The Reluctant Duchess

by Jane Goodger

  I cannot.

  Defeated, Oliver walked back to his room and, once there, disrobed and cleaned the sweat from his body. He ought to send his wife back home. How could he have sentenced a beauty such as she to live a life of solitude and isolation? But the thought of being alone again…

  He walked to the door and pressed his forehead against the cool wood. “Rebecca?”

  During the long silence that followed, he could hardly breathe.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Oliver.”

  He heard her sigh. “What do you want?”

  “To apologize. I’m not entirely sure what I did wrong. I wanted to make love to my wife and I planned accordingly. All day, you were all I could think of. Please, Rebecca. Forgive me. I’ve never been a husband before and apparently I’m doing a terrible job of it.”

  “As much as I hate to admit this, I was also in the wrong. I allowed my emotions and my animosity toward Mr. Winters to influence my judgement. But I would like to ask something of you.”

  “Ask.”

  “From now on, Oliver, talk to me. Please, do not involve anyone else in our marriage. If you want to be with me, tell me.” A small pause. “Did you think I would deny you?”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am so unused to thinking of someone else’s feelings, I acted rashly and selfishly. You call me Your Grace when you’re angry.”

  Rebecca laughed softly. “I was angry, yes.”

  “I do realize this is not what you expected in a marriage. I do know that much.”

  “It hasn’t been so terrible. I am tired this evening, but perhaps tomorrow you will join me?”

  He closed his eyes and smiled. “I should like that. Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  On the sixth morning, the sun shined brightly, and Rebecca, flinging open her window and feeling only the slightest chill, knew that it was warm enough to venture outside. Feeling her spirits buoyed, she dressed, foregoing the assistance of her maid. She chose her dress knowing her husband would be the one taking it off that evening, and a sharp thrill of anticipation filled her, surprising her. Over the past nights, she and her husband had become friends of sorts, and she did wish for them to get on. Love was something she hadn’t considered yet, but the new day gave her hope that her strange marriage could somehow be happy.

  As she was about to open the main door to walk outside, a man burst into the grand entry, clearly upset. From his dress, he was a working man, and from his expression, he was close to weeping.

  “Sir, what is wrong?”

  He looked up, startled. “Nothing, miss.”

  Rebecca smiled. “I am the new duchess here.”

  The man stopped as if he’d walked into a wall, then snatched the cap from his head, revealing a thick head of curly, salt-and-pepper hair. He gave an awkward bow. “Sorry, Yer Grace.” He stared at her a long moment. “You’re not jesting?”

  Laughing, she said, “I fear not. Now, what has you so upset, sir?”

  “You married His Grace?”

  Was the man daft? “Yes, mister…”

  “Bentley.” He seemed distracted, and looked behind him as if making certain no one was listening. “We’ve been tenants to Kendal for generations. My father raised sheep here and his father before him. We’ve never missed rent. Not once. But this year we lost more than half our herd. I could only pay half rent and Mr. Winters is evicting us. Just like that. I’m sorry, Yer Grace, but it isn’t right. It isn’t. What am I to tell my wife? Where are we to go?” The man’s eyes were suspiciously wet. To drive such a man almost to tears was unconscionable, and Rebecca would have none of it.

  “How many sheep were affected, sir?”

  “As I said, half the herd. Two hundred fifty.”

  That was a terrible blow, but if it was negligence that caused the sheep’s death, Rebecca knew there was little she could do. “And how did they die, sir?”

  “Bluetongue, it was. You know of it?”

  Bluetongue was as terrible disease and could wipe out an entire herd. “I do. And you could not have prevented the disease, nor stopped its progress. That you only lost half your herd is an indication that you effectively separated those infected from the healthy sheep.” Mr. Bentley looked at her with the oddest expression. Rebecca supposed not too many duchesses had ever heard of bluetongue, never mind understood its implications. But she had grown up in a small village where news of such catastrophes spread quickly; everyone knew the dire consequences of a herd infected with the disease.

  “You are not to worry, Mr. Bentley. You are not evicted from your farm and you will pay your back rent when you are able and not before.”

  “But Mr. Winters—”

  “Mr. Winters is overruled,” Rebecca said firmly. “I will make certain he is aware of my decision. And I’ll make certain His Grace is informed as well.”

  “You’re an angel, you are,” Mr. Bentley said, his eyes glittering once again. “Thank you, Yer Grace.”

  He bowed a few times as he made his way to the door, and the moment it closed, she heard Mr. Winters behind her. “You know nothing of estate matters. The Bentleys will be removed from their farm immediately. If you give their kind leniency, they will take advantage of your kindness.”

  Rebecca turned slowly around, swallowing when she saw how very angry Mr. Winters was but determined not to show how he unnerved her. “It is not kindness to understand that Mr. Bentley had absolutely no control over the loss of his sheep. Had it been the result of neglect or even ignorance, I would not have been as lenient. Would you throw a family from their home if they lost all in a flood or another act of God?”

  “Firstly,” he said, stepping toward her, “it is not their home, it is the duke’s. Secondly, yes, I would. If rent is not paid, the tenant loses the privilege of living in a home. We are not a charity. Your Grace.”

