A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection

by Jillian Eaton

  If not for the stone walls and thousands of acres of rolling fields and thick woods, she might as well have still been at home. She was married, but not married. A duchess, but not a duchess. It was a very peculiar position to be in, but one she’d adjusted to quite well over the past eleven months, three days, and – her gaze flicked to the mahogany table clock in the corner of the room – nine hours and twenty minutes. She did miss her parents on occasion, but they visited when they could and she and her mother exchanged monthly letters. One thing she did not miss?

  Her husband.

  It had been an enormous relief when the duke had informed her, in no uncertain terms, that they would lead completely separate lives once their vows were read.

  “I am going to remain in London,” he’d said, those brandy colored eyes of his daring her to challenge him. “And you will reside at Hawkridge Castle in Surrey.”

  “Do you mean we’re going to live apart?” she’d asked.

  “Yes. That is precisely what I mean.”

  “Oh.” As relief had swept through her like a wave crashing up against the shore, Eleanor had hugged her arms to her chest and fought the urge to grin ear to ear. “That sounds splendid.”

  And live apart they had, for eleven months, three days, and…twenty-one minutes.

  “You’re really not going to try and guess?” Georgiana said with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but only because I cannot keep it to myself for a second longer.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her black skirt, hazel eyes demurely lowering to her lap before they suddenly lifted and pierced Eleanor with a smirking stare that filled her with immediate dread. “I’ve just received word from London…”

  What remained of Eleanor’s scone slid greasily down her throat as her entire spine stiffened. Don’t say it, she thought silently. Don’t you dare say–

  “Derek is coming home!”

  Chapter Six

  “Don’t leave.” Her plump lips pursed in a persuasive pout, Vanessa stroked her hand down Derek’s gleaming back – they’d just finished a very rigorous bout of lovemaking that had left them both perspiring and slightly breathless – before rolling onto her back, pink nipples pointing proudly up at the ceiling.

  She could have easily reached for the sheet that was twisted around her hips and covered herself, but Vanessa was not a woman predisposed to modesty. It was one of the things Derek liked best about her. And one of the things he was going to miss the most when he traveled to Hawkridge Castle to tame his feral bride.

  Standing, he splashed lukewarm water on his face before pulling on a pair of dove gray trousers and a white linen shirt. Buttoning his shirt he turned to face his mistress, his gaze leisurely traveling down her voluptuous figure before returning, with great reluctance, to her narrowed eyes. He knew she was displeased with him. Just like he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Did she think he wanted to go chasing after Eleanor? Bloody hell, he’d rather gouge his eyes out with a dull spoon than tangle with that shrew again.

  But his cousin had left him no choice.

  Somehow, Lord Norton Bertram, the Earl of Glengarry, next in line to inherit the dukedom, and general pain in Derek’s arse, had discovered the terms of their late grandfather’s will. Mostly importantly the clause where Derek would be forced to forfeit the dukedom if he was not legally married before his twenty-ninth birthday.

  In England, an unconsummated marriage could be grounds for annulment. It was no longer as common a practice as it once had been, but neither was it completely unheard of. Which meant Norton’s daring threat to take him to court and seize the title for his own wasn’t completely without merit.

  The sniveling little wanker had actually had the audacity to stand in the middle of his study and demand proof that Derek had bedded his wife. As if it were the dark ages and the blood-stained sheet was being kept in a closet somewhere.

  It had taken considerable self-restraint not to forcibly remove the smug look from Norton’s face with his fist, but somehow he’d managed to show his cousin out without resorting to physical violence. Then he had immediately gone to his solicitor’s office, who had told him, after a bit of hemming and hawing, that Norton might have a legitimate claim to the dukedom if their grandfather’s will was brought into question in the court of appeals. After all, it was common knowledge that Derek and his duchess had been living completely apart for the better part of a year.

