Desperately Inn Love with the Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Patricia Haverton

  “And how is business faring for you, Your Grace?” Lord Winteron questioned him.

  “Quite well,” he nodded. “My steward and I were just in London yesterday, squaring away a partnership with a representative of a sugar trade. We may soon travel to India to make things official.”

  An Earl with whom Zachariah was well acquainted snickered, “A Duke traveling to India? Why not send your steward and a valet in your stead?”

  “If my dukedom is to meddle in an affair, I wish to know what I am dealing with firsthand,” Zachariah explained.

  Lord Winteron turned to the Earl, a smug expression on his face, “You would never catch me trampling the sands of India when I could be here, in cozy London.”

  Somehow, that remark earned a bolstering laugh from the entire table. However, Zachariah sat up straight and zeroed in on Lord Winterton.

  “Actually, India is not merely desert. It has some of the most diverse terrain in the known world. Snow-capped mountains, vast plateaus, amazing plains, and even dense jungle. The Ganges provides some of the most fertile soil for the spices and imports you indulge so well in. You might find yourself delighted and honored to travel to such an extraordinary corner of the globe.”

  The humor was stifled, and the men all looked about awkwardly.

  How is it the men who pay so handsomely for imports know so little about where they originated?

  “Dear,” a soft, familiar voice cooed. The Duke peered upward to see his mother looming near. “A word?”

  He muttered a pardon to those at his table, preparing himself for a tongue-lashing from his mother, who was likely displeased with his behavior.

  How embarrassing, to be interrupted by my mother at my age to be told how to behave. I am a Duke, for God’s sake.

  “Zachariah, dear.” His mother began pleasantly enough once out of earshot of his company. “Why don’t you ask Lady Adelaide to dance?”

  “Mother,” he muttered, having to fight the urge to pinch his eyes in frustration, “Please do not start. You asked me to attend the ball, and I obliged. Can we leave it at that, for today?”

  “What is the purpose of a ball if you are not dancing?” she chuckled.

  “I do not feel like dancing.”

  “And I do not feel like growing old without grandchildren,” she scolded in a whisper. Clearly, he had touched a nerve. “Go on and indulge me, won’t you?”

  The Duke stood there, absolutely agitated and fought with himself to contain his composure. Why couldn’t the Duchess request any other Lady, at least? Gazing into the ballroom, he quickly spotted Lady Adelaide Parsons since she was openly staring at him. She was only twenty years of age and was the epitome of what he loathed about aristocratic women.

  Vapid, shallow, and rather empty-headed

  One dance will not kill you. Appease your mother.

  His thoughts had his father’s voice. Reluctantly, he nodded and handed his mother his cane. Clearing his throat and avoiding eye contact with the Duchess, Zachariah slowly made his way across the floor toward Lady Adelaide. She was mid-conversation—which he had witnessed her strike up to appear busy as he approached—when he curtly addressed her, “Lady Adelaide.”

  “Your Grace,” she greeted, flourishing a curtsey that made him want to roll his eyes.

  Zachariah eyed Adelaide’s sister, Emma, and cleared his throat. “Would it be well for me to ask your sister for a dance?”

  He ignored the tiny squeak of excitement that sounded from Adelaide. Emma grinned and bowed her head. “I think that would be a fine idea, Your Grace.”

  With a bored blink, Zachariah pivoted back to Adelaide. “Would you care for a dance?” his voice was empty, without excitement or resentment. He was merely echoing the request his mother had of him.

  Lady Adelaide rested a hand over his chest, her cheeks falsely reddening. “Oh la, I would be so honored to dance with you, Your Grace.”

  Zachariah knew he was appearing brattish at that point, but he could not even muster a polite smile. Presenting his hand, he led her onto the dance floor. It was not the first time the two had been forced together at a ball, and he knew it would not be the last. Dancing with her was as routine as a chore. She was so much younger than him, it felt like he was dancing with a child. His body moved mechanically through the steps as he counted down the bars, impatiently waiting for it to end.

  As they were face to face, Adelaide whispered to him, “You always impress me with your dancing.”

  “I would hope, considering I have been dancing for nearly two decades,” he replied, though not in kind. Any time they spoke, the Duke tried to force her to remember their age difference.

  Why is she so eager to get to know me?

  There were many handsome and more age-appropriate noblemen in attendance at that very ball. Ones that would appreciate her beauty and appreciation for the high rank.

  “You make me a better dancer,” she cooed to him, her smile unable to get any wider.

  There it was—the justification. Adelaide appeared to have the romantic notion that being with the Duke would not only grant her status but the maturity she was so desperate to acquire. If only his mother would stop forcing him to dance with her, so that her fantasy that they would be together would pass, and she could find herself a suitable betrothed.

  “They have dance instructors for a reason,” he muttered, understanding just how insulting the comment may come across.

