A Duchess in Name

by Amanda Weaver

  Gen set her teacup down in its saucer. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, after that, we waltzed.”

  “As one does, at a ball,” Grace quipped.

  “I’ve never waltzed like that before. It was like I was on fire.” She hid her face in her hands. “Oh, never mind.”

  Gen reached out and tugged her hands away. “Vic, are you saying you felt something for him while you danced? As a man?”

  “Definitely as a man. And I’m fairly sure he felt something for me. As a woman. He wouldn’t stop looking at me. The look in his eyes... I think I know what he was thinking and it was nothing proper. And his hands, where he held me... And when the music stopped, he didn’t release me. We... I can’t even describe it.”

  “Well, you see now?” Gen sounded quite pleased. “This is a good start.”

  “That’s not all.”

  Amelia sat up. “You danced a scandalously seductive waltz with the man and you’re telling us there’s more?”

  She cast a furtive look at the three of them, all leaning in, hanging on her words. “He kissed me.”

  Amelia and Grace gasped in unison. Gen took a deep breath and raised one eyebrow. “A kiss good-night on the cheek?”

  “At first.”

  “Oh, just tell us!” Amelia looked if as she was about to burst.

  “Very well,” she huffed. “It was after he escorted us home. Mother was being patently obvious with her maneuvering, but in the end, she did manage to get us alone. We talked for a bit. And he said good-night. And he kissed my cheek. And then...” Telling them she might have initiated the kiss was too much, so she fudged the explanation. “The next thing I knew, we were kissing. Um, rather a lot.”

  “A lot?” Gen prodded.

  “In a way I hadn’t expected.”

  “I see. Not a polite kiss.”

  “Not at all polite.”

  Amelia sighed. “Lord, it’s as good as a novel!”

  “Yes, except he pulled back and got all flustered and began to apologize and it was all painfully awkward.”

  “Men do get carried away sometimes. Perhaps he was sorry for taking liberties, which is quite gentlemanly,” Gen said.

  “Except he wasn’t taking liberties, I was giving them. And then he decided he didn’t want them anymore.” She was almost sure of it. He’d looked nearly sick over what had happened between them “So you see, I think he doesn’t like me much. He might feel a spark. I don’t know. But when it comes right down to it, he runs away.”

  “You don’t know that—”

  “Then how do you explain this?” Victoria waved the note she’d received from Dunnley the morning after the ball, accompanied by a large bouquet of pale pink roses, the exact color of the dress she’d worn. He’d thanked her, in the usual polite way, for a lovely evening, and apologized, but his work in Italy had called him back. He was leaving immediately, not to return until the wedding. If that wasn’t a clear enough sign of disinterest, she didn’t know what was.

  “Maybe he honestly needed to go back to work,” Grace ventured. Victoria glared at her.

  “I wish I could beg off and marry some other broke noble.” It was a lie and she knew it. Dunnley’s hot and cold reaction was upsetting, but even if she had the chance to escape this marriage now, she wasn’t sure she’d take it.

  “Don’t forget,” Grace said, “the next on the list is Lord Sturridge.”

  “At least he’d die off sooner and leave you a wealthy widow.” Amelia sounded cheerful about the prospect.

  “And in the meantime?”

  Amelia’s brows knit together as she thought about it before giving a dramatic shudder. “I take it back. Imagine that shriveled, stinking old lecher climbing over you in bed each night.”

  “I’d really rather not.” Victoria suppressed a shudder of her own. The encounter with Sturridge at the Longvilles’ ball had shown her in no uncertain terms he would be the worst possible outcome. Sturridge hadn’t only repulsed her, he’d scared her a bit. And then Dunnley had come roaring to her defense, though he’d been reacting as much to Sturridge’s insults to himself as to any allusions he’d made about her.

  “According to you, Lord Dunnley’s not so bad in that particular department.” Grace raised an eyebrow over the rim of her teacup as she took a sip.