  Though her heart beat rapidly, from a mixture of anger and fear, Rebecca would not be dissuaded. “You are not in charge here, Mr. Winters. His Grace is.”

  Then he smiled and gave her a mocking bow. “In that case, Your Grace, my decision stands. His Grace gives me final say in all estate matters and will continue to do so. His mind is incapable of such complex thought.”

  Rebecca furrowed her brow. Nothing in her interactions with her husband had led her to believe Oliver was a simpleton. “My mind, sir, is completely capable of such complex thought and you will abide by my decision.”

  The man had the audacity to laugh at her. “I think not. Good day, Your Grace.”

  I think not? She would see about that. Surely, Oliver would agree with her. How could he possibly allow a family to be evicted for such an unavoidable infraction? He wouldn’t, at least not after she convinced him. And there was no better time than the present, when her ire was piqued and her resolve strong. With determined steps, she headed toward the tower.

  Oliver moved the candle farther away from where he worked so it would not glare so strongly in his eyes. His London townhouse was nearly complete. All he needed to do was hang the drapery and lay down the rug when they arrived from the village, where a seamstress had been commissioned to make them. Leaning forward, he examined each room, each bit of furniture, to make certain everything was as it should be. He frowned at one cane-backed chair, whose angles seemed a bit off. Reaching in, he picked it up to take a closer look, turning it in his hand to determine what it was that was off about the piece.

  It was just his imagination. He placed the chair back in its place and was reaching for the architectural journal, which held the drawing for his next project, when the door to the tower room opened. His door never opened, at least not without someone knocking and waiting for him to bid entry.

  So startled was he, he stood and backed up to the wall, the stool he’d been sitting on falling noisily to the planked floor. The door to the tower was
not visible from his work table, and he stood still, staring toward it, frozen. “Who is there?”

  “Rebecca.” And his wife walked in, all color and brightness, and a nightmare come to visit him. He pressed himself against the wall and looked away from her, insanely wondering if he should hide or try to run past her. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and the odd thought, that this must be how a rabbit felt right before a hawk swept down, came to him. What the hell was she doing here and why had no one stopped her? His entire body heated with humiliation, with the horror that she should see him before he was ready. It was too late, she was walking toward him silently, studying him, and he simply wanted to die.

  “Oliver?”

  God, she was so close. Close enough to see him even in the dim light of the candle. He wanted to scream out his anguish. He wasn’t ready yet. Not yet. He’d wanted her to have some sort of affection for him before… this. And then she was next to him, and he could see her from the corner of his eye while he stared, desperately, at the tiny house. Would that he could disappear inside it. His jaw was clenched so tightly, it ached. He could hardly breathe as she studied him like some oddity she’d never seen.

  “That’s all?” she whispered.

  He darted a quick look at her, then immediately looked away, not wanting to see what was in her eyes.

  “Oliver. Oliver, look at me,” she said softly, then reached up and cupped his cheek, exerting a small pressure to force him to look at her. Pity. Worse than fear. He could not look at her. God, why, why had she come up to the tower?

  “Oliver, please.”

  Feeling as if he was sentencing himself to a lifetime of desolation, he did look, defiant. Angry.

  “Your eyes,” she said, gazing at him as if he weren’t monstrous. “They’re beautiful.” She reached for the candle and held it up, forcing him to pull his head back and squint against the brightness. “I apologize; I forgot you are sensitive to the light.”

  “Please leave.”

  “Why ever for?” she asked, placing the candle back on the table. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am, not that I put too much stock in appearances. Still, I was a bit worried, I must confess, after everyone in this house acted as if I’d married the devil himself. I don’t understand the fuss, really. What is wrong with everyone in his house? I think they’re all mad.” Her voice was perfectly calm, as if she were completely unfazed by his appearance. It made no sense.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s only that you are an albino. I confess, my imagination came up with something much more frightful.”

  His brows drew together. “A what?”

  She tilted her head at him, studying him, her lovely face—and it was as lovely as he’d imagined—holding only curiosity, not horror, not repulsion. “Don’t you know? Has no one ever explained to you your condition?”

  “My condition?” he repeated stupidly.

  “You have albinism. A fisherman in Penzance had the same condition. He would come to St. Ives on market day…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Others?”

  “It’s not terribly common, no. But certainly nothing to fear. I suppose some people are not kind. That is usually the case when one is different. When I was a girl, I was made fun of terribly because of my hair. It was far brighter when I was young. I do realize it’s not the same, but still, it is as if everyone has gone quite mad.”

  Oliver let out a deep, shuddering breath. He could hardly believe what she was saying. Her reaction, her words, were so far from what he had dreaded, it made no sense. “Others are like me?”

  She laughed, not unkindly. “Yes. It’s not so uncommon in nature. Our neighbor had an albino cow. Not that I am comparing you to a cow. I’m just pointing out that the condition is far more common than you were apparently led to believe.”

