A Duchess a Day

by Charis Michaels

  “My life as I’ve known it will not go on,” said Helena, thinking of the forest and her orchard. “And it is not a minor detail.”

  She took another bite of apple, wondering why she bothered to object. They’d traveled from their estate in Somerset for the sole purpose of marrying her off to the Duke of Lusk. The marriage joined two ancient families and (more importantly) tied the duke’s limestone mines to barges on her family’s stretch of the River Brue.

  The wedding was an arranged match for which her parents had been waiting, immovably, unshakably, for five years. She’d fought the betrothal in every way imaginable, and they had been blind and deaf to it all. They had not punished or strong-armed or shamed. They had simply ignored her pleas and waited. Now some fluctuation in international markets caused a spike in the demand for limestone and, in their view, the wait was over.

  Helena pressed her back into the carriage seat, refusing to moon out the window at the duke’s London mansion. She’d seen the hulking townhome, thank you very much. In the weeks before the wedding she would come to know it very well.

  How suspicious it was, Helena thought, that their own London home was suddenly undergoing renovations. Now they were forced to live as guests of the duke and his tyrant uncle. Her mother expected her to smile about it.

  She finished her apple, the very last of the harvest. This time next year, if she was married to the duke, the apples would be gone—destroyed by heavy limestone wagons trundling down the terraced orchard to the river.

  The great irony was that the Duke of Lusk, a man who was as ridiculous as he was inane, couldn’t care less about the wedding. At best, he was wholly indifferent to her; at worst, he was openly bored. He was a thirty-year-old man-child controlled by his uncle.

  But Helena would not be controlled, or lose her orchard, or leave the forest. And she would not smile.

  But also, she reminded herself, she would not be difficult. The time for evasion had come and gone. The only solution now was to engineer some lasting means of escape—something that did not extract her so much as put an end to the betrothal once and for all.

  Luckily, she had a plan.

  If she could manage it.

  If she could be pleasant enough, and forestall suspicion long enough, and be clever enough to pull together the necessary players.

  If she could get the duke to jilt her for some other girl.

  That was her plan, plain and simple. Well, perhaps it was not entirely simple. Helena intended to find the most perfect, most provocative replacement fiancée for the duke, dangle this sparkling girl under his nose, and let love or passion or mutual ambition overtake them. When Lusk was entranced by someone else, he would finally stand up to his uncle and demand a wife he really wanted. And Helena would be free to slip away, back to the orchard and the forest that she loved.

  The greatest challenge to her plan seemed to be finding the ideal girl to dazzle the duke. For this, Helena relied on Lusk’s open delight in traits like buxomness, shapely calves, and round bottoms. Also, his penchant for all-night parties, drunkenness in the middle of the day, and dancers. Never once had Helena chatted with Lusk when he did not broach these favorite topics. For years, she’d complained about his tedious vulgarity, but her mother dismissed it as boyish prattle. Helena knew better; it was a window to his soul. Now she planned to open that window and crawl out.

  The line of carriages had scarcely stopped in front of Lusk House when her parents popped open the door to descend. They’d tried (and failed) to conceal their open delight at the prospect of having a duchess in the family, and they would be crushed when the betrothal fell apart. But if Helena’s plan succeeded, the duke’s change of heart would be his own choice. What could she do if he’d fallen under the voluptuous spell of some other girl?

  What indeed?

  Move on with a life on her own terms.

  The earl and countess convened in the street, smoothing silks and readjusting hats.

  Helena’s three younger sisters spilled from the second carriage and descended upon their mother with a barrage of complaints and requests and grasping governesses.

  Her father’s dogs thundered from the third carriage, along with aunts and cousins and stewards and her mother’s maid.

  Helena allowed the commotion to swallow her up. She’d learned through the years how to disappear in plain sight. It was ironic, really, how little the duchess-to-be mattered in her family’s quest to claim a title. She was like the cart that transported them to the fair and that they deserted in a ditch when the festivities were in view.

  But now the fair commenced. The heavy oak doors of Lusk House swung open and Titus Girdleston stepped importantly onto the stoop. Someone remembered to produce Helena, and they thrust her forward like a virginal sacrifice.

  “Lusk House welcomes you, my Lord and Lady Pembrook, Lady Helena!” Girdleston boomed from the stoop, extending his arms like an opera singer. He clipped down the steps and greeted her father with a robust handshake and bowed over her mother’s hand.

  “Ah, Lady Helena, how delighted we are that you’ve finally come to London to stay,” Girdleston said, turning his thin-lipped smile to her.

  “Thank you, Uncle Titus,” Helena said cordially. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

  She must not draw undue attention. Her plan depended on it. Belligerence only elicited tighter control. It was essential that she give the illusion that she could be managed.

  “But where is the duke?” she asked, the words out before she could stop them. She’d learned five years ago that her fiancé would not appear for arrivals or departures. In fact, the Duke of Lusk was only present when Girdleston forced him. Typically, she was glad for the void, but it amused her to point out this flagrant rudeness. Then again, she was not here to amuse herself; she was here to set herself free. She beamed an innocent smile.