  It passed over Lady Adelaide’s head without notice.

  Actually, no, she noticed and giggled.

  Her laughter annoyed him, it was always too high-pitched and forced to ever be genuine. Finally, to his relief, the music came to an end. Stepping back from her, he bowed.

  Before another word could be said between them, Zachariah walked away. He didn’t bother finding his mother to retrieve his cane. Instead, he found his way to the garden. Sucking in the night air, he rested against the banister and turned his face to the sky. In the moment, he found refuge in imagining the Gentle Rose Inn. There, things felt simple. He longed for that just then, knowing that when he returned to the ball, he would be subjected to more dancing with Ladies he had no care for and conversation with men who knew nothing of the real world.

  Chapter 5

  It proved to be a lazy Saturday with the usual flow of business, though Melody was aware that the solitude of the day would not last. Saturdays proved to be their busiest nights of the week, as most had Sunday off to attend religious service. Though, it seemed that many of their patrons saw getting drunk as wheelbarrows as their weekly worship. It padded the pockets of the inn, as many would get rooms just to avoid the walk home.

  Melody was behind the bar to conduct her usual inventory, needing to place an order with the local distillery by sundown to have their weekly delivery Monday morning. Betsy was slumped on one of the bar stools to speak to her, leaving the rest of the cooks to attend to the lunch-hour lull. “Can you believe the likes of that steward? Flirting so openly with me. It is as if he is not from the upper class. Obadiah has more manners than that man.”

  “Speak any more of Caleb Ridlington and I will begin to think you fancy him,” Melody murmured as she hoisted a case of whiskey onto the countertop to count the bottles.

  Betsy scoffed, “Me, fancy a man like that? I thought you knew me better than that, Melody.”

  “I know you quite well, Betsy. And I know you don’t speak of men so many days after seeing them unless you are secretly fantasizing about them,” she smirked.

  “Fantasize being a steward’s wife?” Betsy huffed, “Really, Melody, it is as though you have lost your ability to read me as the years have gone by.”

  “I’m sure that is what is happening,” she chuckled.

  A few moments passed, Betsy drumming her fingers against the bar top. “Really, Melody. He might have been charming, but I have no desire to be courted by the likes of him. Though he was quite the conversationalist.”

  “Is that so? I could not
gather that from the way he ate you up with his gaze alone.”

  “Melody!” Betsy exclaimed.

  “Yes, Melody, dovey pie,” an all too familiar voice called from the near distance.

  She sighed heavily, not looking up from her ledger as she filled it out, “Yes, Obadiah?”

  “Could you spot me some more sherry?”

  Melody’s eyes fell to the large clock on a far wall. It was hardly past noon and the town drunk was requesting his third sherry. She studied him from the corner of her eye. “Are you sure that you don’t need a lunch first, Obadiah? You have been here for quite some time.”

  The man huffed, “Why is it that women are always trying to tell a man how to conduct himself? I know my limit, Miss Balfour. Believe it or not, this is not my first time around a glass of sherry.”

  “Oh, I believe it, Obadiah,” Melody sighed, pouring the man his drink. As she approached him with it, he licked his lips and reached for the glass. She pulled it out of his reach, “Before you have another, you will have lunch. Miss Lovell did not slave all morning over those bread loaves and roast beef for you to fill up on sherry.”

  “Very well,” he grumbled.

  She gave him the glass and shook her head as she wandered back over to Betsy. “Horrible man,” she muttered.

  “Pay him no mind. He’s just a drunk.”

  “Does not eliminate the fact he is an absolutely dreadful man,” Melody grumbled, proceeding with the task of inventory. “If he did not have cash.”

  “We would throw him out with the rest of the riff-raff,” Betsy nodded.

  The day continued with her usual duties. Melody was an innkeeper, but there wasn’t a task within its walls that she did not perform. Along with inventory and other paperwork, she checked in guests, seated diners, took orders, swept, mopped, dusted, assisted with linen duty, and handled any complaints that came her way. By midafternoon, she was already exhausted with all her running around, sitting at the front desk, pouring over the paperwork. Susan hovered nearby, dusting the paintings that hung in the foyer. A sudden curiosity took hold of her.

  “Susan,” she began, “Are you happy here? In my employ, that is.”

  The nervous and bashful maid peered over to the innkeeper before keeping her eyes on her duty. “Yes, ma’am. I am grateful for the opportunity to earn money of my own.”

  “Is there anything that could better your experience here at the Gentle Rose Inn?” she inquired. Susan’s gaze shifted back and forth, looking uncomfortable at the sudden questioning. “Relax, dear Susan, I am only curious. You are a fine worker. I only want to know what I can do to improve the inn.”

  Susan visibly swallowed, even from such a distance. “You do a fine job of running the inn, Miss Balfour—” Susan felt eyes on her, “Melody, I mean.”

