The Reluctant Duchess

by Jane Goodger

  “How can you make such a demand of me?"

  “Yes, I married you, but I did so only to save my father from prison. Did you think I would go willingly to bed with you, a person who tore me from my family, who used such evil means to coerce me into this devil’s bargain?”

  The silence that ensued was so long, Rebecca thought perhaps she’d frightened him away. Or made him so angry he couldn’t speak. Her eyes strained for a shadow, her ears for the sound of him pacing or breathing.

  “It seems,” he said, his voice so low Rebecca had to tilt her head to hear him, “that Mr. Winters used extreme measures to get you to agree to this union. I was not aware, I can assure you. I ask only that…” Rebecca thought she heard him utter a low curse. “Yes, I can understand how this happened. I imagined a girl like you would jump at the chance to become a duchess.”

  “I was never given a choice, Your Grace, though I am certain I would have declined had Mr. Winters come to me with such a proposal. Do you not realize how awful it is to be married to a man one has never seen? Who hides in the darkness even on his wedding night? Whatever it is that is wrong with you, it is better to know than to allow my imagination to run amok.”

  More Historical Romance from Jane Goodger

  Marry Christmas

  A Christmas Scandal

  A Christmas Waltz

  When a Duke Says I Do

  The Mad Lord’s Daughter

  When a Lord Needs a Lady

  The Spinster Bride

  Behind a Lady’s Smile

  How to Please a Lady

  Lady Lost

  The Bad Luck Bride

  The Earl Most Likely

  Diamond in the Rough

  Table of Contents

  Cover Copy

  More Historical Romance from Jane Goodger

  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

  Epilogue

  Don’t miss any of the Brides of St. Ives!

  About the Author

  The Reluctant Duchess

  Jane Goodger

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Jane Goodger

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  Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: July 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0944-9 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0944-9 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: July 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0945-6

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0945-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Prologue

  Oliver Sterling, eleventh duke of Kendal, trailed his index finger along the fine curve of the young woman’s jaw, eyes intent on his progress. She was the loveliest creature he had ever seen. And the most vibrant and colorful.

  Everything he was not.

  “Who is she?” he asked, straightening from the painting and turning to look at his guardian.

  Philip Winters, the man who had raised him, hesitated a brief moment before giving a dismissive shrug. “I have no idea, Your Grace.” A tight smile. “But I can find out. Shall I have her delivered?”

  Oliver swallowed down his disgust at the offer, even as his body reacted to the idea of lying with a woman as lovely as the one in the painting. He’d been spending long minutes over the last two days studying her, though he could not say why. His library was filled with beautiful objects, portraits of beautiful women. This one, though, he could not stop thinking about.

  She wore a red velvet gown with white lace peeking from the sleeves and neckline. Demure and yet strangely erotic. Perhaps it was that bare toe peeking from the hem of her gown. As she gazed out at an impossibly blue-green sea, she smiled slightly, as if she was thinking of a secret. Or a lover. Oliver wondered if the artist had taken any license, for it was unlikely such perfection existed. Her hair, a deep auburn, cascaded down her back, alive with movement. But it was her profile, that sharp, perfect jawline, the delicate curve of her lips that drew his eyes, even in the dim light of his library.

  Winters would often travel to London and return with such paintings so Oliver would get to see the parts of England he could never view on his own. This one was titled “St. Ives Girl” and had been painted along the southern shore, far from Oliver’s home in Horncliffe. His poor eyesight was only one of the reasons he could not travel. The larger reason, of course, was his freakish appearance. He couldn’t stomach the stares, the women who pulled their children away in fear, the men who quickly crossed themselves at the sight of him. His own servants looked away when he entered a room.

  As isolated as he was, he was still aware of the rumors. Even in this modern year of 1879, the villagers looked at him with suspicion and fear. The Ghost Duke, they called him. They knew, of course, because servants were wont to talk, that his mother had taken one look at him and demanded he be removed from the house. When his father refused, she’d left. Five years later, they heard she was dead. A year after that, his father died at the breakfast table, a memory Oliver wished he could erase from his mind.

  It was his father who suggested Winters care for him—no one else would and Winters had little option, given his ambiguous position in the household. He was an obscure relative with no family and had been living in a limbo between servant and family member since he’d come to Horncliffe Manor thirty-five years earlier, before Oliver had even been born. Oliver had come to rely on him for nearly everything.

  “Have you ever been there, to St. Ives?” Oliver asked.

  “I have not, Your Grace.”

  I should like to go. He nearly said it aloud, but stopped himself short, knowing Winters would purse his lips in sympathy.

