“Move along, we got places to be,” the dowager countess’s coachman said. “Miss, you might want to get back inside, we’ll be starting up again once this gentleman gets out of the way.”
“I won’t be getting out of the way.” He didn’t take his eyes off her, and she felt his scrutiny throughout her entire body. “Not unless you get out of the way with me.”
He ran a hand over his face as though frustrated. “That is, that isn’t what I mean.”
She didn’t think she’d ever hear him admit to saying something wrong again.
“Come walk with me?”
Nor had she ever heard him ask something in such a hesitant, wanting tone.
“What is it, Edwina?”
Edwina turned her head to see the dowager countess’s head poking out of the carriage window. “Who is that?”
“I am the Duke of Hadlow, my lady,” Michael said. “I wish to speak with Mrs. Cheltam, if you might spare her the time.”
The dowager countess beamed. Of course she did. “Of course, we are in no hurry. Do go on and hear what the duke has to say, Edwina.”
Edwina turned back to him. He was still staring at her with a passionate intensity that unnerved her.
“Well? Will you hear what I have to say?” His voice was pitched low, nearly too soft for her to hear. But she did.
“Yes,” she replied, walking toward him.
He walked as well, reaching his hand out as though to take hers, then dropping it, a grimace twisting his mouth.
“Let’s go over there,” Edwina said, gesturing to the side of the road where a few trees offered respite from the sun. As well as being distant enough so the dowager countess wouldn’t overhear.
They walked in silence, Edwina hearing her heart pounding through her body. What was he doing here? How had he found her? Why did he have to be so handsome still, even though he clearly hadn’t shaved, and he was dressed in simple traveling clothes?
Most importantly, why was that what she noticed?
“Why are you here?”
He appeared to take a deep breath, then held his hands out in front of him. “I’m shaking,” he said in wonderment. Edwina looked down, and yes, his hands were shaking.
Something must be terribly wrong.
“What is it? Is someone hurt?”
He shook his head. “No, not—well, yes.” He took her hands in his and she nearly gasped aloud at how it felt to have his skin touching hers—neither of them wore gloves, and the bare contact was almost more than she could stand.
“Are you hurt?” she asked in a softer voice.
He regarded her with a look in his eyes she had never seen before. Something vulnerable, wanting, and yes, hurt.
“I hurt myself,” he said at last. His gaze didn’t leave her face. “I need to tell you this, to explain everything, to tell you what an idiot I am.”
Her face must have shown shock, since he chuckled dryly. “I know, not anything you—or I, for matter—ever expected to say. I’ll say it again. I am an idiot.”
“Why?” It was a whisper.
“Because I—” and then he did the most surprising thing, dropping to his knees onto the grass. Still holding her hands.
“Because I love you.”
“That’s why you’re an idiot?”
He snorted. “No, and may I point out I am doing this terribly?”
“I don’t think you have to,” Edwina said in a voice that trembled only slightly.
“I am an idiot,” he said in a return to his normal arrogant tone, “because I didn’t see past my own image of myself and who I thought I was to see who I could become. Who I was, with you.” He squeezed her hands. “I always thought that to be the best person I could, I’d be reasoned, logical, and practical. That any hint of love, of the possibility of more, died with my brother.” A pause. “But it turns out that the best person I can be—the happiest person I can be—is when I am with you, loving you so intensely I can’t imagine life without you, even though it makes absolutely no sense for me to be in love with you. To marry you.”
Her heart felt as though it had gotten stuck in her throat.
“But I want to be that person. I want to forget reason, and logic, and intelligence—”
“By marrying me?” Edwina interrupted.
“You did hear the part where I said I was doing this terribly, didn’t you?” he asked in a dry voice. “Yes, by marrying you. It isn’t practical, you said that yourself. I should find a woman of my own class who can fit into my world. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to live in my world without you. I want to make my world one where you are. All the time. With me,” he said, as though he hadn’t just said basically the same thing a multitude of ways.
“You want to marry me . . . because you love me?”
Apparently she was just as idiotic as he, since she hadn’t understood precisely what he was saying in all the ways he was saying it.
“Yes. I love you, Edwina. I want you and your daughter in my life, and I don’t give a damn if it’s not practical. If you want, I will promise to do at least one poorly thought-out thing a day to prove my love.”
She couldn’t suppress the burst of laughter that emerged. He really was terrible at this, and yet—and yet, illogically, it only proved his sincerity. His honesty in confessing his feelings to her.
“Well?” he said in an anxious tone. “Do you have anything to say?”
She nodded. “I do. That is, I will. I will say I do.”
And now who was being overexplanatory?
It didn’t matter, though, since he leaped to his feet and swept her into his arms in one motion, his mouth claiming hers in welcome possession.
In the distance, Edwina heard the dowager countess emit a huzzah as she kissed him back.
If he loved her, none of the problems she’d mentioned before would matter. It would be enough to deal with the comments, the difficulties, the glances that would imply he had married beneath him—she knew full well what she was about to do, and none of it mattered. If he loved her, if he loved Gertrude—which she knew he did—it didn’t matter.
