My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Genevieve said, starting to curtsey. Mr. Salisbury’s hand shot out and gripped her elbow, stopping her from the movement. She turned to him to protest, only to swallow her words when she saw him shake his head slowly.

  Oh. She was not to curtsey too deeply anymore, was she? She was no longer the forgotten relation back in the country. She was now the Duchess of Blakesley, and she needed to command respect.

  Although she did not appreciate Mr. Salisbury manhandling her as a reminder of that fact. Something she would tell him later on.

  “Would you care for—?” she began, only to feel him grip her elbow even tighter.

  What did he have against tea, anyway?

  And could he stop treating her like a child?

  “The duchess is not currently receiving visitors,” he said, his voice even lower than it was usually. It sounded as though it emerged from his knees.

  “That is what I informed them, Your Grace,” Chandler said in his most supercilious tone, not sounding breathy at all. At least Genevieve hoped it was his most supercilious tone; if it were any more supercilious it might end up being a noise only certain members of the aristocracy could hear. Rather like when her grandmother could tell tea was on its way, even though Genevieve hadn’t heard a thing.

  Was the duchess squeak part of that as well?

  “But the duchess is family,” the woman said, striding forward and seizing Genevieve’s hands in hers. “And we have come all the way from Thirsk.”

  The grip on her elbow lessened, and she resisted the urge to rub her arm to increase the blood flow. “If you will allow the duchess a few moments, she will receive you in the second drawing room.” He nodded toward Chandler, who seemed to accept the orders, making Genevieve wonder if it was the fact that he was male, that he spoke in utter confidence, or that he looked as if he could thrash anyone who disobeyed him that made Chandler accede so quickly.

  Perhaps all three.

  It made her feel all peevish.

  “That is excellent, thank you, Your Grace,” Lord Houghtsman said as his wife’s eyes narrowed and her mouth opened. Chandler held his arm out, directing them back down the stairs, leaving Genevieve, her sore elbow, and a profoundly grim Mr. Salisbury alone on the landing.

  “It is worse than I thought,” he said in a low voice, even before Genevieve could utter a word. He turned and gave her an accusing stare. “Do you have many of these sorts of relatives? The type to just show up and expect things?”

  She felt immediately defensive, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. Except to have, indeed, many of these sorts of relatives. “Yes. I do.” She nodded vigorously. “From what I have heard and observed myself, all of my relatives are these sorts. The sort that arrives and expects things.” Which was why she had been raised by servants.

  “This is the sort of thing I wish I had known earlier,” he said in a clipped tone.

  She cast him a furious look. “When we were exchanging secrets? ‘Oh, Mr. Salisbury, I cannot stand the taste of lemon and I have many horrible relatives.’” She planted her fists on her hips and glared at him, her whole self positively trembling with ire. “It is not as though those are the kinds of things one shares with someone one has just met.” Except he did share some of himself with her, she had to admit. But she couldn’t think about that now, or how his confiding in her had touched her.

  To her surprise, he gave her one of those woman-flattening smiles. “Yes! That is how you need to feel to navigate these waters. Just like that.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me that to be a proper duchess I should be angry?” She let out a rueful sigh. “And here I thought it was just a matter of treating people fairly, being respectful, and having a working knowledge of what I’m dealing with.” She paused, considering. “Those qualities are what are required of a good servant, not a good duchess. Isn’t that what you said?” she asked. And no wonder she was so bad at the duchess part. The people who’d taught her how to be were kind, usually treated people fairly, and knew what they were doing. And were servants.

  Apparently the opposite of what she was supposed to be now.

  He hesitated, but eventually nodded in agreement.

  “Well,” she continued, feeling suddenly weary, “it appears I have some relatives to attend to.” She lowered her foot onto the first step down. Only to be stopped again as he spoke.

  “Let me help.” He sounded earnest. Intense. And not as though he were ordering her, but as though he were asking her.

  When she was able to catch her breath and meet his gaze, she didn’t feel flattened—she felt the opposite, almost buoyed by the fierce look of concentration he had in his eyes. “Yes. Thank you,” she said at last. She didn’t know what more help he could give—or exactly what kind of help he was offering—but she knew whatever it was, she wanted it.

  Although that did not mean she wanted him. It did not.

  “Yes. Thank you,” she said, and Archie felt something inside him relax, the feeling he had prior to a great battle. Knowing what he had to do, and knowing that he would do it. She was not flighty, as he’d first assumed. He’d unfairly judged her by Lady Sophia and the other ladies he’d met. But she was ignorant of everything she was to be doing and also acutely aware of her ignorance, which made her gaffes even more painful. Everything she’d written and said to him had been an admission of her need for help, and yet it had taken them until this moment to speak the truth to each other:

  Let me help.

  Yes. Thank you.

  Six words in total, but it already felt as if they meant the world to him.