  “The duke has been detained,” Girdleston rushed to explain. “Estate business, I’m afraid. He will join us presently for supper.” The older man narrowed his eyes, speaking to her parents. “But first, allow me to present the duke’s attentive and well-trained staff.”

  He snapped his fingers and dozens of yellow-liveried servants scurried to form a presentation line that stretched from the carriages to the house.

  Oh for God’s sake, Helena thought, squinting at the endless wall of yellow.

  “How delighted we are to have you as our guests,” crowed Girdleston, “and we should like for you to think of our household as your household.” He gestured to the servants as if he had formed them from his own rib.

  Helena sighed, looking at the long line of retainers. She made no claim of penury or modest living; she was the daughter of an earl, after all. She’d been waited upon by servants her whole life. Her father’s estate in Somerset was a grand manor house with boys to carry firewood and girls to scrape the ashes. As soon as she’d been old enough, Helena had elected to leave the main house and live with her grandmother, the dowager countess, in her summerhouse elsewhere on the estate. She far preferred the lively cottage tucked within the leafy boughs of Castle Wood to the mansion where her parents and sisters lived. There had been fewer servants there. A cook and housekeeper, a man to mind the livestock. And her grandmother. Oh, how she adored her dear Gran. She’d been the only family member who’d seen Helena’s free spirit, her love of nature, her curiosity and independence.

  A fever had taken her some five years ago, and Helena missed her with an ache that never seemed to go away. She’d scarcely been laid to rest when her parents began to entertain the notion of using Castle Wood and their stretch of the River Brue to expedite the neighboring duke’s mining operation. Gran had forbidden the arrangement while she’d been alive, and she’d even bequeathed the wooded section of the earldom—known as Castle Wood—directly to Helena to protect it. But with Gran gone, there was no stopping her father from marrying Helena to Lusk. When the duke was her husband, he could do what he wished with the forest and the river.

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nbsp; “Renovations are never convenient,” Uncle Titus said now to the earl and countess, “but you couldn’t have chosen a better time to rebuild your London townhome. The duke is delighted to host you here. After all, soon Lady Helena will reside here with us permanently.”

  Helena recoiled at the thought. She worked to keep her face serene.

  “We’ve arranged a tour of the grounds and house tomorrow,” Girdleston went on, leading them up the walk and into the house. “But now let us provide nourishment and give our future bride and groom a chance to reacquaint. I’ve requested a restorative menu. Nothing too rich after such a long journey. Right this way, if you please . . .” He gestured Helena’s mother to precede him through the heavy oak doors.

  Helena idled near the carriages, collecting two more of her apples from a crate.

  So the duke would attend the meal. Normally she dreaded any scheduled contact with Lusk, but now every shared moment was an opportunity to more effectively matchmake.

  Most young women, she knew, would pounce at the opportunity to become a duchess. When it came to foisting him off on some other girl, the title was his most significant draw. But surely Lusk had more to recommend himself than simply the dukedom. Some occupation or passion or quality that he’d been previously too drunk or immature to reveal?

  “Helena, dear?” Girdleston called from inside the great hall. He beckoned her with the smooth, spooling gesture of a ghostly majordomo. “You’ll be gratified to know that I’ve set aside a contingent of highly trained servants for your exclusive use, to make certain of your every comfort and safety.”

  He’s what? Helena thought, following him up the front walk.

  “Come, come,” he pressed, “so I may introduce you to your private staff.” A clutch of yellow-liveried servants formed a half circle behind him. “This is only a start. As duchess, you may wish to expand their number. The duke has made your comfort his highest priority.”

  “Please do not trouble yourself,” Helena called. “I’m so often in my orchard I hardly know what to do with my father’s maids and footmen. I cannot imagine taking on the duke’s.” I will not be hounded by Girdleston’s spies.

  “’Tis no trouble at all, my lady,” Girdleston continued, his voice sharp. “Let me introduce Mrs. Danvers. A highly skilled lady’s maid. Previously in the employ of the Countess of Polk, you will find Danvers to be tireless and—”

  “I’ve traveled with my own maid,” Helena interrupted while glancing at the hatchet-faced woman beside him. Absolutely not.

  She looked to her family. Did no one find this odd?

  Her fiancé could not be roused to say hello, but his puppeteer uncle was saddling her with strange staff?

  “My maid has been in my service since girlhood, and I’ve no intention of retiring her.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps you will reconside—”

  “I won’t.”

  “But what of this personal footman, Thomas?” he tried again.

  An elderly footman limped forward, making a slight bow and wincing in pain.

  Helena smiled at the old footman and turned on Girdleston. “I couldn’t possibly accept the responsibility of a personal footman. I am wholly self-sufficient, as you may remember. Any passing footman will do. I am unsettled by fussing servants.”

  A flash of anger pinched Girdleston’s face, and he forged ahead, gesturing to a large man in an apron. “But surely you cannot object to a personal cook . . .”

  “I am not particular about what I eat,” Helena said.

  “Well, perhaps a brief trial with the cook,” Girdleston countered.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Girdleston’s wide, furious eyes reminded her that she was not in control, not really. The angrier he was, the harder he was to evade. If her ultimate goal was to defeat him, she must show some cooperation and choose her battles.

