was improper and foolish. But Robert had suspected an ulterior motive on her part.
And indeed, young Evan, scarcely three years old, sat on her knee, staring at the primer. “Goose!” he proclaimed happily.
“What else is G for?”
“Grandmama,” Evan said.
The woman snorted. “Flatterer. Choose another word, if you please.”
Evan frowned. “Gray,” he finally said. “You have gray hair. Did you know that?”
“Now that is calumny of the worst sort,” his mother said calmly. But her arms curled around her grandson, and she leaned in, breathing in his scent.
“Mama,” Robert said, “refreshments are being served in the main salon.”
She looked up. “Oh,” she said with a small frown. “I’m…busy.” Her head bent again, and a small smile touched her lips. “I’m very busy.”
Thank you!
Thanks for reading The Duchess War. I hope you enjoyed it!
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• The Duchess War is the first full-length book in The Brothers Sinister Series. The other books are The Governess Affair, a prequel novella, The Duchess War, A Kiss for Midwinter, The Heiress Effect, and The Countess Conspiracy. For a sneak preview of A Kiss for Midwinter, please turn the page.
If you’d like to read excerpts from A Kiss for Midwinter, please keep reading.
A Kiss for Midwinter: Excerpt
Doctor Jonas Grantham doesn’t believe in optimism, good cheer, or holiday spirits. But he does believe in love—and it’s just his luck that the woman he adores, the vibrantly beautiful Miss Lydia Charingford, wants nothing to do with him. This winter, though, he’s vowed to let her know how he feels. Even
though he suspects it means that she’ll never speak to him again…
Excerpt:
AS SHE SPOKE, LYDIA GATHERED UP HER THINGS and placed them carefully in her satchel, securing the container of ink in a side-pocket so that it wouldn’t be jostled about. She was aware that she was humming as she did so—a rendition of Good King Wenceslas.
Christmas was almost on them, and she couldn’t have been happier. The air smelled of cinnamon and ginger. Pine boughs decorated lintels, even here at the Nag’s Head. It was a time for wassail and cheer and—
“Happen we all miss your Miss Pursling—that is, the Duchess of Clermont,” Crawford said softly. “Yes, my Willa would love your company.”
The smile froze on Lydia’s face.
Wassail, cheer, and the slight, selfish emptiness she experienced when she remembered that her best friend was no longer a mere hour’s journey away, but a hundred miles distant.
But she forced her lips into a wider grin. “La, silly,” she said. “I’ll see her again next autumn, just as soon as Parliament lets out. How could I miss her?” If she smiled wide enough, it might fill that space in her heart. She pulled on her gloves. “Happy Christmas, Marybeth.”
Lydia had her own idea for a Christmas for Marybeth Peters—something far better than a basket. She only needed her father to agree.
The group scattered in a shower of holiday greetings. Lydia waited until they were all gone, waving cheerfully, wishing everyone the best for the holidays.
Almost everyone. Her cheeks ached from smiling, but she would not look to her left. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Well,” a dark voice said to her side as the door closed on Marybeth, “you are chock-full of holiday spirit, Miss Charingford.”
Lydia looked pointedly in front of her at the ivy-and-pine centerpiece on the table. “Why, yes,” she said. “I suppose I am. Happy Christmas, Doctor Grantham.”
He didn’t thank her for the sentiment. He surely didn’t return a polite greeting of his own. Instead, Doctor Grantham laughed softly and her spine prickled.
Lydia turned to him. He was tall—so very much taller than her that she had to tilt her neck at an unnatural angle to stare him down. His eyes sparkled with a dark intensity, and his mouth curled up at one corner, as if he nursed his own private amusement. He was handsome in a brooding sort of way, with those eyes, that strong, jagged nose. All the other girls giggled when he looked their way. But Grantham made Lydia remember things she didn’t like to think about.
He particularly made her remember them now. He looked at her down his nose and gave her a faint, mocking smile, as if she’d made a terrible error by offering him holiday greetings.
Lydia straightened. “Happy Christmas,” she repeated, her voice tight. “You’re allowed to say it back even if you don’t really wish the other person happy. It’s a polite nothing. I won’t imagine you mean anything by it—just as you know that I don’t truly care whether you’re happy.”
“I didn’t think you were wishing me happy,” Grantham responded. “I thought you were simply describing events as you saw them. Tell me, Miss Charingford, is it really a happy Christmas for you?”
Lydia flushed. Christmas memories were not always fond. In fact, Christmas brought to mind the worst moments in her life. Leaving home with her mother and her best friend six years earlier. A dingy house let in Cornwall, and that awful, awful night when the cramps had come…
“Yes,” she said forcefully. “Yes, it is. Christmas is a time for happiness.”
He laughed again softly—mockingly, she thought, as if he knew not only the secret that she kept from all of Leicester, but the one she held hidden in her heart. He laughed as if he’d been there on that dreadful night that had seemed the absolute opposite of Christmas—an evening when a girl who was very much not a virgin had miscarried. There’d been blood and tears rather than heavenly choirs.
“You,” he said to her, “you of all people…you should relent from this incessant well-wishing.” He shrugged. “You do know that it doesn’t make any difference, whether you wish me well or I wish you happy.”