  “Grace! I didn’t confess all that so you could tease me with it.”

  “I just meant he’ll probably be a great deal more pleasant in that regard than Sturridge would be.”

  “Yes, without a doubt.”

  In truth, that was what scared her most about Dunnley—how she reacted to him. It was almost as terrifying as the possibility of Sturridge but in the opposite way. The kiss had likely just scratched the surface. When he took her, what if she couldn’t get all of herself back?

  “You’re blushing.” Amelia nudged Victoria’s foot with her own and laughed.

  “Hush, you. Both of you. Considering the current state of affairs, that’s the last thing I need to be thinking about. Yes, he kissed me, but it might not mean anything. He could still dislike me.”

  “A little mutual hate has been known to add spice to the business in the bedroom,” Genevieve drawled. All three young ladies looked at her agog. “In certain circumstances, I meant. Between man and wife, hate is never something to be encouraged.”

  “See?” Victoria threw up her hands. “I’m doomed.”

  Genevieve cleared her throat. “Back to business. I have been making discreet inquiries into the state of the duke’s finances. I can assume your parents haven’t been completely forthcoming?”

  They hadn’t told her who she was marrying until he’d arrived on their doorstep, so she hardly expected them to share the messy financial particulars. “I’ve surmised, but I would appreciate any details you can provide.”

  “Things are quite bad. The principal family estate is in Hampshire, not far outside of London. Briarwood Manor, it’s called. There were several other estates, but since they weren’t entailed, they’ve been sold off in recent years. Briarwood has been in decline since the days of the fifth duke and essentially closed up during this generation’s tenure. The current duke and duchess reside in the London townhouse full-time. Although the duchess prefers the south of France and the absence of her husband.”

  “Briarwood Manor is in disrepair?” Victoria asked.

  “That’s putting it mildly. They keep a skeleton staff of servants. Livable in theory. But the house is crumbling, and the farmlands have been left entirely unmanaged.”

  So far, it all sounded awful. “Farmlands? Are there tenants?”

  “Those still there are in desperate straits. There haven’t been any improvements to the lands in at least a generation.”

  She slouched against the corner of the sofa. “Rebuild an entire house? And manage the farmlands and tenants? I don’t know anything about managing a great estate, especially one in such bad shape.”

  “The earl will be there to help,” Grace said. “It’s his family and his estate. One would assume he knows something about the house and lands. He’ll take on the worst of it, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe we’ll live in London, anyway,” Victoria said hopefully.

  “I hope so, Vic. Next Season will be a positive bore without you here.” Amelia’s sigh gave voice to what none of them had said yet. It had been the three of them for so long, and now, at last, that was ending.

  “It doesn’t sound like we’ll be able to live at the estate anyway, from what Gen says. I’m sure we’ll live here.”

  “I’m sorry to bear such bad news.”

  “At least I’ll have some idea of what we’ll be dealing with now. Thank you, Gen.”

  “I ready my young ladies for whatever they may face.”

  “You’ve
prepared me well.” Gen was the only person to make any attempt to prepare her for her marriage. Her mother certainly hadn’t bothered.

  “I hope you find some happiness in this life, Vic.”

  She looked into Genevieve’s kind eyes. “If I can have a child or two, then I’ll have everything I want—a family of my own. The rest I will manage as best I can.”

  Chapter Five

  Randolph clapped Andrew firmly on the shoulder. “Cheer up, mate. From what I hear, being married isn’t the end of the world. And at least now we don’t need to find financing for the dig.”

  Andrew gave him a strained smile as he poured another measure of brandy. He’d rather have spent his last night as a bachelor alone at Waring House, but Rando had shown up there, declaring a trip to the club and a music hall was as traditional as flowers in the church. As the night progressed, every gentleman of his acquaintance, and many he’d never met at all, had come by their table to wish him well and make ribald jokes about his upcoming wedding night.