  Turning back to the painting, Oliver bent low so he could better see the details. By God, there was something about her that pulled at him. He was twenty-eight, and though he was not a virgin thanks to Winters’ infrequent gifts of willing women, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a woman such as the one in the painting to give him comfort at night. To ease the madness of his loneliness.

  Straightening once more, he glanced back at Winters, who stood as he so often did, silent, still. “Find her.”
<
br />   Winters’ lips twitched slightly upward. “Yes, Your Grace. It may take some persuading if she’s not the accommodating sort, but I am certain I will succeed.”

  “I don’t believe you understand me, Winters. I want her as my bride. Marry her by proxy. Do whatever you must. But bring her here before the first snow falls.”

  Chapter 1

  Rebecca couldn’t remember the last time her father had summoned her to his study. Firstly, the man was rarely in his study, leaving the running of the household to her and her mother. Secondly, he was not often in St. Ives, preferring to spend his time in London, which, he said, held far more entertainments.

  Everyone in the Caine household knew that “entertainments” was simply another word for gambling.

  Her father had returned home just last night to much fanfare. Despite the fact his habits had the family teetering on the brink of ruin much of the time, each of her three sisters adored their father. Even Rebecca’s weary mother seemed happier when her husband was home. After all, Thomas Caine was not a man who chased skirts, he was simply a man who loved to wager. Like her sisters, Rebecca adored her father, choosing to ignore the tightening in her stomach whenever he’d announce it was time to return to the city. Yet despite his seeming happiness at seeing his four daughters, Rebecca thought she detected something slightly off in his manner when he’d returned this time. He’d acted too happy, as if he were hiding something, and that never boded well for the Caines and their unstable bank account.

  Still, the Caines had been in this situation before and always managed to come out of it. In the past year, Rebecca had begun selling bits of her crocheted items in a local shop and even (and rather scandalously, according to her friend Eliza), posed for artists who often came to St. Ives to paint. The money she earned was enough to pay for the household daily expenses, at least for a time. Rebecca wasn’t unduly worried about her father’s summons until she stepped into his study and realized he’d been joined by a stranger. Rebecca dipped a quick curtsy, noting the man’s impeccable dress, and shot a questioning look at her father. The stranger’s dark gray suit was tailored to perfection, and though he was not a tall man, he seemed to exude power, the sort that was not always welcome in a household that often lived on the brink of ruin.

  “Mr. Winters, this is my daughter, Rebecca,” her father said, his voice sounding oddly strained.

  Looking quickly from the stranger to her father, Rebecca felt her stomach drop even further when her father would not meet her eyes. This study had always been a haven, a place where she would spend hours when she was a girl, hovering about her father, playing with the dolls he would bring from London. In the afternoons, the sun would shine through the tall windows and dust would sparkle in the air, making it easy to imagine fairies lived hidden in the room. Now, though, on this gray, misty day, the room seemed muted, almost ominous, and Rebecca suppressed a shiver.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Caine,” Mr. Winter said with fluid grace. The man stared at her, his eyes sweeping her form in a manner that was just shy of insulting. His eyes, a dark brown, held little emotion, however, and little interest despite that assessing look. He was pale, his brown hair parted on the side and ruthlessly combed over and across his forehead. His was the sort of face that looked slightly pudgy even though he was quite thin, a deceivingly calm and friendly countenance that held menace behind his bland smile. Why Rebecca thought so, she could not have said.

  “Papa?” He sat behind his desk, one that Rebecca noted was littered with papers, seemingly stacked haphazardly. Rebecca always kept the desk meticulously organized, and she swallowed down a small bit of irritation that her father had created such chaos in the short few hours of his being home.

  “Oh, dear, I’m not certain I know how to say this.” He took a deep and shaking breath. “I owe Mr. Winters a great deal of money, Rebecca. More than I could ever repay in this lifetime. That is, not without selling everything we own, the house and lands included. Your mother and sisters…” His voice trailed off and Rebecca could feel the other man’s eyes on her, though she refused to look in his direction.

  “I have come to your father with a proposal,” Mr. Winters said smoothly.

  Rebecca tensed. “No.” It was an instinctive response.

  Mr. Winters let out a low chuckle. “No? Is the answer no, Mr. Caine?” His tone was so mocking, Rebecca felt her anger grow.

  “Rebecca, as the eldest child, you have a certain responsibility to your sisters—”

  “What of your responsibility to all of us?” she cried, not caring that he flinched.

  “Now, now,” Mr. Winters said, stepping forward. “Let us not fall into hysterics. My proposal is this. Marry the Duke of Kendal and the debt will be forgiven.”

  If Mr. Winters had proposed that she marry the man on the moon, she would have not been as surprised, and she bit back a bit of laughter. “The Duke of…”

  “…Kendal,” Winters supplied. “Of Horncliffe. It’s a bit north of here.”