  “There’s no guarantee either way, of course,” Mr. Banks had said anxiously. “But it would tie up the estate for months if not years, something which I believe you were hoping to avoid by marrying Lady Eleanor.”

  His solicitor was right. The predicament he now found himself in was precisely what he’d been trying to avoid when he’d married Eleanor. There was a part of him that knew he couldn’t ignore her forever, of course. At some point he would need to produce a legitimate heir, if only to keep Norton’s grasping hands off of his bloody title should he expire unexpectedly.

  It wasn’t so much the title itself that he cared about, or even the wealth. It was the knowledge that Norton and his wastrel ways would destroy everything their ancestors had so painstakingly built and preserved. The man was a charlatan and a gambler who had burned through his considerable inheritance in less than two years and was desperately looking for another way to refill his coffers. Well, Derek would be damned before he gave him the means to do so. Even if it meant returning to Hawkridge and wooing the last woman in all of England he wanted to look at, least of all bed.

  His wife.

  “I won’t be gone for very long. Two fortnights at the most,” he told Vanessa, reaching for a silky blonde curl. She batted his hand away.

  “You’re going to her,” she spat, and Derek was surprised to see a stirring of jealousy in the depths of her frigid blue eyes. Vanessa may have been a passionate creature in bed, but out of it he’d never met another woman more detached or unfeeling which was what made her such an excellent mistress. He never had to worry about her doing something ridiculous, like falling in love with him. And while he knew she hadn’t been pleased when he’d married Eleanor, she’d never said anything.

  “Not because I want to.” The overstuffed mattress creaked as he sat down beside her and traced his finger down one creamy thigh. This time she allowed him to touch her, but if she were a cat her tail would have been swishing back and forth in silent warning. “You knew I would have to do this at some point or another. It does not change anything between us.”

  “Doesn’t it?” she asked, tilting her head.

  “No. When I return we can pick up right…where…we…left…off.” He punctuated each word with a kiss, working his way up her thigh to her breasts. Drawing a nipple between his lips he expertly swirled his tongue around the hard little bud, but when he felt her stiff and unyielding beneath him he sat back with a sigh. “You’re making more of this than there has to be. It’s not as if I am bringing the chit back to town with me.”

  “But you could,” Vanessa pointed out, one pale brow arching. “If you so desired. She is your wife, after all.”

  “And you’re my mistress.” He raked a hand through his hair and stood up to prowl along the foot of the bed as he felt his patience beginning to wear thin. Their conversation was teetering dangerously close to a place neither one of them wished it to go. What did Vanessa want from him? To ignore his wife completely and let Norton steal the dukedom out from under his bloody nose?

  He was going to Hawkridge for one reason and one reason only: to consummate his damn marriage. And once it was done, he would return to London and resume his life as if he’d never left.

  “Let us also not forget you’re married as well,” he said, levelling a bland stare at Vanessa that bordered on annoyance. Arguing with his mistress was the last thing he wanted to do before travelling thirty miles to argue with his wife.

  “That’s different. My husband is a shriveled old man whose cock hasn’t moved in eight years.” The corners of her mouth
tightened. “Your wife is young and beautiful.”

  Derek thought of Eleanor’s shocking red hair and freckled cheeks and bit back a snort. “She’s many things. Rude. Impertinent. Clumsy. But beautiful isn’t one of them. You’ve nothing to be jealous of, Vanessa.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it even before her eyes flashed and her lips twisted in an elegant sneer.

  “Of course I have nothing to be jealous of,” she said coolly. “Eleanor is a country bumpkin who isn’t fit to groom my horse, let alone be a duchess. You were a fool to ever marry her when there were a hundred other girls who would have been more suitable.”

  For the first time since their affair had begun nearly seven months ago, Derek felt a stirring of anger towards Vanessa. He didn’t know where it stemmed from or what had caused it, only that he didn’t care for his mistress making degrading comments about his wife. God knew that Eleanor had been an unusual choice, and Vanessa wasn’t the only one who thought so. But his freckle-faced bride was his choice, for better or worse, and he wouldn’t apologize for it or make excuses.