  All this time, all these years of feeling like a freak, a monster… He wasn’t certain whether he wanted to scream out in anguish or joy. “Then why…” Why, indeed. Why had everyone in his life feared him? Why did the servants not look at him? Why did the villagers run inside and make the sign of the cross when he passed? Why had his own mother left him?

  “You are wrong. You are simply being kind, though I cannot imagine what your motive could be.”

  She dropped her hand and he fought the urge to bring it back. “You think I am lying to spare your feelings?”

  “Yes,” he said harshly. Then, “No.” He clutched his thick hair in frustration.

  “I adore your hair,” she said, ignoring his confusion and putting her hand atop his head, grazing his hand as it clutched his hair. “It’s quite lovely. So white. And your brows, too. And lashes. Your lashes are spectacular. You’re rather remarkable, Oliver.”

  Rebecca stepped back to get a better look at her husband, who still stood pressed against the wall, though some of the tension had left his body. He looked at her with his beautiful lavender eyes; she had never seen another person with such eyes. Other than his eyes and his lips, he was white, as if dipped in powder. The result was striking and not at all unattractive. That everyone in this household treated him as if he were some oddity, some horrid creature that was not quite human, was unforgivable.

  “Why are you treated so badly in this house? Surely the servants’ superstition comes from someone.” She paused, trying to understand why, how it could have come to pass that Oliver was treated like some monster. And then she realized there could only be one person who could instill such fear into the servants. Only one. “Mr. Winters—”

  “No. Mr. Winters has done nothing but protect me since the day my father died.”

  Rebecca wanted to argue but thought better of it. She would get nowhere by criticizing a man Oliver clearly loved. She had her own opinion of the man and one day hoped to open her husband’s eyes to Winters’ true nature, but now was not the time. Still, she wished to throttle anyone who had made this man think so ill of himself that he locked himself away from prying eyes.

  “Very well. But someone has poisoned these people’s minds. And it’s terrible. There is nothing wrong with you, Oliver.”

  He looked down at his hand, so pale in the dim light, and frowned. “Why did you come up here?” he said, his tone detached.

  “Oh. I was quite vexed with you and I came up here to give you a piece of my mind.”

  “I made you angry? I haven’t even spoken to you since…”

  Rebecca felt her cheeks blush. “I was angry because Mr. Winters was attempting to evict one of your tenants and I strenuously disagreed. He refused to listen to me, saying that you leave all matters pertaining to the estate up to him. But—”

  “He is correct. I have little involvement in the estate’s operations. And from what I can tell, he’s done an excellent job.”

  “Do you know Mr. Bentley?”

  “Is he the tenant you are referring to?”

  Rebecca could feel her temper rising again and took a calming breath. “Yes, he is. He lost his herd to disease through no fault of his own and was only able to pay half his rent. That he could pay even that much is a testament to the man’s skill at raising sheep. His family has been on the same farm for three generations, Oliver. He has a wife and several children. Babies.” This last was manufactured, but it might be true. “It is unconscionable to evict them. Surely you are not that sort of man.”

  His face tightened. “I am not a man at all to them,” he said dismissively.

  “Only because you allow it.” She’d raised her voice, then inwardly chastised herself when he visibly flinched. How many times had her mother told her that shouting didn’t make people hear your words better; it did the opposite. “Oliver,” she said calmly, walking to him and placing a hand on either side of his face. “Evicting the family is wrong and only you can stop it.” She leaned toward him and kissed him, shamelessly using her wiles to get her way.


  “Are you trying to manipulate me with a kiss?” he asked sardonically. And Mr. Winters had implied he was simple.

  “Of course I am. Is it working, do you think?”

  He smiled, and it was a beautiful smile. Rebecca found herself fascinated by his lips, masculine and sculpted, but the loveliest shade of pink. She kissed him again, this time lingering, and only withdrawing when he brought his hands up and around her back. “Well?”

  He laughed. “I knew you would bring me joy.” The muscles in his jaw bunched, but Rebecca could tell he was not angry. “Mr. Winters does not like being thwarted.”

  “All the more reason to thwart him, then,” she said on a laugh, then grew serious. “You are the duke, Oliver, not he.”

  “I’ve never felt such. Are you enchanting me, Rebecca?”

  “I hope so.” She looked at him again, and knew he felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “Have you no mirror? You are very handsome, Your Grace. How could you think otherwise?”

  That compliment only produced another frown, and Rebecca kissed him again. “Do you still wish for me to visit your chamber this evening?” he asked, sounding hesitant, as if he feared she was repulsed by his appearance.

  Her heart ached for him, but she would never allow him to see how it hurt her to know what had been done to him. She could be fierce but she would try never to show the pity she felt in her heart. “Yes, Oliver. And tonight, I shall have a fire if you agree.”

  He hesitated just a breath before he gave her another smile. “I agree.”

  Rebecca dropped her arms and gave the room where her husband spent so much time a better look. Like all the other rooms, it was made dark by the heavy, velvet drapes that covered each window, allowing only the barest of light into the room. But in that dim light, she saw another miniature house sitting on the table, surrounded by bits and pieces of wood, small pots of paint, and brushes. She’d been so distracted, she hadn’t been aware of the strong smell of paint and turpentine.