My Fair Duchess (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel Book 1)

by Julie Johnstone

  “You’re not Philip.” She could think of nothing more to say, at least nothing sensible. By his looks, the towering man could have been the hero in the current novel she was reading. She felt oddly dazed. His sun-kissed skin was showing above his cravat and peeking out from under the golden whiskers on his face. She sucked in her lower lip under her top teeth, her thoughts tumbling one over the other. Maybe it was his great height or the fine-drawn bones making her thoughts scatter. Or perhaps it was his startling hazel eyes and sinful black lashes that muddled her wits. Yes, that was most certainly it. And heavens…that wavy hair gleamed like the dark gold of Adonis. Yes, yes. Each of those things muddled her head, but mostly it was his eyes―assessing, slanted, amused, accentuated by the fine lines suddenly crinkling around the edges.

  Blast! She was not a silly, senseless girl, but he was too handsome to be real, and his wide chest rose and fell with each breath proving her most assuredly silly. “You’re not Philip,” she murmured again, suddenly hot and her tongue thick.

  “I am not,” he agreed, surveying her with interest. He scrubbed a large hand over his face, and a massive gold crest ring on his finger caught the candlelight and glinted as he moved.

  “Who are you?” Amelia demanded, sounding shrewish and feeling foolish for the way he had affected her. He could not be from here. She knew almost everyone in this town, and she did not recognize him. No man who filled out a kerseymere coat as exquisitely as this man did and who stood several inches taller than all other men she knew could avoid being the talk of the town. There were far too many single ladies here. Amelia set her hands on her hips as her mother and Lord Huntington came to stand behind her.

  The stranger raised his brows at her question. “Who am I? Don’t you recognize me?” His mouth twitched with an almost smile.

  Amelia furrowed her brow and shook her head. “No. Should I?”

  His eyes raked over her from head to toe, traveling with a sort of insolence over her gown. She glanced down with a frown, suddenly oddly aware that she wore a drab, gray, dirt-smudged gown. She grasped at the material, irritated that she had noticed at all. Raising her gaze, she meant to meet his and show him her indifference, but his gaze lingered on her hair with an odd look of amusement. Amelia raised a hand to her head and grimaced. Her knot had come partially loose, and soft strands of hair poked out in every direction.

  He smiled, and the way it lit his eyes to a brilliant green made her breath catch. Offering a partial bow, he said, “I suppose Harthorne didn’t regale you with stories about me as he did me about you. I’m undecided whether I should be offended or grateful.” The rich deepness of his voice made Amelia smile, despite the fact she still had no idea who this man was.

  “I’m Aversley. Judging by your hair, I’d bet my entire fortune on the fact that you are Lady Amelia.”

  “My hair?” Amelia had her hand halfway to her head before realization struck. She knew this man. Well, she did not really know him, but she knew of him. Philip had mentioned his friend but truthfully only from time to time and not in specific details. And the Duke of Aversley, though invited by Philip to visit them on several different occasions, had always declined to come. Apparently, he was too busy.

  And rude! He was staring at her hair still. Blast Philip! He must have made quite the show in describing her unruly hair. Heat flooded her cheeks. “Philip is a pain in my―”

  “Amelia!” her mother interrupted sharply, nudging her aside and stepping forward.

  The Duke of Aversley’s gaze finally left Amelia, and when it did, it was as if an invisible lock on her mind had been sprung and she could once again think properly. She gasped, eliciting a sharp glance from the duke before he returned his attention to her mother, who curtsied at him as Amelia belatedly realized she should have done.

  “I’m Lady Harthorne.”

  Amelia faced her mother as she made the formal introductions between the Duke of Aversley and Lord Huntington. The conversation between the three faded in her mind with a sudden remembrance that made Amelia’s heart race.

  The Duke of Aversley was the gentleman who had salvaged Constance’s disastrous beginning of the Season last year by coming to Constance’s rescue and dancing with her when no other gentleman had. This was according to Constance, since Amelia had not yet had a Season due to lack of funds. She studied the duke from under her lashes. The sardonic quirk of his full mouth could almost lead her to believe he was hopelessly jaded, but his eyes appeared kind and he had done a great service that surely had not benefitted him in the least.