  He wanted to see her as the woman she would become. As the woman he would help her become, the confident, assured woman he knew was lurking underneath the hesitancy and the wrinkled gowns. He hoped she wouldn’t lose the joy and the good heart she displayed so clearly—her obvious plot to keep her inefficient staff employed for just a bit more time, her kindness in taking in not only her grandmother, but her grandmother’s cat, her exuberance when she tracked him down to ask him questions—but he would have to help her hide that heart so people wouldn’t take advantage of her.

  Which reminded him—Lord and Lady Houghtsman were only the first of what was likely to be a long line of relatives with their hands held out.

  They walked down the stairs, pausing in the main hallway.

  She wrinkled her nose as she glanced at the door of the second sitting room, which was in need of a fresh coat of paint. Like the rest of the house, it had seen better days. He would have his work cut out for him in order to return to Lady Sophia by May Day.

  “I believe we have kept your grasping relatives waiting long enough.” He couldn’t help himself; he stepped forward and smoothed her sleeve, then gestured to her waist, where the fabric of her gown was bunched up. “You might want to fix that,” he said in a rough voice.

  “Oh,” she said, looking down, her cheeks turning pink. “My lady’s maid is—well, she is not a lady’s maid.” She accompanied her words with a hasty straightening of her gown, which helped a little. Archie doubted the Houghtsmans would even see her gown, so fixed on the sight of the pound signs they had dancing in their head.

  It was up to him to keep their daydreams from turning into reality.

  “Your Grace,” he said, watching as her eyes widened in alertness, “these Houghtsmans, they do not have your best interest in mind.”

  To his surprise, she uttered something that sounded a lot like a snort. Accompanied with an eye roll. He couldn’t help but laugh in response.

  “Do you think so, Mr. Salisbury?” She spoke in a mocking tone. “I am certain they are very concerned for the best interest of my wealth, and all the influence a duchess can wrangle. I am certain that, if asked, they would volunteer to shepherd my funds through many different endeavors, only taking a paltry sum for their trouble.” She rolled her eyes again. Somehow it made her look even more appealing, even though he normally did not l
ike a whimsical female. Except this one was proving to be the exception to many of his rules. She shook her head. “Honestly, these relatives of mine are the worst. Let us go deal with them, Mr. Salisbury.” She took his arm as she spoke, wrapping her fingers around his forearm and nodding decisively. “I might not know how to manage a duchess’s household, or dress befitting my rank, or even attend a ball, but I do know how to spot a feckless relative. Lord knows I have enough experience with them,” she muttered as they walked out of the room and toward the second sitting room, where Chandler stood, preparing to open the door.

  Chandler glanced from her face to his, nodding to both of them. “The Houghtsmans have asked for sherry, but I told them I would wait until you arrived, Your Grace.”

  Chandler, Salisbury could tell, was as determined as the duchess to maintain the proper dignity.

  “That is excellent, Chandler,” the duchess replied. “We will not be serving sherry. I hope our guests will not be staying long.” She lifted her chin as she spoke, and Salisbury wished it were appropriate to yell “huzzah” or something equally exuberant at her show of spirit.

  Instead, he smiled at her as Chandler opened the door. And was startled at his own reaction when she returned the smile.

  Almost as though he wanted to claim that show of spirit for himself.

  Letter

  Dear Mr. Salisbury,

  I have succumbed to your method of communication because goodness knows if I try to say this in person I will likely squeak. Although I realize you had the best intentions, please do not attempt to guide my behavior when we are with other people. I know full well that I can and will make mistakes. I will own those mistakes, and I do not want anyone to be seen to be in command of me even though you are a Captain, Retired.

  Duchess

  Chapter 4

  “Your Grace,” Lady Houghtsman said as they entered. Both of them rose, and Genevieve noticed that Lord Houghtsman was fondling a porcelain shepherdess that was on the table beside the couch they sat on.

  She felt sorry for the shepherdess.

  The second sitting room wasn’t as shabby as the rest of the house, but it looked as though it had last been decorated about fifty years before—the wallpaper was yellowing, and the furniture appeared to have been made for very small people. She winced as she envisioned Mr. Salisbury, and all his height, sitting down in one of the chairs. But since he seemed to sit down so seldom, that was likely not an issue. “Thank you for waiting.” She deliberately did not sit, either. Not just because the chairs looked uncomfortable. “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  Lady Houghtsman beamed at her in approval. As though she was a child who’d just successfully calculated a sum, or rolled a hoop for a few minutes without stopping.

  Not as though she were a duchess able to wave a hand and make things happen.

  She really wanted to be—or at least appear to be—a hand-waver, thing-happening person.

  “We came, as we said, since we wanted to offer our assistance during this difficult time. My husband has had some small success consulting on various investment opportunities, and we know that you would benef—”

  “No, thank you,” Genevieve said before Lady Houghtsman could finish.

  The lady blinked at her, a few ribbons fluttering mournfully as her head moved.

  “No . . . thank you?” she repeated.

  “No. Thank you. I understand you wish the best for me, given my situation, and I will certainly consult you if I have need to.” Which will be never, Genevieve promised herself. “I appreciate your coming all this way.” She darted a mischievous glance at Mr. Salisbury. “You could have just written a letter.”