  She added, “I have always enjoyed the meals at Lusk House. Your existing chef is so talented.”

  She was just about to reiterate that she felt uncomfortable with private servants, but Girdleston continued, “But surely you will not reject this private groom . . .” He swept out his hand. “The duke will insist upon a personal groom to squire you around London, to look after your safety and comfort in and out of carriages, busy streets, and balls late at night.”

  His voice had taken on a simmering urgency, a pot about to boil over. “Surely you cannot deny a personal groom, my lady?” he said.

  Helena was formulating another way to convey the word no when a broad man, dressed from shoulder to ankle in straining yellow velvet, stepped forward and bowed his head.

  Helena’s denial froze on her lips.

  She blinked at the vast expanse of eye-popping yellow. Her first thought was that he did not wear the livery so much as stretch the lemony fabric over his muscled body. It did not fit, not even a little. His hands were huge, his boots were huge, and his very posture—still and substantial—seemed less like a servant and more like the castle guard.

  He wasn’t a giant, but he looked stronger than anyone in the room; he looked stronger than anyone Helena could ever remember meeting. So much muscle straining against so much . . . yellow.

  He did not appear chagrined or bashful. His eyes were soft brown, and he glanced at Helena with a passive detachment that she struggled to decipher. Not supplication, not hopefulness, not boredom—

  He looked at her like he was gauging the height and weight of a chair that someone had asked him to move across the room.

  When he met her eyes, he humbly lowered his head in a half bow.

  He looks . . . useful.

  There was something about the combination of his vagueness and brawn. He had muscled arms, significant shoulders, powerful thighs. She would not ordinarily consider the thighs of a servant (or any man), but the impossible tautness of his golden britches made every part of him impossible not to see.

  His face remained averted, but she could see his profile: strong jaw, reasonable nose, dark eyelashes.

  Eyelashes?

  She scolded herself for noticing (first) thighs and (now) eyelashes, especially when her very future was at stake. His eyes made no difference, but taken as a whole, she could not deny that he might come in handy.

  She glanced at Girdleston and speculated about the loyalties of this “private groom.” The man had certainly fallen into line when Uncle Titus beckoned, but he’d moved in a rote, just-following-orders sort of way. He’d seemed more compliant than complicit and he lacked the slow, knowing bearing or the shared looks of a collaborator. He seemed . . . biddable.

  Perhaps he was just a groom. Perhaps he was a big, strong groom with more muscle than brain.

  Perhaps he was exactly what she needed.

  “This groom is meant to be for my private use alone?” Helena heard herself ask.

  The look of ravenous hope on Girdleston’s face almost made her laugh. It would certainly appease him if she consented.

  “Precisely, my lady,” said Girdleston. “Someone to ease your way around the city.”

  Helena would require help navigating London. She was a country girl, loath since girlhood to spend more than an afternoon in the capital, and now her first order of business was to rove Mayfair, ferreting out potential duchesses. If this groom could be used for her own purposes rather than . . . whatever purpose Girdleston intended, then she was being inadvertently given a most useful ally.

  Helena looked back at the rejected circle of private servants. The maid had been an obvious spy, and the old footman was likely loyal to the dukedom. Helena had no doubt the private cook would slowly poison her. But the groom—the large, biddable simpleton of a groom—might be harmless. And useful.

  “Yes, Uncle Titus,” she said. “I do believe I can find use for a groom on the unfamiliar streets of London. How kind of you.”

  “But you may thank His Grace, my lady,” gushed Girdleston, bowing slightly. Helena refused to acknowledge this and instead spoke to the groom. �
�Pray, what is your name, sir?”

  The groom raised his head but he kept his brown eyes averted.

  “Shaw, my lady.”

  His voice was lower than she’d thought, although she couldn’t say what she’d expected. She’d struggled to hear him, and she suddenly wished very much to hear him again.

  “Very good, Mr. Shaw,” she said. “I am Lady Helena. I grow apples in Somerset. Would you like one?” She reached into her pocket and extended a shiny, speckled apple. Behind her, she heard her parents groan.

  Girdleston chortled. “Shaw is not accustomed to receiving, er, food from his charges, Lady Helena. Pray do not trouble yourself.”

  The groom stared at the apple like it was a tiny cannonball. He glanced up. For a split second, their eyes locked. Helena could have sworn his expression said, You’re joking.

  She blinked. Surely not. Surely he was simply nervous and confused.

  Helena waited for him to look up again, to reveal himself, but he merely made another approximated bow and kept his gaze fixed to the floor.

  Well, she thought. She pocketed the apple. There would be plenty of time to establish some rapport. It didn’t matter. He need only to do what she said when she said it, lift heavy things, and unwittingly aid her plan to escape with her future.

  “You mentioned the duke will join us for supper,” Helena said brightly to Girdleston. “I do believe I am hungrier than I thought.”

  Chapter Three

  Declan had not expected this.

  Understatement of the century.

  He had expected a rich gentleman’s daughter. A patchwork of deficiencies. Some combination of demanding and childish or flighty and selfish, with the potential for daftness or madness thrown in.