My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  He was hoping she would stop by again this evening, even before he received her letter. And then it arrived, and he welcomed the chance to explain everything, to resolve it in a way that hadn’t been resolved before.

  So when the knock came just at midnight, he was waiting, and sprang up to open the door before she could knock again.

  She stood outside the door in her nightclothes, a candlestick in one hand. The light cast flickering shadows on her face so she looked like something he’d conjured from his imagination for a minute.

  “Can I come in?” she asked in that high voice she got when she was nervous.

  Well, he was nervous, too. He’d spent most of the evening thinking about what to say, and he still wasn’t sure. The only thing he was certain of was that he would say it.

  “Of course,” he said, stepping to one side as he glanced around the corridor to make sure nobody was lingering outside. Or would hear them.

  Although if she said yes, then it wouldn’t matter much. Yes, there’d be scandal that the duchess had been seen with her betrothed late at night, but then there’d be the betrothal to rebut the talk, plus she was a duchess, and could wield her power . . . powerfully.

  Archie wanted to roll his eyes at himself for being so bad with words. If he was this stuck when he had thoughts inside his head, what would happen when he had to ask her?

  “How was your evening?” he asked, gesturing for her to sit down. She shook her head, but then went and sat down on the bed.

  He felt his mouth curl up into a grin at how he had anticipated her doing that—saying she didn’t want to sit, then sitting anyway.

  He knew her.

  He loved her.

  He hoped she’d say yes.

  “My evening was interesting,” she said, narrowing her eyes in thought. Her focus was beyond his shoulder, as was usual for her. It made him start when she flicked her eyes back to his. “I saw someone—that is, someone you might know.” Her voice was still squeaky.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “My brother George again?” With any luck, he would leave London without seeing his brother at all.

  “No, not your brother. It was a Mrs. Foster.”

  The words hung in the air between them, suspended as though they were lighter than air.

  Even though they most definitely were not.

  “I know who she is,” Archie replied in a grim voice. He hadn’t thought about her for years. It seemed she was still in his father’s protection, if Genevieve knew enough about her to tell Archie she’d seen her.

  “Yes, well, the countess didn’t want to say too much.”

  Thank goodness for the countess, Archie thought.

  “But she did tell me that she and your father . . . that they . . .”

  “Yes. They did. They apparently still do.” Archie stood, unable to sit still, and began to pace the short distance between the chair he’d been sitting in and his bed—where she was sitting. He turned and faced her. “Why are you here, Genevieve?” He didn’t think it was to discuss his father’s mistress. He knew it wasn’t because she thought he would be proposing.

  Instead of answering, she gazed off past his shoulder at that red painting again. He really needed to remove it; it seemed to be far more fascinating to her than it should be.

  “I—” she began, then shook her head, now looking down at the carpet. At any place but where he was, apparently.

  “What?”

  His chest tightened. What could be so difficult to say to him?

  Was she getting married?

  Oh hell. Was he too late?

  “Tell me.” His voice was raw.

  She looked up at him then, her eyes widening in confusion. “You seem upset yourself. There is nothing—that is, I am hopeful that we can come to an agreement. This is not usually what a female would ask, but . . .” and then she inhaled, and he felt himself mirror her breath, his chest easing as he considered her words.

  “If you’re going to ask what I think you are, what I should be asking, then the answer is yes,” he said in a low voice.

  He saw the incredulity of her expression. Was it really so difficult to imagine he’d want to marry her? To be with her for the rest of their lives?

  “You will?” she squeaked. “Won’t it be awkward?”

  He shook his head, kneeling onto the carpet in front of her as he did. He took her hands in his and placed both of their hands on her thighs.

  He couldn’t get distracted by the thought of what was under that night rail now. Although now he could actually, couldn’t he? She’d agreed.

  She would marry him. She would allow him to join her life and be with her.

  He opened his mouth to tell her he loved her—to finally say it aloud, so she knew. So it was spoken. But she spoke first.

  “We can find accommodations for you not far from here.” She shrugged, and her cheeks started to turn pink. “I am not certain how it is usually done, and you can understand how it would be difficult to ask anyone.”

  He blinked at her, his hands still holding hers, his mouth hanging open. What on earth was she talking about?

  “And you’ll be able to continue helping me with the estate, if anyone were to ask.” Now her cheeks were bright red, her eyes darting frantically around the room.

  Not looking at him any longer.

  “If anyone were to ask?” he repeated. He still had no idea what she was talking about.

  “If someone suggests—that is, if someone wants to know why we spend so much time together. Why we seem to be so close.” The last few words were spoken in the highest squeak he’d heard her emit yet, and he still couldn’t understand what she was meaning, until—

  He did.

  “Are you saying,” he asked, dropping her hands as he rose to stand, his legs touching the bed so she had to lean her head far back to look at him, “are you saying that you want me to be your mistress?” He shook his head as though to clear it. “That is, the male version of a mistress? Whatever that word is?”

  Because if there was a word for it, he certainly had never heard it.

  “The countess referred to Mrs. Foster as your father’s ‘special friend.’” He kept his gaze on her, so sharp and intense it seemed she had to look away. Back at that damn painting.