  Guilt niggled at her. She could now understand why Constance had developed a secret tendre for His Grace, though on the day of her marriage to Lord Lindley, Constance had confessed the duke had gently dissuaded her from pursuing him by explaining he had no wish ever to marry.

  “Amelia, dearest, did you hear me?”

  She blinked and, taking care not to ogle the duke again, looked at her mother. His Grace probably thought her a silly nitwit who stood around daydreaming. Which she was. Tonight. In the past, daydreaming had only been a problem when she thought of Charles and the life they might share. “I’m sorry, Mother, I was woolgathering. What did you ask me?”

  “Will you head upstairs and open the guest room for His Grace?”

  “Why?” The question was out before she could stop it.

  Beside her, the duke’s chuckle tickled her ear. Her mother did not appear as amused. She frowned, shaking her head. “His Grace will be our guest for a few days. Philip invited him to come stay with us for the wedding.”

  “But―”

  “I know. I know,” her mother rushed out. “Philip should have told us so we could properly prepare for our guest.”

  That was not what Amelia had been about to point out, but her mother’s narrow-eyed warning communicated clearly that she knew. Perhaps Mother thought it best if Philip relayed the news of his cancelled wedding himself.

  “I’ll see to it right away,” she murmured, glad to leave the room and take a moment to compose herself. Curtsying to both gentlemen while keeping her eyes cast downward to avoid further embarrassing herself, she turned to flee and smacked into the entrance-hall table.

  The letters on the table went flying to the ground, and Amelia watched in horror as the last gift her father had ever given her mother, a beautiful black-and-gold vase, teetered sideways before tumbling off the table. Her mother’s gasp filled the room. In a blur of motion, the duke lunged for the vase and snatched it out of the air right before it hit the ground. Amelia let out a ragged breath, too dumbstruck to move. Instead, she stared while he effortlessly bent over and scooped up the mail in one swoop. The man moved with utter grace. Envy streaked through her.

  Standing once more, he set the vase on the table, glanced down at the letters clutched in his hand and laughed. Amelia scowled. Was he laughing at her? Being the brunt of cruel merriment was all too familiar to her. Being less than graceful tended to be the cause of it much too often, but she had been working very hard at becoming more graceful ever since Charles had commented that he required a wife who possessed the utmost poise.

  The duke looked up from the letters, and when his gaze met hers, his smile faded. He took a deep breath and stepped toward her, holding out one of the envelopes. “Here is the letter I sent Philip to let him know I would be arriving today. My apologies, Lady Amelia, if you misunderstood my amusement. I vow it was directed solely at myself. I would not dare laugh at you for knocking over a vase. You should see all the broken vases in my home that I have accidentally run into.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly,” he replied in a deep, sensual voice that sent a ripple of awareness though her. The man was lying. He moved with the grace of a thoroughbred, though she suspected no one would ever tame him.

  As wild as he may be, he was very kind to try to soothe her feelings. Not at all the utterly selfish, wicked duke she had imagined after Constance relayed the rumor that he was known for his ability in the
bedchamber. Amelia blushed at the memory.

  He smiled gently and turned toward her mother. “If I may be so bold as to inquire where Harthorne is?”

  Amelia took the opportunity to quit the room before she embarrassed herself again. When she got to the top of the stairs, she leaned against the wall and inhaled another ragged breath, which did nothing to stop her racing heart. Why did this man affect her so? She had loved Charles ever since she was eight years old and he had rescued her on her runaway horse. Amelia shook her head as she moved toward the guestroom. She was not about to become fickle hearted just because the Duke of Aversley had shown her a kindness. Charles had offered her many kindnesses in the years they had known each other. Of course, he had never spoken to her in a voice like silk that held the promise of a thousand wondrous kisses, but she was positive he was going to. Soon. The other possibility was unacceptable.

