by Wendy Vella
DUCHESS BY CHANCE
By Wendy Vella
Daniel, Duke of Stratton, learns of his betrothal to Miss Berengaria Evangeline Winchcomb minutes before his father’s death. Having gambled his fortune away, all the late Duke had left to sell was his son. To save his family’s honor Daniel agrees to the marriage, but society’s favorite bachelor is no longer a charming easygoing man - his father’s betrayal has left him angry and with a thirst for revenge.
Eva learns she is to wed the Duke of Stratton on the way to the church. Inside she feels a flicker of hope that at last she is to leave her horrid family - however that flicker is short-lived as she faces the cold unyielding man who is now her husband.
Has she merely replaced one tyrant with another?
Winner: Romance Writers of New Zealand Clendon Award for a full-length romantic manuscript.
Visit Wendy at: Wendy Vella, Romance Author
Also written by Wendy Vella:
The Reluctant Countess
Winner of the Readers Choice and Clendon Award finalist
Duchess By Chance is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Duchess By Chance published by Wendy Vella at Smashwords
Copyright © 2013 Wendy Vella
ISBN: 978-0-473-25422-3
Dedication
When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching - they are your family. Quote by Jim Butcher. For John, Rob and Kim, love you xx
And to my writing sisters, Cheryl, Shar, Trudi and Kate, who are sharing my journey every step of the way. Couldn’t have done it without your support and knowledge and I can’t wait until it’s your turn.You girls’ rock!!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Author Bio
PROLOGUE
Bedfordshire, England, 1794
Spencer Winchcomb watched the Duke of Stratton slowly place his hand on the table before him.
“Dear God!” The peer slumped back into his chair as Spencer laid the last card.
A fierce gust of wind rattled the windows, yet neither player flinched, keeping their eyes trained on the cards. The small parlor reeked of spilt ale and tobacco. The candles had burnt low, their wicks flickering with whorls of smoke as they struggled to stay alight. Chairs were thrown back from the table, indicating recent departures, and glasses and bottles lay discarded on the floor. The game had started two days ago and now only two men remained. One sat with a pile of coins and scraps of paper before him; the other, with nothing.
Their bloodshot eyes held. Exhaustion had been and gone; the duke was now motivated by desperation and Spencer by greed.
“I have a proposition for you, your Grace.” Spencer eased back in his chair and rubbed stiff fingers over his bristly face.
“Anything,” the duke rasped.
Silence filled the small room for several heartbeats and then he spoke.
“I will let you leave here this night with your estates and wealth intact if you betroth your son to my daughter.”
“Impossible!”
Spencer now leant on the table, his eyes intent as he studied the duke. He knew what he asked was outrageous, yet he also knew that if the duke did not take the offer he was a ruined man. A feral smile flickered across his face; for the first time in many years it would be he who came out the victor.
“I want your signature on a piece of paper stating that your son will wed my daughter upon her eighteenth birthday. Only then will I return your markers.”
Lowering his head, the duke closed his eyes and Spencer knew the rush of excitement that had flowed through the old man’s blood while he gambled had ebbed away, leaving him aware of what this night had cost him. He knew he was beaten and his son would pay for his weakness.
“Do you agree, your Grace?”
The duke said nothing as he rose on unsteady legs and walked from the room. Spencer heard the murmur of voices and minutes later the duke returned, followed by the innkeeper who held paper, quill and ink in his hands.
After taking a deep breath, the duke then began to speak as he wrote. “I, Charles Daniel Loftus Irving, sixth Duke of Stratton, vow to wed my only child, Lord Daniel Charles Loftus Irvine to...?”
“Miss Berengaria Evangeline Augusta Winchcomb,” Winchcomb said as the duke looked at him.
“In the year of her eighteenth birthday. Declared this day January 5th, 1794.”
Placing one hand on the paper as the duke began to sign, Spencer Winchcomb said, “I want it written that the marriage must be consummated.”
The old man did not raise his head although his fingers tightened around the quill as he added the necessary words.
“I’ll be glad to be of service to you any time, your Grace,” Winchcomb said once the second copy was signed and tucked into his shirt pocket.
The duke did not speak again. Pulling on his coat, he walked from the room.
CHAPTER ONE
Bedfordshire, England - 1812
Had the seventh Duke of Stratton the ability to choose the weather, he could not have matched his mood better than with the relentless fall of rain and grey gloomy skies that met his eye as he stared out the carriage window.
“Will we arrive soon, your Grace?”
Daniel was surprised to hear his wife’s voice, as they had not spoken since the journey began hours ago. Unclenching his fists, he drew in a deep, bracing breath, then looked at the carriage’s only other occupant.
“Under two hours.” His tone was cold and clipped.