  Melody did not want her staff calling her by her title. If it weren’t for each and every one of her staff, the inn could not run as efficiently as it did. She wanted them to see her as an equal, so that they were more willing to come to her with issues, rather than fear termination.

  She sighed heavily and slouched in her chair, eyes sticking to the ledgers. “Even if you are not willing to admit it, sweet Susan, I know that the inn is less than perfect.” She clicked her tongue and found her mood dampening as it often did as she thought of the overall health of the inn. While they kept it clean and orderly, it had its problems. “The wallpaper is peeling in half the rooms, the floorboards of the stairs are squeaky and warped,” Melody lamented.

  Susan ceased her dusting and took in the sight of the stressed, long face of Melody. “Do not worry, miss. These things have a way of sorting themselves out, one way or another.”

  “If you’re a man,” Melody grumbled. It would be so easy if she had been born with male anatomy. She could walk down to the local bank and request a loan. Under the current law, however, an unmarried woman could not even submit the paperwork for a loan. Any restorations she made to her inn would have to come right out of her pocket, which would take years of saving to afford.

  “We live in a man’s world, Susan,” Melody continued as her maid began polishing the sconces. “As wonderful as womanhood is, it comes at a great cost. I cannot do so much as restore my own inn without a husband. Is that not a peculiar thing?”

  “I would love to see you marry, Melody,” Susan smiled. “You would make a lovely bride.”

  “My time as a bride has long since passed,” she sighed. She recalled her time with Frank. They were so in love in their youth. Melody had made the perfect blushing bride. “Now, I shall continue as a widow and proving the culture-at-large wrong in their idea that a woman cannot run a business. We may not be as wealthy as a Lord, but we do well enough to keep our bellies full and debts paid.”

  “You are a woman before your time,” Susan praised.

  Melody appreciated her compliment, but it soured her mood. For one, she did not live for the idle praise of her employees. And for another, Susan’s words were true. Their society did not appreciate women with the drive of Melody, a woman who longed to be independent of man’s rule. She was willing to pay taxes to her country and do all that men in her position were expected to do. Yet even in her community, where she was respected after years of dedicated service, she was treated as a silly little girl with an idle fantasy.

  The doors to the inn opened, spilling in daylight and blinding Melody momentarily. In the wake of the light, stood two familiar noblemen. “Good day, Miss Balfour,” the Duke grinned.

  She scrambled to her feet and gave a proper curtsey, even if she didn’t want to. “Your Grace.”

  “Please, spare me pleasantries,” he smiled. “We would like a room. The same as last, if possible.”

  “Of course,” Melody nodded, penciling them into her ledger before grabbing the room key.

  As she started for the stairs, the Duke caught her with a hand gesturing for her to stop. “If you don’t mind, my steward and I have not yet had lunch. Is your dining room still in service?”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Melody nodded. She guided them into the dining room, a nervous sweat daring to break out across her forehead as she sat them at the best table once more. As they settled at the table, Melody’s hands clasped in front of her. The inn was not prepared for nobility as they had been last time the men had arrived. “We have a modest lunch of roast beef, peas, bread and butter on menu today.”

  “Sounds lovely,” the steward crooned. “If it is prepared by the hands of the lovely Miss Lovell.”

  “That it has,” she nodded.

  “Very well, we will have a full lunch along with some tea, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The Duke smiled up at her, “If you don’t mind, I would like it if you called me Zachariah. No need for a fuss.”

  It was a bit of an absurd request for Melody, as the men were dressed in flashy and bold fashion that would make them stand out as nobility against their typical commoner. She gave him a forced smile and headed back to the kitchen to alert the staff.

  Stepping into the cramped quarters, Melody was almost overwhelmed by the smell of gravy and beef. “Two full lunches on order,” she called back. “Could we get a spot of tea on as well?”

  “Aye,” she heard one of their Scottish cooks call back.

  Melody maneuvered through the kitchen to find Betsy hovering over a pot of simmering jam. The dessert for the dinner menu was jam roly-polies. “You will never guess who is in the dining room.”

  “The Prinny? Perhaps he has responded to my love letters,” Betsy teased.

  “Not the Prinny, but close.”

  Betsy’s eyes lifted from the steaming pot to Melody. “You do not mean—”

  “But I do,” she smirked.

  Betsy laughed aloud. “What business does the Duke and the steward have coming here again?”

  “That I do not know,” Melody chuckled. “But I would not be surprised if it had something to do with the steward’s fancy.”<
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  “Get out of my kitchen,” Betsy laughed, swatting at Melody with a rag that had hung over her shoulder. “I have no time for your nonsense today.”

  “Will you put something fabulous onto tonight’s menu?”

  “My dinners are always fit for royalty,” Betsy nodded, but then she tossed her dear friend a sly smile. “Though I suppose chicken can be exchanged for duck.”

  “You are a Godsend, Betsy.”