  Colin wasn’t certain why he couldn’t put Harthorne’s sister out of his mind, but thoughts of her were stubbornly still in his head like a plague. Frustrated with his inability to control himself, he shifted in his seat as the carriage headed over cobbled streets toward the Pigeon Inn. He’d much rather be in bed than on the road again, but he never had been able to say no to a desperate woman, and Harthorne’s mother had seemed distressed when she’d asked him to collect her son and bring him home.

  The question was why? She’d been tightlipped when pressed, and he’d not had the opportunity to speak with Lady Amelia alone to uncover the details before he’d departed. Though, he had caught a fleeting glance of her bare feet and shapely ankles peeking out of her fluttering nightgown as she’d dashed from her hiding place at the top of the stairs. No doubt, she’d positioned herself there to eavesdrop on his conversation with her mother. Naughty little chit. A smile tugged at his lips.

  Devil take it! If he could not get her out of his head, he might as well allow himself free rein to contemplate her. He never had been one to deny himself, so why start now? He leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the soothing rocking of the carriage. Lady Amelia was not the stick thin girl with colorless frizzy hair he had expected. Of course, his vision of her had been painted years ago by her mischievous brother. She was tall, though. Very tall and could appear rather elegant if she would stand up straight.

  Colin frowned. Maybe she was self-conscious? As best he could tell from her drab, ill-fitting gown and strange, lopsided chignon, she had developed into a young woman who either did not care about her appearance or had no idea how to properly dress and present herself. The latter begged the question of why her well-dressed, rather pretty mother would not have demanded her daughter take an active interest in her appearance.

  He grunted. The answer to his question showed itself. The mother was jealous. He’d seen it before. The mother was commonly petite whereas Lady Amelia was strikingly tall. There were other attributes to consider, as well. The curves he had detected in blurred outline under Lady Amelia’s thin gown danced tantalizingly across his mind.

  Colin glanced out the window into the bright, star-peppered sky. The carriage rattled over Bishop Bridge, and in the distance, Norwich Cathedral came into view. He scrutinized the architecture from afar. He’d never seen a spire that tall before. Interesting and different, just like Lady Amelia. By God, that was it! He’d found it intriguing the way she had boldly assessed him one minute, had become flustered the next, and then in the ensuing space of a breath had shifted to vulnerable and distracted. She’d changed like the winds of a storm, yet for some reason, he had not detected the destructive nature most women hid from men behind a sensual smile.

  Growling, he shook his head and straightened in his seat. What was he doing? Sitting here contemplating the goodness of a woman he did not know―likely never would―was a waste of his time, let alone unwise. He knew better than to entertain the notion that any woman did not have ulterior motives for everything she did.

  The carriage came to a swaying stop, and within seconds, the door opened and his coachman lowered the steps. Colin descended into the dark street and took a deep breath of the countryside air. Things were fresher here than in London. Maybe it would rub off on him. A few scattered, burning oil lamps lit the pebbled walkway to the inn. He whistled as he took in the one-story gray-and-red brick building with two pitiful windows and a narrow door. It was a far cry from White’s. The chimney on the left side of the building had PIGEON INN painted on it.

  The shabby appearance of the building made him smile. He was just as tired of the polished exterior of White’s as he was his life. Both seemed a front to him. Perhaps his time here would give him perspective on his life. Deep within, he felt something about himself had to change, but he wasn’t certain where to begin or even what it was he needed to alter. He caught the notes of a raucous tune pouring out from the bar and soon was whistling along as he sauntered through the open door and into the small pub. The room smelled of stale ale, and a faint scent of smoke lingered in the air.

  He stopped in his tracks, shocked at the sight of his normally reserved friend balanced precariously on top of a barrel, surrounded by a group of ragtag men. The one-room bar was empty except for the small cluster of men gathered around Harthorne. Distracted as they were by the earl leading them in song, no one appeared to have noticed Colin enter, not even the barkeep, who sat behind the counter on a round stool drying glasses.