  “I thought you wanted to marry me,” he said in a low rasp. Because if he spoke in a normal tone he’d shout, and he knew he did not want the entire household to come running.

  Even though it would result in what he wanted—marriage to her—since to be found together in this position would compromise her irreparably.

  The irony was not lost on him. Nor was the possibility of losing his honor if he were to give in to his temper. But he couldn’t do that, not now when she’d made herself so clear.

  “Marry you?” Now she looked startled. Why? Was it such a far-fetched idea? He felt his pride—that pride that had caused him to walk out on his family—start to churn inside his gut, and he felt sick. Aghast that she would have thought of such a thing, that she would have thought he would be willing to do it, that he’d misunderstood her feelings for him so thoroughly that he actually thought she might want to marry him.

  “But you don’t want to marry me,” she said in a small voice.

  He stepped back, knowing he was probably intimidating to her now, what with his towering over her as she sat on his bed. His bed, for God’s sake.

  “How would you know that, Genevieve?” He raked his hands through his hair in frustration. “You didn’t ask me. You told me.” He took another breath. “You didn’t even think of it.”

  She opened her mouth as though to protest, and he held his hand up. “You might say you thought of it. Maybe you did. But you must have rejected it for you to come up with this ludicrous idea of me being your—your special friend,” he finished with a snarl. “Did you even think how that would make me feel?”

  He began to pace again, not wanting to look at her. To look at the possibility of her,
which she had just discarded without asking him.

  Like a true aristocrat.

  “Congratulations, Duchess,” he said, sneering. “You have completed your training, you are fit to take your place among the ranks of Society. Treating people as though they were lesser than you because of who you are and who they are not.”

  Her hand was at her mouth, her eyes bright with tears. He wished his chest didn’t hurt at seeing her in pain. He wished he didn’t care.

  Didn’t love her.

  “I should go,” she said in a low, trembling voice. She stood and swayed, and he went to catch her—he couldn’t help himself, he didn’t want her to fall, no matter what he was feeling at the moment about her—and held her just for a moment in his arms.

  As he’d hoped to hold her for the rest of his life.

  And now that dream was shattered. And all he had left was a bruised heart, wounded pride, and the knowledge that he would never again feel the connection he had with her.

  She shut the door and he dropped onto the bed. Alone. As she’d managed it.

  Genevieve felt her knees wobbling the entire walk back to her bedroom. She just had to make it back to her room where she could close the door, close the world, away from her.

  What had just happened? One moment they had seemed in perfect agreement and the next he was furious with her.

  What had she done?

  She reached her bedroom door and turned the handle, stepping inside. Alone. As she would be forever, no matter who might enter her life.

  She leaned against the door, closing her eyes as she tilted her head back. “What have I done?” she murmured, pressing the heels of her hands against the wood. The physical pressure against her skin a mirror of the emotional pressure weighing her down. Although the better question was “What have I not done?” she said again. “I am so stupid,” she continued, shaking her head as she stepped to the bed. Her own bed, now hers completely alone, never a possibility of his coming to join her there. To hold her, to kiss her, to be with her in all the ways a person could be.

  She crawled onto the bed, dropping on top of the coverlet without sliding inside. It felt like too much effort even to pull back the covers. How had she bungled it so thoroughly?

  Because duchess or not, she didn’t feel as though he’d want her forever. Because she was hesitant to even ask him to consider such a thing because she didn’t trust he cared for her enough. Even though every one of his actions indicated he did.

  Because she didn’t trust herself.

  Even after all this time, her growing confidence in herself as a duchess, and most importantly, a woman, she didn’t trust she would be enough.

  So she’d made sure of that by not being enough for him.

  The tears took longer to come than she might have anticipated, a distant observant part of her brain remarked. But when they did, they were a torrent, a storm that felt as though it originated from the bottom of her feet and swept up through her entire body, wrecking everything in its path.

  She didn’t know when she fell asleep, just that it was nearly dawn, and the remainder of her life was looming before her, lonely and distant and filled with duty and responsibility, but not love.

  Never love.

  Letter

  Dear Duchess,

  I wanted to let you know Lady Sophia and I will be departing very early tomorrow morning. I have instructed Chandler on what needs to be taken care of immediately, and I will be in correspondence with him to ensure progress on your affairs business matters go smoothly.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Archibald Salisbury, Capt. (Ret.)

  Chapter 27

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Your Grace?” The countess sounded concerned. Probably because Genevieve was most definitely not enjoying herself, and wasn’t yet a good enough aristocrat to be able to pretend well enough to fool people she was.

  Was it ironic that she needed more Duchess Practice? Or was it just sad?

  She’d have to go with sad.

  She’d been sad since he left. Or more precisely, since about two days before he left, meaning she’d been sad for nearly three weeks.

  “I am, thank you, my lady.” Genevieve’s smile to her friend was honest, at least. Anne had become a good friend during that same time, although Genevieve hadn’t felt as though she could confide her heartache. But she knew Anne could tell something was bothering her, but she didn’t press; she just made it clear she was there when or if Genevieve wanted to talk.