  “Careful,” he warned. “You are coming perilously close to overstepping your bounds”

  “My bounds?” With a careless, tittering laugh Vanessa sat up and drew one long, silky leg to her chest. “I don’t have bounds, Derek. And if you leave, you will no longer have a mistress.”

  “Are you giving me an ultimatum?” he said incredulously.

  “Call it whatever you wish.”

  His jaw tightened. He’d truly thought he and Vanessa would have more time…but if there was one rule he followed without fail, it was to always end an affair before it became personal.

  Unlike other men, Derek did not have affairs because he was lonely or wanted companionship. When he took a mistress, it was because he was after one thing: unadulterated pleasure. And when that mistress could no longer give him what he desired, he settled a large sum on her and went on his way without remorse or regret.

  “My solicitor will see that you are taken care of,” he said curtly before he picked up his waistcoat and left the room without so much as a backwards glance.

  It was a cold, emotionless end to a scandalously hot affair that had lasted for more than seven months. But if there was one lesson he’d learned from his parents and their untimely demise, it was that it was always better to be the one leaving than the one who was left.

  Mistresses were easily replaced, especially when there were no attachments formed. And he always took great pains to make sure there never were. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. It was simply that he didn’t believe in love for himself. He never had, and despite his countless affairs – or mayhap because of them – he doubted if he ever would.

  Love was for poets and dreamers, not for cynical dukes.

  And certainly not for a cynical duke with a wife who kept a hedgehog in her pocket.

  Chapter Seven

  Rain fell relentlessly from a gray and cloudy sky. It was the third spring shower in as many days, which was why Eleanor knew – or at least hoped – it would soon clear. Having gone out early in the morning to care for her animals, she was now stuck inside the carriage shed until the rain lifted.

  The sweet smell of hay permeated the air, while the soft ruffle of feathers and gentle squeaks and snorts (just yesterday she’d rescued two run piglets from a sow who wanted nothing to do with them) created a lilting symphony of contended sounds. If not for her grumbling stomach – and the veritable feast of eggs and bread and sausage that awaited her inside – she would have been perfectly happy to remain in the carriage shed for half the day, if not longer. Especially since any hour (any minute, really) a formidable black coach was going to come trotting up the drive and a man she very much did not want to see was going to emerge.

  Her stomach as she imagined seeing her husband again. Husband. How strange it felt to even think that word! Oh, why did the duke have to come to Hawkridge? She knew it wasn’t to see her. He’d made it very clear when he had banished her to the country that he had absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. What was it he had growled at her as he’d all but shoved her into the carriage after the church ceremony was over? Ah yes, now she remembered.

  “I hope you enjoy Surrey. You’re going to be there for a very long time.”

  Such a romantic, her husband. Sitting cross-legged in a pile of straw, Eleanor reached behind her to draw the piglet she’d dubbed Sir Galahad into her lap. He wiggled when she scratched behind one floppy ear, his tiny wet nostrils quivering with delight, before promptly sprawling his pink body across her leg and falling asleep. Eleanor sighed. Sir Galahad had more manners and decorum in one little pork chop than the Duke of Hawkridge had in his entire body. She liked to think time had improved her husband’s demeanor, but she sincerely doubted it. In her experience men were who they were, and pampered, titled men were the worst of the lot. If only Henny hadn’t stolen her hair pin…but there was no use crying over spilt milk.

  “Look Sir Galahad,” she murmured, glancing up at the window. “The rain has slowed.” Carefully moving the sleeping piglet off her lap, she tip-toed through the straw and slipped out of the carriage shed before any of her pets were the wiser.

  She’d already set the bar in place over the door when she realized she’d forgotten her gloves and hat inside. Gnawing on her bottom lip she considered dashing back in to retrieve them, but that would only cause a ruckus and besides, it was hardly raining at all. No more than a mist, really.