  It was a nice change not to have all eyes turn to him when he entered a room, watching for what he would do, who he would talk to, and what sort of tantalizing gossip his actions might create for the night.

  He leaned his right shoulder against the cracked and dusty wall, and released a long breath that felt as if it had been pent up for years. Drawing the ton’s attention away from his mother’s scandalous behavior and to his titillating affairs, for his father’s sake, had taken a toll.

  His thoughts swung back to Harthorne, who waved his hands in the air as if he were leading a grand chorus. A large smile spread across his friend’s lips. Harthorne had the look of a man full of happiness. Colin had everything money and title could offer, and he’d wager it all on the fact that his friend had felt more joy in the last five minutes of singing than Colin had felt in his entire life.

  The notion that something―no, he―needed to change struck him again. With his father gone he had no reason to continue accepting the many invitations to bed whatever woman wanted to use him that week whether to make a suitor jealous, or seek revenge on an unfaithful husband, or simply to see if he was as good in bed as gossip hinted.

  Colin clenched his jaw. He felt dirty, and damn it all, he was sick of it. And now that his father was forcing him to find a bride or be left destitute, he had all the more reason to quit playing the eager rake. He would never give his wife his trust, but he would damn sure give her his fidelity, and he expected no less in return. He wanted to feel clean and optimistic about life. He snorted. Optimism was too much to hope for. Clean. He’d settle for feeling clean.

  Relieved he finally understood what he needed to do, he pushed away from the wall and made his way the few feet across the dank, candlelit room toward Harthorne. Before Colin reached his friend, though, Harthorne’s eyes widened and an ear-to-ear grin broke out on his face. Spotted.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Harthorne said, abruptly ceasing his song. He waved his hand with a flourish, palm up, toward Colin. “We have amongst us, in these most humble surroundings―”

  “Eh!” the bartender bellowed as he stood. “Dinnot insult my inn! These here surroundings may be humble, but the ale flows jest the same out of these here kegs as it does the fancy gentlemen’s clubs those fops in London frequent.”

  “Here, here!” A jovial roar resounded from the small group of men who had been surrounding Harthorne.

  Colin crossed his arms over his chest as he studied the barkeep. He was a large man, with a thick reddish brown beard and dark searching eyes, but the smile that crinkled his eyes and twitched at his lips showed his humor. Colin re
laxed his stance. “Since I’m one of those fops who frequent the fancy gentlemen’s clubs in London,” Colin called across the small room, “I’ll take a mug of ale and let you know if it satisfies my thirst as well as the whiskey at White’s does.”

  The bartender tossed the white rag he’d been drying the glasses with over his shoulder and laughed, a low rumble that built in volume. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr.…?”

  “He’s no mister.!” Harthorne bellowed. “He is Aversley.”

  Colin raised an eyebrow, only now realizing by the swirl of Harthorne’s words that the man was foxed, an unprecedented state for him. As Harthorne swayed dangerously on the wooden barrel, causing it to rock back and forth with a creak, Colin stepped nearer to steady him, only to have Harthorne wave him away. “I’m in absolutely no danger of falling, Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace, eh?” a deep voice came from behind Colin’s back at the same moment a mug of ale was thrust in front of his face. “I should’ve known ye ’twas a real gentleman by yer fancy clothes. We dinnot get many of your kind in here, ’cept Lord Harthorne. But he bade us long ago not to treat him as a better.”

  Colin met the bartender’s friendly dark gaze, eye to eye, an unusual occurrence since he was normally a good deal taller than most people. To his surprise, the bartender thudded him on the back. “How shall we treat ye in yer time here with us? Like one of us or one of them?”

  “One of you, most definitely,” Colin said, glad to shed his identity so completely for a while. He understood perfectly why Harthorne came to this damp, disgusting pub, as Harthorne’s mother had put it in a tight voice earlier. Here, his friend could likely forget who he was and all the responsibilities and problems that went with it for a while in this cozy, candlelit, albeit dusty, room.

  “Then raise yer mug to yer friend. He’s had a hard day with likely more hard days to come by the way he’s handlin’ it.”