Love really could overcome logic.
Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?
18. There is no logical answer.
Epilogue
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Gertrude said, frowning.
Michael smiled in satisfaction. “Exactly.” They were all sitting outside in the duke’s gardens, the rain starting to fall. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, and yet Michael had said they would stay outdoors for just a bit longer.
Chester didn’t seem to mind, having chased a squirrel up a tree and then dug up some of Edwina’s flower beds.
“We’re going to get rained on,” Gertrude continued in exasperation.
“You can go inside, dear, if you like,” Edwina replied. “The duke and I will stay outside for just a bit, just to enjoy the unreasonable weather.”
She gave him a secret smile, one that lit him up as unreasonably as the weather.
He’d kept his promise, having done one nonsensical thing a day, at least, since they’d gotten married. It felt so freeing to be able to just do something because one wanted to, or one knew one shouldn’t. It was getting to be a habit, nearly as addictive as having Edwina in his bed every night, seated at his breakfast table every morning.
They’d hired a new secretary together, a meek young man who nonetheless told the duke—to his face—when he was making a mistake. That had happened once in the month since he’d been hired, but still, it was impressive.
Gertrude was delighted to be reunited with Chester, not to mention the duke’s staff, who welcomed her like a long-lost hero on her return.
And his wife—his lovely, intelligent, passionate wife—told him every day how much she loved him, and his height, and his position, and his influence, and his power, and his money. Only being practical, she assured him.
Acknowledgments
Thanks, as always, to my critique
partner, Myretta Robens; my editor, Lucia Macro; and my agent, Louise Fury. You guys make my writing so much better. Thank you.
Excerpt from My Fair Duchess
Don’t miss the other delightful and sexy stories in
the Dukes Behaving Badly series
by Megan Frampton!
The Duke’s Guide to Correct Behavior
Put Up Your Duke
One Eyed Dukes Are Wild
Available now from Avon Books!
And read on for a sneak peek at the next . . .
MY FAIR DUCHESS
Coming Spring 2017!
Prologue
Dear Aunt Sophia,
How are you? I am desperate. I am doing well. As you know, I am now the Duchess of Blakesley. Don’t ask me to explain how an unmarried woman could inherit such a title. The solicitors explained it four times, and from the little I understand, it seems my ancestors received some special dispensation to allow any direct heir to inherit, regardless of gender. Since that ridiculous scenario has occurred, I am at the London townhouse preparing to take on my new position for which I was never prepared. I am writing you to ask if you have any advice for navigating Societal waters; I am quite adept at swimming (the second footman taught me when I was twelve), but this is a very different kind of pond. A veritable ocean, one might say. And I am drowning.
If you would be so kind, please send along any recommendations for anything hiring staff, assembling a proper wardrobe, how not to annoy the Queen, manage several country estates, and any other thing I might have overlooked in my desperation. Have I mentioned I have no idea what I am doing?.
Normally I would consult a book if I were at a loss in any situation, but there don’t appear to be any manuals on what to do if you are an unexpected duchess.
Sincerely,
Genevieve Duchess
P.S. If there is such a book, please do share the title!
Chapter 1
“There’s only one solution,” Lady Sophia said, holding the letter in her hand as Archie felt his stomach drop. “You’ll have to go to London to sort my niece out.” She embellished her point by squeezing her tiny dog Truffles, who emitted a squeak and glared at Archie. As if it was his fault.
“But there is work to be done here,” Archie replied, hoping to appeal to his employer’s sensible side. He had left the Queen’s Own Hussars over a year ago, and had been working for Lady Sophia for nearly all that time since.
During which he had come to realize his employer didn’t really have a sensible side, so what was he hoping to accomplish?
“Didn’t you tell me Mr. McCready could do everything you could?” Lady Sophia asked. “You pointed out that if you were to get ill, or busy with other matters that your assistant steward could handle things just as well as you.”
That was when I was trying to get one of my men work, Archie thought in frustration. To help him get back on his feet after the rigors of war. And Bob had proven himself to be a remarkably able assistant, allowing Archie to dive into Lady Sophia’s woefully neglected accounts and seeing into her investments, neither of which she paid any attention to.
Despite his protestations to Lady Sophia, however, he had to admit he couldn’t resist the letter-writer’s plea; he knew what it was like to be in need of guidance, even if he didn’t understand how a female could inherit a duchy. He’d found a mentor when he’d first joined up, a man who made sure he understood what was expected, and what he was capable of. That man had perished in battle, and Archie had made it his purpose in life to help others who needed it.
But he did not want to ever return to London—there was a chance, in fact a distinct possibility, that his family would be there, and he did not want to see them. But he owed it to his colonel.
This duchess would be just like one of his young soldiers, although hopefully she was not armed.
He took a deep breath, recognizing his duty, even though it chafed. Even though the memories of his familial estrangement were still too tender six years later. “Yes. Bob is more than capable of taking care of things while I am gone advising your niece.”
Lady Sophia placed Truffles on the rug before lifting her head to look at Archie.