  “That’s the only good news. The rest is no cause for celebration.”

  “I’ve caught a glimpse of your Miss Carson, and she’s quite a lovely girl. No doubt you’ll find the whole physical aspect of marriage quite agreeable.”

  Oh, taking Victoria to bed would be agreeable. In the extreme. But there was that problem of her motivations. He was in deep enough with her already, more than he’d ever intended. And she was happily shackling herself to a stranger for life for the sake of a title. There was more to Victoria Carson, underneath that beautiful face and behind the perfect manners, and until he knew it all, he couldn’t trust her.

  Growing up, he’d seen firsthand the misery a badly arranged match could bestow on everyone involved. It was why he’d always sworn he wouldn’t marry, and the Waring title would die with him. No more future generations would be subjected to this life. That choice had been taken away from him, but it didn’t mean he had to stumble blindly into this alliance. If he proceeded with caution, he could still protect himself, should his new wife turn out as bad as his mother.

  “Well, now!” Two gentlemen in full evening dress swaggered up to their table. Lord Deveril, the one speaking, was a nodding acquaintance. They’d been at Cambridge together, although Andrew’s academic bent meant he didn’t often cross paths with libertines like Dev. He was with Julian St. John, also a slight acquaintance from Cambridge, although Andrew remembered St. John as being much smarter than Dev and therefore far less irritating.

  “Enjoying your last night of bachelor freedom, Andrew?” Dev asked.

  “I don’t intend to lose my freedom, regardless of what transpires tomorrow,” he replied.

  Dev chuckled and slapped St. John’s arm. “Don’t they all say that before they say ‘I do’?”

  “Regardless,” Andrew replied through clenched teeth. “I have my work in Italy, which will keep me away a great deal.”

  “And away from the bosom of your loving new in-laws?” Deveril smirked.

  “They’ll have my title. That’s as far as the transaction will extend.”

  “Indeed. You wouldn’t want your father-in-law neglecting all his shipping ventures, I dare say. No sense in letting those fat family coffers dry up or what’s the point?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Isn’t that what he does? Shipping or some such?”

  “No,” St. John interjected with a weary sigh. “It wasn’t shipping, Dev. It was railways.”

  “Manufacturing,” Andrew snapped.

  Both men looked at him.

  “Are you sure?” St. John asked.

  “I am about to marry the man’s daughter. I’m fairly sure on this point. He’s made his fortune in several manufacturing concerns here and in America.”

  “Hmm.” Dev sniffed.

  “Odd.” St. John rubbed a knuckle along his chin.

  “Why should that be odd?”

  “Well, it’s not as if I’m an intimate of the man,” St. John said. “I see him around the club now and then. It’s hard not to know what he’s up to, as he’s always going on about one business venture or another.”

  “That’s what makes him such a bloody bore.” Dev snorted. St. John shot him a quelling look.

  “As I was saying, the railway was all he could talk about last time we sat down at a card table together. Said it was where he was putting all his money these days.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “Of course!” Dev interjected. “That must have been how you met the lovely Miss Carson.”

  Now Andrew was well and truly baffled. “What—”

  “Well, because your father was there, too. The two of them were thick as thieves. Great friends and all,” Dev rambled on.

  Andrew had been raising his glass to his lips, but his hand froze halfway there. “My father? But they’re not friends.”

  Dev shrugged and examined his fingernails. “Seemed as if they were. Carson was being free with investment advice, and your father was all ears. Don’t you remember, St. John? Carson was going on and on about the girl, too. Telling your father all about the lovely Miss Carson and her desire to marry well. Seems she’s succeeding in spades, eh?”

  “Investment advice? In a railway?”

  “Your father didn’t seem so keen on the idea of the girl and you, but she must’ve set her cap for you in the end, right?” Dev chuckled. “Because here you are.”

  The ground underneath Andrew began to feel unsteady. Had she set her cap for him? He didn’t know. Honestly, he didn’t know anything about Victoria at all.