  “Oh, there is Mr. Salisbury,” the countess observed, and Genevieve’s heart leaped, only of course it wasn’t the right Mr. Salisbury.

  Archie’s brother was a pleasant enough gentleman, and if Genevieve had met him before meeting his brother, she might have even considered him as a partner for life. But his easy charm and mild good looks were nothing compared to the intensity his brother had—he wasn’t easily charming, but he was compelling. And he was ruthlessly handsome, not just nice to look at.

  He wasn’t easy. He wasn’t charming.

  He wasn’t hers.

  “Good evening, Your Grace, my lady,” Mr. Salisbury greeted them. “This is a fine party, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I was just commenting on that to the duchess,” the countess said, shooting Genevieve a conspiratorial look. As though somehow Anne understood, even though Genevieve hadn’t said anything.

  Like how she’d been able to communicate with him.

  “The Musgroves are renowned for their entertainment.” Mr. Salisbury moved in close and lowered his voice. “It seems they have managed to secure the talents of Mr. Velasquez, the famous Spanish tenor.” He nodded and smiled at both of them, as though he were the one responsible for the rare treat.

  Oh, wonderful. Not only was her heart broken, she would have to endure more caterwauling by people from warmer climates.

  The countess clapped her hands. “Excellent! I have been dying to hear him, the earl and I have tickets for his performance in a week. And yet the Musgroves managed to lure him for tonight? I must go find Mrs. Musgrove and ask her how she did it. Excuse me,” she said, darting away without waiting for a reply.

  Leaving her alone with Mr. Salisbury. The wrong Mr. Salisbury, who was enthusiastic about some man who’d likely sing about love and loss, and frankly, Genevieve didn’t want to hear anything about it.

  “Have you—have you heard from my brother?” Mr. Salisbury asked in a hesitant tone.

  Her throat got thick, clogged with so much emotion she was surprised she didn’t explode. “No. That is, he is in contact with my butler, but I have not heard from him myself.” She missed his letters. Along with the rest of him.

  Asking herself why, for possibly the thousandth time, she had to be so stupid, to misread what he wanted so thoroughly she ruined her life. She couldn’t make the same judgment about his life, but she imagined it was less pleasant than before. She wasn’t so foolish as to think he didn’t care about her, at least.

  But she couldn’t imagine he cared about her as much as she cared about him.

  “I was hoping—that is, could you send this to him from me?” He held a letter out to her and she froze, just staring down at the envelope in his hand. “He won’t open it if he sees the return address, so I thought if you could just include it with one of your letters.” He stopped, looking at her with eyes so close to his, and yet not his, it made her heart hurt.

  She took the letter from him, wincing as she thought what he might say when he received it. About both of them.

  “I’ll send it, but I can’t guarantee anything.” She couldn’t guarantee, for example, that he wouldn’t shred her letter with his brother’s letter inside.

  At least it would be a mode of efficient disposal he would no doubt applaud.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, bowing low over her hand.

  It is the least I can do, she wanted to say, given how badly I treated your brother. But of course she couldn’t say it. Not to this Mr. Salisbury and m
ost definitely not to that Mr. Salisbury.

  She could barely even say it to herself.

  “No, Mrs. Coster, I wouldn’t advise treating your sheep with the same hair refiner you use.” Archie barely managed not to roll his eyes. “That is, your hair looks lovely, of course”—at which the older woman preened and touched said hair—“but wool is very different from human hair.”

  “Oh, do leave Mr. Salisbury alone, Hetty,” Lady Sophia said, plucking a biscuit from a tray and feeding it to Truffles. “He has so much work, what with preparing for the festival and continuing to help the Duchess of Blakesley. She’s my goddaughter, you know,” she added in an aside.

  Mrs. Coster couldn’t resist the temptation to roll her eyes. “You’ve only said a few thousand times. I wish she had never inherited the title, then she would be a normal woman.”

  Nobody wishes that more than I do, Archie thought. He’d immersed himself in work, but he couldn’t keep his employer from mentioning, only about a hundred times a day, that her goddaughter was a duchess, and speculating on what she might be doing at any particular moment.

  He wished, for selfish reasons, that she was less inclined to be doing things so he wouldn’t have to hear about her quite so often.

  “What will you be exhibiting at the festival?” Lady Sophia asked.

  Mrs. Coster took a sip of tea and began to list all the embroidery, cakes, and livestock she was claiming ownership of, but hadn’t done anything to produce.

  And since when had he gotten so cynical?

  Oh, of course. Since about a month ago.

  Still, he did have his work, and right now he was in the thick of helping Lady Sophia do her planning for her own festival showings, which meant he didn’t have time to think. Much.

  “Mr. Salisbury, you’re not even listening!” Lady Sophia’s voice cut—thankfully—through his thoughts.

  “Pardon, my lady. I was—I was thinking about Mrs. Coster’s sheep,” he said. “Perhaps you could wash them in whatever your laundress washes your clothing in, to make them sparkle.” Sparkling sheep. Had he ever thought he’d be sunk so low?