  A mist that abruptly turned into a downpour when she was less than halfway to the manor.

  With a loud shriek Eleanor pulled up her dress, kicked off her flimsy shoes, and raced barefoot across the lawn. She was in such a hurry to get inside that she failed to notice the stately coach pulled by a matching team of bays sitting at the end of the drive. But when she skidded haphazardly into the foyer there was no avoiding the hard chest that greeted her, nor the man the hard chest belonged to.

  Her yelp of surprise was swallowed up by a black greatcoat that smelled faintly of cigar smoke. Strong hands closed around her wrists, trapping them in a manacle like grip. Eleanor found herself tilting her head back and looking up, up, up into a strikingly handsome countenance with bold lips pulled back in a frown, freshly shaven jaw clenched tight, and brandy colored eyes flashing with annoyance. She blinked, and water spilled from her lashes to run down her cheeks in delicate rivulets as a tentative smile curved her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said contritely, wanting to at least try to get off on the right foot this time. Who knew, maybe her husband really had changed, in which case it was only fair to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I was in a rush and didn’t see you standing there.”

  “Clearly,” Derek drawled, his insufferable tone and cold sneer instantly confirming all of her worst fears. The duke wasn’t any kinder or less arrogant than he’d been a year ago. If anything, he was worse! Her smile dimming, she tried to pull her hands free, but his grip – while painless – was unrelenting.

  “Let me get a good look at you,” he said, and her eyes narrowed to thin slits of enraged emerald when he began a slow, thorough examination of her body as if she were a horse standing at market.

  “Are you quite finished?” she demanded when his gaze returned at last to her face.

  “Quite. I must say, when I sent word of my arrival I had hoped to be greeted by the Duchess of Hawkridge, not a drowned rat that vaguely resembles the woman I married.” Releasing her wrists, he took a step back and scowled down at her, dark brows forming a rigid line of disapproval above eyes that had deepened to a rich shade of brown. “Where is your hat? Your gloves? Your cloak? And what the devil were you doing outside to begin with? It’s bloody well pouring.”

  “Is it?” Eleanor said with a feigned gasp. “My goodness, I hadn’t noticed. That must be why I’m all wet.”

  “I see time hasn’t dulled your sarcastic wit.”

  “Nor has it cured you of your arrogance,�
�� she retorted.

  They stared hard at one another, neither one willing to be the first to look away. Trapped in a battle of silent wills, they might have stood there all day were it not for Georgiana’s sudden arrival.

  “Derek! You’re here at last!” The dark haired beauty swept across the foyer with enviable grace. Stepping between husband and wife, she subtly nudged Eleanor out of the way before draping her arms around her brother’s shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “How exhausted you must be after such a long and arduous journey.”

  “He only came from London,” Eleanor couldn’t help but point out. “It’s not as if he just sailed across the Atlantic.”

  “Maybe not, but it appears as though you have.” Georgiana’s nose wrinkled. “Why are you sopping wet? And what is that smell?”

  “I don’t smell anything,” Eleanor said defensively even as she lifted a damp strand of hair and took a quick sniff. Aside from the faint smell of hay – a scent she found quite pleasant – she detected nothing odorous. But apparently she was the only one.

  “My sister is correct,” said Derek, stepping away. “There is a certain…aroma…emanating from your general direction. Please bathe and make yourself presentable before dinner.”

  Effectively dismissed, Eleanor was only too happy to make her escape. Walking quickly out of the foyer, she made a quick detour to the library where Henny was dozing on a pillow in front of the fire and carried the yawning hedgehog up to her private bedchamber. Then, because a late morning nap seemed like an absolutely splendid idea, she stripped down to her linen corset and drawers, settled Henny beside her on the bed, and, lulled by the gentle smattering of rain against the windows, promptly drifted off to sleep.