  “Is everything all right, Dunnley?” St. John asked, looking at him closely. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m not sure.” Something here wasn’t adding up.

  “Listen, chap,” Dev interjected. “I’ve got a lady waiting at the music hall. Wanted to wish you best of luck and all that.”

  Dev and St. John finally departed, leaving Andrew staring into the fire across the room.

  “Andrew?” Randolph sensed his friend’s sudden lapse in attention.

  He pushed himself roughly to his feet. “I have to go.”

  “What, now? But the night’s just starting!”

  “There’s something I must see to.”

  “Well, let me go. I’m your best man. Let me deal with this bit of business and you go enjoy the evening.”

  He looked down at Randolph and finally forced a smile. “There’s nothing for me to celebrate about this night, although I do thank you for your attempts.”

  “All right. So I’ll see you at the church in the morning?”

  His jaw tightened and his eyes blazed. “Indeed you will. God help me.”

  * * *

  As he made his way back to Waring House, his head buzzed with too many questions and no answers. His father was a friend of Phillip Carson? He’d seen them together. There was nothing more than barely concealed hostility. It was completely at odds with what Dev had described. It was only Dev. He was probably drunk or confused or both. No doubt he’d remembered the events incorrectly.

  Except there was the detail about the railway. And St. John remembered it, too. Dev was an idiot, but St. John’s word was a different thing altogether.

  The house was quiet when he arrived. His father was likely at his club, and it was best not to question where his mother was at this hour. A dour butler was on duty and looking none too pleased about it. Andrew dismissed him with a wave and headed straight for the library. His father’s desk was a massive, lovely carved oak thing that looked barely touched. The leather blotter showed nary a scratch. It was little wonder that when he began going through his father’s most recent business correspondence, most of it was unopened.

  Most of the letters were demands for payments from a staggering
number of tradesmen. He set them aside. At least that would soon be dealt with. Near the bottom of the stack, he finally found something having to do with the failed railway investment. It was only a letter informing him of some company expenses to be paid for with investor funds and other common bits of business. He read over the return address. Greater Canadian Century Rail Company. The address was 6 Thrale Street in Southwark, which seemed an odd, inauspicious street for an international transportation venture.

  Restlessness drove him to his feet and out the door. Something about this whole thing felt off. It was nearly midnight and he’d find no answers now, but he needed to do something.

  As his cab rolled across Westminster Bridge, he began to think he was losing his mind. His dread of what the morning held was sending him chasing after shadows. But by the time he’d made up his mind to call the whole thing off, they were barreling down Southwark Street so he decided to press on.

  Thrale Street turned out to be little more than an alley. His curiosity raged anew. The neighborhood was likely a bustling business center during the day, but at this hour, the streets were nearly deserted and those still lingering looked decidedly unfriendly. Passing a healthy handful of coins up to the cab driver, he asked him to wait and left to investigate.

  The odd door opened onto Thrale Street but nothing resembling a proper entrance to a reputable place of business. These were more like rear service entrances. He stopped in front of a shabby green wood door. Painted on the bricks beside it in an uneven hand was the number 6. This was 6 Thrale Street, Southwark. This low, ratty service door professed to house the Greater Canadian Century Rail Company.

  He glanced up at the building. The wall was all of a piece, fashioned from the same brown bricks and rising several stories. The windows all shared the same white-painted woodwork. The building seemed to be all to one purpose rather than divided. Such a large place of business would never have such a mean little door as its principal entrance. Where was the building’s proper front?

  Tracing his steps back up the alley, he found himself at a crossroads. Thrale ended where it was crossed by Southwark Street obliquely, making something of a point rather than a corner. He rounded the point, following the wedge shape of the Thrale Street building along the much busier Southwark Street. A few steps farther led him to a large, white marble entryway flanked by tall columns—the true entrance to the building. He looked up at the brass letters over the door.