Lydia’s eyebrows rose. “Me, of all people?” He’d so closely echoed her thoughts. Sometimes, it seemed as if he knew precisely what she was thinking—and when he spoke, it was designed to make her feel badly. Lydia bared her teeth at him in a smile. “What do you mean by that? Have I less of a right to good cheer than the average person?”
“Less of a right? No. Less of a reason, however…”
“I couldn’t know what you intend by such veiled assertions.”
His eyes met hers, and he raised one sardonic eyebrow. “Then let me unveil them. I am, of course, referring to the man who got you with child while you were one yourself.”
She gasped.
“I am always astonished, Miss Charingford, when you manage to have a happy word for any member of my sex. That you do—and do it often—never ceases to amaze me.”
The room was empty but for them, and he stood two feet from her. He’d spoken so quietly there wasn’t the least danger of their being overheard. It didn’t matter. Lydia balled her hands into fists. The smile she’d scarcely been able to form moments before was forgotten entirely.
“How dare you!” she hissed. “A gentleman would do his best to forget that he knew such a thing.”
He didn’t seem concerned at all with her assertion. “But you see, Miss Charingford, I must be a doctor before I allow myself to be a gentleman. I do not recall such a thing in order to hold you up for moral condemnation. I state it as a simple medical fact, one that would be relevant to further treatment. Certain female complaints, for instance—”
Lydia bristled. “Put it out of your mind. You will never treat me as a patient. Ever.”
Doctor Grantham did not look put out by this. Instead, he shook his head at her slowly, and gave her a smile that felt…wicked. “So be it. When you’re trampled by a runaway stallion, I shall be sure to express my wholehearted regrets to your parents. ‘No, no,’ I will say. ‘I couldn’t possibly stop your daughter from bleeding to death on the pavement—my professional ethics forbid me to treat anyone who has unequivocally refused me consent.’”
He was laughing at her again. Well, technically, he wasn’t actually laughing. But he was looking at her as if he wanted to, as if he couldn’t wait for her to scramble and reverse her prior edict. Lydia gave him a firm nod instead. “Good. I would rather bleed to death than have your hands on me.” She tucked her gloves under her arm, and reached for her shawl.
He was still smiling at her. “I’ll pay my respects at your funeral.”
“I don’t want you there. If you dare come, I’ll haunt you in your sleep.”
But that only sparked a wicked gleam in his eye. He took a step closer, forcing her to tilt her head up all at an unnatural angle. He leaned over her, bending his neck. And then he whispered.
“Why, Miss Charingford.” That smile of his tilted, stretching. “There’s no need to wait until you’re dead to visit my bed. In fact, I’m available right now, so long as we finish before—”
She didn’t think. She pulled back her arm and slapped him as hard as she could—slapped him so hard that she could feel the blow reverberating all the way back to her shoulder.
He rubbed his cheek and straightened. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said, somewhat ruefully. “Your pardon, Miss Charingford. I was in the wrong. I should never have spoken of that way.” He looked down. “In my defense—and I know this is a weak defense—we were talking about death, and that always brings out the worst of my humor. Which, as you have no doubt discovered, is abominable to begin with. I pray that I do not one day watch you bleed to death on the streets.” His voice was solemn, and for once, that twinkle vanished from his eyes. “I hope it is not you. But it will be someone, and the only thing I can do about it is laugh.”
For a moment, she almost felt a tug of sympathy. To deal with death every day, to have only humor to keep
the specter of darkness at arm’s length… But then she remembered everything he had said to her—those pointed reminders that she was a fallen woman. She remembered his all-too-knowing eyes, following her across the room whenever she encountered him. She might have been able to forget her mistake for months on end were it not for him.
She wound her scarf around her neck. “Now you’ve made me regret striking you.”
“Truly?” That eyebrow raised again.
He stood close, so close that when she picked up her coat, he was able to intervene and hold it out for her. Nice of him to act the gentleman now, now when it meant that she sensed the warmth of his hands against hers, his bare fingers brushing her wrist. His touch should have been cold, like his depraved, shriveled heart. Instead, a jolt of heat traveled through her.
“Truly.” She set her hat on her head and adjusted the cuffs of her coat to cover her gloves. “You see, I interrupted you before you told me how long you were giving yourself to finish the deed. I’d not have given you above thirty seconds, myself.”
His crack of laughter followed her out the door. She could hear it echoing in her mind—laughter that sounded jolly and fun, without a hint of meanness to it, the kind of laughter she would expect to hear next to the sprightly ring of Christmas bells. It wasn’t fair that Doctor Jonas Grantham of all people could laugh like that. Still, she heard it playing in her mind—saw him, his head thrown back, delighted—until the wind-swept streets swallowed up the sound of his merriment.
Want to read the rest? A Kiss for Midwinter will be coming to a e-book retailer shortly after December 15th.
Other Books by Courtney
The Brothers Sinister Series
The Governess Affair
The Duchess War
A Kiss for Midwinter— mid-December 2013
The Heiress Effect — 2013
The Countess Conspiracy — 2013
The Turner Series
Unveiled
The Duchess War (The Brothers Sinister) Page 31