  “Er, well, we were hoping we could stay for a few days.”

  Lady Houghtsman was definitely not shy, Genevieve had to admit that.

  She made herself look regretful. “I am so sorry, my—Mr. Salisbury here has just hired workmen to begin some much-needed repairs. We simply don’t have any room,” she said, gesturing helplessly.

  Even though it was clear that there were no workmen at present. The Houghtsmans, both of them, glared at Mr. Salisbury as though he was the one behind Genevieve’s refusal.

  Which he was, partially, but she was too well-aware of her family’s shenanigans to allow any of them under her roof.

  Excellent; it appeared she was finding her duchesslike backbone because of her ne’er-do-well relatives. Maybe she should just hire a few of them to pester her for money in order to keep herself haughty.

  “Well, I suppose we will find a room at an inn,” Lord Houghtsman said, taking his wife’s arm when it seemed she was about to argue the point.

  “I think you should.” Mr. Salisbury didn’t say anything more than that, but he didn’t have to—his tone made it clear just what would happen if they didn’t leave.

  Ribbons flying every which way, Lady Houghtsman left without another word, just eyeing both Genevieve and Mr. Salisbury as though they were up to something.

  We are not, Genevieve wanted to shout at her.

  Even though she already wished they were.

  “Well, that went well,” Genevieve said in a wry tone as she picked up the manhandled shepherdess to examine it more closely.

  It almost sounded as though Mr. Salisbury was stifling a chuckle. That was a bright spot to the day, wasn’t it? Making him laugh?

  “I underestimated you, Duchess,” he said. His words and the way he said them made her warm all the way down to her toes.

  Toes that still had ugly, practical shoes on them, but warm toes nonetheless.

  “Underestimated me how? I require specifics.” And then she grinned at him, delighting in the moment they seemed to be sharing. A moment caused by the first of what was likely to be an infinite number of horrible relatives, but a moment, at least. There weren’t likely to be many moments. And then he would leave, and she would have to share a moment by herself.

  Which didn’t make any kind of sense.

  He smiled back with a lazy twist of his mouth. “Being in command.” Which somehow made her shiver, though she didn’t know why. “Sticking to what you wanted, which was for them to leave, even though it was uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, that,” she said with a wave of her hand, even though she felt her insides practically light up with the praise. “I have practice with that, at least.”

  He tilted his head in an unspoken question.

  “Well,” she began, “I was the only representative of my family, at least the only one in the country, and so when any relatives appeared on the doorstep hoping to find my father in residence, I was the one who had to deal with them.” She shrugged, as though it was nothing. Even though it was something. “And I couldn’t give them what they wanted, so I insisted that they leave.” She met his gaze and smiled. “Until Gran arrived. She didn’t want anything, she just wanted”—and she felt her throat get tight at the memory—“me.”

  None of the other miscreant relatives wanted her. They barely wanted to even look at her. When she was too young to understand she kept hoping one of them would want to take care of her, would want to treat her as someone who was part of a family. Their family. But they never did, and she came to realize that the makeshift family that surrounded her—the small group of servants, eventually her grandmother—were the only ones who truly cared for her.

  If they could have given her a come-out, and helped find her a suitable husband, she knew they would have. She’d wished more times than she could remember that they were her real family, and that the distant gentleman who paid no attention to her was no relation at all.

  “I am sorry.” He sounded sincere. The words felt as though they splintered into her, and she took a quick breath.

  “It is fine,” she said quickly. Even though it hadn’t been fine, not until after she had come to understand that Gran didn’t want anything of her, nor of her father, whom she referred to as “that man who married my daughter.”

  But she had Gran now, and
Byron, she supposed, and a motley group of servants back at her old home knowing she could do this. So she would. She couldn’t let any of them down, not with so much at stake.

  “You know you can depend on me to assist you any way I can.” He spoke in a firm tone of voice, not at all intimating anything but what he’d said. And still Genevieve felt herself start to heat up from the inside, and then she felt her face start to turn pink again.

  She turned away so he couldn’t see her. “Thank you, Mr. Salisbury.” She took a deep breath, exhaling through her nose, willing her heart to stop racing and her imagination to stop . . . imaginating. She might sound like a horse that had been galloped too long, but that would be preferable to his noticing how pink she got every time she encountered his Salisburyness. Which was coming to mean a much different thing than she had first envisioned it.

  He hadn’t expected that show of spirit she’d exhibited with her relatives. It was unnerving, how seeing her like that fired him up, made him want to go to her and—well, he wanted to taste some of that spirit for himself, only that was entirely inappropriate.

  And then she’d turned away, and he’d felt colder, as though she had rebuffed him somehow, only there wasn’t anything to rebuff.

  He had returned to his room to organize his list of what he needed to do, which was ending up being a much larger list than he had originally thought it would be.

  And now he had to make a list of who on the staff should be retained, and who should be let go—he was beginning to think that perhaps only a few of them should go, since it was clear they had never had good management. Chandler clearly had done what he could, but there was only so much a butler could do when the owner of the establishment obviously didn’t care.