“She is not my actual niece, you understand,” Lady Sophia explained. “She is the daughter of my goddaughter, who married the duke, the duchess’s father.”
“Who?” Archie had yet to untangle the skeins of Lady Sophia’s conversation. Thankfully she was more than happy to continue talking. And talking.
“Genevieve,” she exclaimed, gesturing to the letter. “The duchess. It is quite unusual for a woman to inherit the duchy.”
“Quite,” Archie echoed, feeling his head start to spin.
“But it happened, somehow, and now she needs help, and since I don’t know anything about being a duchess . . .”
Because I do? Archie wondered. But there wasn’t anybody else. She wouldn’t have asked Lady Sophia, of all people, unless there was anybody else.
Or if she was as flighty and confident as her faux-aunt.
“. . . You’ll have to go. It’s all settled.” She punctuated her words with a nod of her head, sending a few gray curls flying in the air. “I have every confidence you will be able to take care of her as ably as you do me. Mr. McCready will assist me while you are away.”
She leaned over to the floor to offer Truffles the end of her biscuit. “The only thing Mr. McCready can’t do is attract as much feminine interest as you do, Mr. Salisbury.” She sat back up and regarded him. “Which might make him more productive,” she added.
Archie opened his mouth to object, but closed it when he realized she was right. He wasn’t vain, but he did recognize that ladies tended to find his appearance attractive. Lady Sophia received many more visitors, she’d told him in an irritated tone, now that he’d been hired.
Bob, damn his eyes, smirked knowingly every time Archie was summoned to Lady Sophia’s drawing room to answer yet another question about estate management posed by a lady who’d likely never had such a question in her life.
Archie responded by making Bob personally in charge of the fertilizer. It didn’t stop Bob’s smirking, but it did make Archie feel better.
“And you will return in a month’s time.”
“Sooner if I can, my lady.” If this duchess needed more time than a month, there would be no hope for her anyway, and he could depart London without seeing any of his family. Plus he’d discovered country life suited him; he liked its quiet and regularity. It was a vast change from life in battle, or even being just on duty, but it was far more interesting than being the third son from a viscount’s family. A viscount who disowned his third boy when said boy was determined to join the army.
Meanwhile, however, he had to pack to head off to a new kind of battle—that of preparing a completely unprepared woman, likely a woman as flighty and often confused as Lady Sophia, to hold a position that she was entirely unsuited for.
Very much like working with raw recruits, in fact.
Dear Duchess:
You are probably surprised to receive correspondence from a gentleman you’ve never met. I assure you, I am not in the habit of addressing strange women, either. Your aunt Lady Sophia shared your letter with me, and asked that I pen a reply, since your aunt is scattered naturally quite busy.
I am your aunt’s steward, and my duties include assisting Lady Sophia with any planning and business dealings. I am on my way to London to see how I might be of assistance.
You can expect me in three days’ time.
Respectfully,
Mr. Archibald Salisbury, Capt. (Ret.)
“Three days’ time?” Genevieve heard herself squeak. When did she start squeaking? Squeaking was not something she had ever done before.
Then again, she’d never been a duchess before. Maybe it was some understood thing that duchesses squeaked, and now that she was one, she did as well. And if that was the case, then she wouldn’t need Mr. Archibald Salisbury, Capt. (Ret
.), after all. It would just be intuitive. Rather like when she just knew that choosing to read The Miser’s Daughter was far preferable to Threshing and Other Exciting Farm Things or whatever other boring tomes resided in the library.
“What is happening in three days’ time, dear?”
Genevieve turned and smiled at her grandmother, who was sitting in what was now referred to as the Duchess’s Sitting Room, even though it had been her father’s Study. Apparently female dukes—also known as duchesses—didn’t need to Study.
But she would. She did wish there was some sort of book she could just read on the subject. Duchessing and Other Very Specific Occupations, or perhaps How to Duchess Without Being a Dullard.
“A Mr. Archibald Salisbury,” Captain, Retired, she added in her head, “is Aunt Sophia’s steward. And she is sending him here to answer some questions I have.”
“I can answer questions,” her grandmother said indignantly. “Why just this morning Byron asked for breakfast and I gave it to him.”
Byron looked up from her grandmother’s lap and regarded Genevieve sleepily, one paw stretched out.
“If only it were that simple, Gran,” Genevieve replied in a fond tone. She looked back at Mr. Salisbury’s letter. “We will have to see if this gentleman can be of assistance.” And if he couldn’t, she would just have to blunder along as she had been.
Her grandmother lifted her head in Genevieve’s general direction. Her grandmother was almost completely blind, which made it difficult to ask her opinion about anything Genevieve might wear. Among other things. “You will know best, I am sure.” She accompanied her words with a warm smile and a pat on Byron’s head.
It was heartening, if also terrifying, that her grandmother had such confidence in her. That the staff back at home in Traffordshire—where she had spent the first twenty years of her life—were also so confident, even though she had had no training in how to be a duchess beyond having Cook address her as Your Highness during the two weeks Genevieve had insisted she was a princess from the country of Snowland.
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