She, too, looked out the window, her ugly black bonnet obscuring most of her pale face. Daniel actually had only a vague idea what she looked like as she had kept her head lowered ever since their first meeting at their wedding ceremony four hours ago. Her eyes were possibly blue…or green. He had only spared her a fleeting glance during the service. Her hair was stuffed inside the bonnet so it could be white as snow or flaming red for all he knew. And her dress, although he was not an expert in ladies’ fashion, was a drab brown with no shape, worn underneath a coat that had elbow patches on sleeves that began five inches above her skinny writs. At least he could never forget her name, although God knew he wanted to. Berengaria Evangeline Augusta Winchcomb. It was a cruel twist of fate that he, the Duke of Stratton - one of the most eligible peers of the realm - was now married to a timid mouse who jumped every time he made a sound.
“Is there a problem?” he queried as she sighed, her breath forming a small white circle on the glass pane before her.
“No, your Grace.”
Wife, he thought in disgust. Lord, how he hated her bloody heathen family. But most of all, he reserved a special seething rage for his own father and prayed daily the man was now residing in the hottest part of hell with Lucifer himself as a roommate.
“I…I, um…”
“Yes?” Daniel kept his eyes on the window as she stuttered. If she didn’t have the decency to look at him when she spoke, then neither did he.
“Tis nothing, your Grace.”
“It obviously is something, madam.”
He watched her reflection in the glass as her grey, gloved hands curled into tight fists in her lap, but still she kept her eyes averted.
“I have need of a rest break, your Grace.”
Looking at the landscape, Daniel searched for a landmark. “There is a small inn ten minut
es from here. We will stop there.”
“Thank you.”
Daniel fought the cold knot of fury in his chest and the sudden urge to roar something foul at her. He was not his father and never would be; he kept his temper firmly leashed.
Spencer Winchcomb had tied him neatly to his only daughter, binding the contract so tight; Daniel would never have been able to escape even if he’d known of his impending doom before his father’s death. Well, now they had a title in their family but that was all they would get; he refused to have anything further to do with any of them, including his wife.
His friends had laughed when he’d told them he was leaving London during the height of the season to get married. No one had believed him - and indeed why would they have? Daniel had had trouble believing it himself.
“I have arranged for you to marry Miss Winchcomb.”
Daniel could still hear his father’s words echoing in his head. He had loathed his sire since he was old enough to realize the man who conceived him was a monster. The old duke had been a tyrant who had never bothered much with his only child unless it was to mete out punishment. Theirs had not been a relationship based on the bonds of love; they had basically ignored each other until the Duke of Stratton had summoned his son to his bedside to say his final farewell before he departed these fair if slightly chilly lands for the glories of heaven. Or, as Daniel now liked to believe, the eternal fires of hell.
“It was a promise made at her birth, a promise you must now honor.”
And with those fateful words, the duke had finally succumbed to an inflammation of the chest. There was no wife to mourn him or daughters to weep and rather than the relief Daniel had believed he would feel, he had instead been filled with burning rage. Even in death, it seemed, the old bastard would play a hand in his life.
“I shall be but a moment, your Grace.”
Realizing the carriage had stopped, Daniel opened the door and stepped down. He then turned to hold one hand out toward his duchess.
“Hurry!” he snapped when she did not move quickly enough. Grabbing her waist, he lifted her down. “I have no wish for my day to deteriorate any further. Run!” he added loudly as the heavens opened in earnest, although after what they had endured already today, a few seconds in the rain could do them little harm.
The proprietor met them at the door and ushered them inside.
“Tis my belief it’s setting in,” he said, to which Daniel grunted something in reply. After handing his wife over to a woman who came to assist her, he followed the proprietor to a small parlor where he slumped into a chair before the fire.
“Tis mulled to my own special recipe, my lord.”
Daniel nodded to the man as he took the proffered mug. Pushing his nose into the vessel, he inhaled the spicy scent. Taking a large mouthful, he held it briefly in his mouth, enjoying the taste of cloves and cinnamon before he swallowed and the warmth slowly filled his body.
Dear God, I’m married. His mind kept repeating the words over and over again.
“I-I am ready to leave, your Grace.”
Daniel looked to the doorway where his wife stood with her head lowered.
“Would you care for a drink, Duchess?” Squinting, Daniel tried to get a look at her eyes as her head shot up. Damn, still too far away. Why had he not looked closer when he helped her from the carriage?
“No, thank you,” she said, unmoving.
“However, I wish to finish mine,” Daniel added in a steady voice that took a great deal of effort. Just looking at the woman made him furious. How the hell he was supposed to dredge up some degree of passion to consummate their marriage before he left for London, he could not fathom. He had told Winchcomb he would not bed her, yet his father had given his word the marriage would be consummated, and so Daniel would oblige. The old duke had never kept his word on anything; this was one more thing he would do to ensure he was nothing like the man who had sired him.
“Of course. I will wait in the carriage for you, your Grace. Please take your time.”