  “It’s very nearly in Scotland,” Rebecca returned, and she could tell he was surprised that she knew even that much. “I’ve not heard of this duke.” Her friends and she often pored over the London gossip column The Tattler and she could not recall ever seeing a mention of the Duke of Kendal. And how ridiculous for a squire’s daughter to marry a duke. Rebecca felt as if she were experiencing a strange yet horrifyingly realistic dream.

  “The Kendal title is one of the oldest and most respected in all of England,” Winters said, his tone holding just a hint of derision. For the first time, Rebecca recognized distaste on the man’s face; he did not approve of this transaction any more than she did.

  “How did His Grace choose me? I’m no one. My father is but a squire and I’m quite certain I have not had the occasion to meet him or even be in the same room.” She pressed her fingers against her temples in an effort to gain control of her emotions. “I do not understand any of this.”

  “His Grace saw a painting of you,” Winters said.

  Rebecca’s cheeks immediately heated, even though she knew all of the portraits done of her were tasteful; her father had no idea she’d sat for more than one visiting artist.

  “Painting? What’s this?”

  “To earn pin money, Papa. Mama approved.”

  “His Grace was quite taken with you,” Winters said. His words were innocuous enough, but something in his tone told Rebecca he found the idea of her posing for an artist objectionable.

  “My answer is still no,” she said, but her voice trembled. “How can I possibly accept a marriage proposal from a man I have never met, who has never met me. And perhaps it has escaped your notice, but I am far from the rank that any duke would consider even as a paid companion.”

  “It has not escaped me in the least,” Winters said, his tone and expression frigid.

  “Rebecca,” her father said sadly. “You must. And you will be a duchess. Imagine what that will do for our family, for your sisters. If you do not…”

  “If I do not, everything will be gone,” she said, finishing her father’s sentence when it became obvious he could not. “We shall be impoverished. You will end up in debtors’ prison.”

  The tears welling up in her father’s eyes did what his words could not. How could a girl who adored her father ignore the real pain she saw? But how could she agree to marry a man she had never met, knew nothing about? He could be old or cruel or mad or any number of horrid things. What defect must he have if this was the only way he could obtain a bride? He was a duke, after all. Even an old and decrepit duke could manage to marry aristocracy. Any girl in the kingdom would jump at the chance to be a duchess. Except her.

  She turned to Mr. Winters. “Is he mad?”

  “No.”

  “Old?”

  “He is twenty and eight.”

  “Cruel?”

  “He is al
l that is kind,” Winters said, his tone mocking.

  Rebecca furrowed her brow, confused by his answers until it occurred to her that the duke might be an invalid or deformed in some way. It didn’t help that she’d just finished reading about poor Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. “Is he deformed?”

  “No,” Winters said with only the slightest hesitation, but his eyes remained direct and Rebecca could detect no prevarication.

  “I don’t understand why the duke is not here himself. Does he not think meeting his bride is important?”

  Winters pressed his thin lips together, a hint of annoyance in his dark eyes. “It matters not why he cannot attend the ceremony, only that he wishes for it to occur. It is my duty to make certain his wishes are fulfilled.”

  “He will not attend his own wedding ceremony?” Rebecca asked, her trepidation only growing.

  “You will marry by proxy.” He gave a mocking bow. “I am His Grace’s proxy.”

  Suppressing a shiver, she looked to her father and said, “If I do this thing, you must promise never to gamble again, Papa. Ever. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” he said with no hesitation.

  Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t believe you. What next, Papa? Shall Carol be married off to someone else to settle your debts? You must promise me. Think what you have wrought. Think what you have done to me.”

  Her father buried his head in his hands and wept, saying over and over, “I promise,” and Rebecca swallowed down the tears that threatened. It was Mr. Winters who stopped her tears. His cold, emotionless gaze held only one thing: satisfaction.

  “It’s utterly the most romantic thing I have ever heard!”

  Rebecca looked at her friend Eliza with complete disbelief. “Romantic? I think it’s bloody odd,” she said, swearing only because she knew it annoyed her friend. She and Eliza were the only two of their small group of friends to remain unmarried. Her “wedding” was the next day and her mind was still whirling with what had happened just that morning. The two women were lying crosswise on Eliza’s massive four-poster bed, nearly drowning in the thick comforter that covered it. Eliza blew a dark brown curl from her head and rested her chin on one hand, her blue eyes dancing with excitement. Rebecca supposed from Eliza’s perspective, it was all exciting. Imagine a duke seeing her portrait and becoming so entranced, he would demand her hand in marriage. It was the stuff of fairy tales, not real life. And though Rebecca adored fairy tales in theory, being part of one was not nearly as enjoyable as reading one.