“Come and sit d - ” Daniel heard the front door close before he finished his sentence. Growling at no one in particular, he gulped the last of his tankard, then slammed it on top of the table, enjoying the satisfying clunk. After handing several coins to the proprietor, he stomped out into the night.
Eva shot her husband a quick look. Husband! Dear Lord, he was so big. Large hands were clenched on muscled thighs, and polished booted feet twice the size of her own were propped on the seat beside her. She’d first set eyes on him striding down the aisle toward her and she had never seen a man so handsome. Even with his dark brows lowered and anger etched in every line of his face, he had made the breath catch in her throat.
His huge shoulders were encased in black super-fine cloth over a crisp white shirt. His black breeches were equally fine-looking. Across from her, his large hat rested on the seat. He was, to her untutored eye, everything a gentleman should appear to be.
He had been chillingly polite to her since their journey began, yet his anger filled the small confines of the carriage. In his eyes, she had crossed him -, or more importantly, her family had, and he was not going to differentiate between the two. She was here and he was angry; therefore Eva would bear the brunt of that anger.
She watched as he pushed one large hand through his thick sable-brown curls as he once again looked at her through the glass. Black lashes and brows formed a frame for eyes that were the color of an overcast day, and the one time he had looked at her during the service they had been smoldering with rage. On any other face, his nose would have been oversized, but on his, it was perfect, complementing wide, high cheekbones and a jutting jaw.
Eva had not known what to think when her father told her she was to be married today. Stunned, she had sat in silence as the carriage carried them to the church. Her father had talked of how a hand of cards was about to change her life and how she should always be grateful to him and never forget that it was he who had given her this opportunity. She did not question him further. Spencer Winchcomb was too handy with his fists and it would have been just a waste of breath anyway as he had never listened when his daughter spoke.
Was she trading one tyrant for another? This was her biggest fear since meeting the duke. She had no idea how a duchess should behave, but this she could learn. However she had no wish to learn how to evade another man who insisted on controlling her by force.
“It is stated in the contract that you must consummate this marriage!”
She had overheard her father roaring those words at the duke before the wedding service, and Eva had wanted to curl into a ball and hide from the humiliation when she heard her future husband’s response.
“Never! I may have to marry her, Mr Winchcomb, but I will never produce the heir you and my father wanted.”
His words had been laced with loathing and when her father had continued to roar at him saying things like, ‘honor bound’ and ‘gentleman’, the duke had not uttered another word. Eva had felt a fierce pain in her chest when she realized she would never have a child of her own - someone who belonged to her alone, relied on her for its love and survival.
The wedding service had been cold and informal, with the duke arriving just minutes before the allotted time. He had not looked at Eva when he placed the ring on her finger. It was an ugly gold band studded with different colored stones and seemed more suited for a man, as it was clearly too big for her finger. It now hung on a chain around her neck.
There had been no wedding breakfast and no celebration. All her silly, girlish dreams of tears, flowers and happy friends flew away with the other dreams she’d once had of a handsome, joyful husband who would declare his eternal love for her. The duke had merely taken her arm as the reverend uttered the last words and escorted her from the church. Outside, Eva had hastily hugged Reggie, her youngest brother, begging him to come and see her soon, and then, ignoring the rest of her family, she had climbed into the carriage.
&n
bsp; Eva was relieved when the carriage finally drew to a halt at Stratton Hall. The atmosphere inside had left her tense and nervous. The duke had not spoken again, and the silence had been deafening. She could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes as she gathered her things. Yes, she no longer had to put up with her family and their demanding ways, but she now had to deal with servants and running a household. Admittedly, she had done so since she was a child, but this was a huge estate with a multitude of rooms and staff. Her father had been miserly and had relied on two servants and Eva to run his house. Surely Stratton Lodge would house many more. How was she ever going to fulfill her duties?
“Are you ready, madam?”
“I am, your Grace,” she said again, placing her hand in his and stepping from the carriage.
He released her at once and started toward the house, his feet making a crunching sound on the stones as he walked. She could not see the great stone building clearly in the dark, but she could feel its sheer size looming above her. Was she really to be mistress of this?
“Luton!” the duke bellowed as he walked into the house.
“Your Grace, we had not expected you until tomorrow.”
Eva stood just inside the doorway looking at the dirty water her husband’s large, booted feet had left on the polished tile floor. The butler was tall with black hair that was liberally streaked with silver and his mouth was bracketed with lines, which hopefully meant he knew how to smile.
“We made good time,” the duke grunted, motioning Eva forward. “Duchess, this is Luton. He is the butler here at Stratton Lodge and he will be the one who will help you settle in.”
“Your Grace.” Luton bowed.
“Luton,” Eva said, offering him a soft smile, although she spoilt it slightly by shivering. “It is a pleasure to meet with you.”
