Czytaj książkę: «His Three-Day Duchess»

Prologue
London—July, 1819

As she sat across the desk from her solicitor, it was beginning to feel as if Lizzy had been waiting all her life for Mr Simon Alexander. And as the newly widowed Duchess of Skeffington, she wasn’t accustomed to waiting for anything or anyone. Her husband had died months ago and she had yet to meet Mr Alexander, her husband’s heir or, as he would be referred to now, the Duke of Skeffington. His tardiness today at the reading of her late husband’s will was doing nothing to help the annoyance she already felt towards a man she had never met.

‘I’m sure he won’t be much longer,’ Mr Nesbit said, furrowing his grey brows and glancing at his pocket watch for what must have been the fifth time since she had arrived at his office at promptly one o’clock in the afternoon.

Lizzy toyed with her emerald necklace and didn’t even try to hide her irritation. ‘At least one of us is confident in that. You’re certain he knows where we were to meet?’

‘I was very specific in my letter. He knows.’

She glanced down the table to Rimsby, the impeccably dressed old man who had served as butler of Skeffington House here in London for as long as Lizzy had been married. This was a man who valued protocol and proper behaviour, and she imagined he was just as displeased with his new employer’s tardiness as she was. Mrs Thacker, who was seated next to Rimsby, had an odd blush about her at the mention of the new Duke—a blush that in the twelve years that the woman had been her housekeeper, she had never seen brighten her normally sombre countenance.

‘Do we still have to wait for him?’ She directed her question to Lord Liverpool, the executor of her husband’s estate, who at the moment was standing by the window looking out at the busy London street. ‘We know he finally is in London after all these months. Can’t we just begin and Mr Nesbit can give him a brief summary of what he missed when he arrives?’

He stepped away from the window and turned to face her. ‘Skeffington was very insistent that the will was to be read only when everyone who benefited was present and Mr Alexander, as the new Duke, must be present.’

Beside her Mr Mix, her late husband’s secretary, shifted in his chair. The leather gave a considerable creak, which was surprising in light of his small, wiry frame. The gentleman, who was about twenty years older than Lizzy’s twenty-nine years, continued to sit silently, offering no indication on how he felt about the tardy behaviour of the new Duke. But as he had worked with her husband for all those years, she assumed he was accustomed to keeping his opinions to himself. He sat staring at his clasped hands on the table and she wondered once again why he had been content to be berated by her husband for so long. Certainly, there were other members of the House of Lords who would have welcomed his services. He could have put the Duke’s company behind him long ago, unlike Lizzy who had been forced to endure it since she was seventeen.

‘Do you know if Mr Alexander will be retaining your services, Mr Mix?’ Lizzy asked him to pass the time.

‘I do not. Since he just arrived here in London a few nights ago, we’ve not yet had the opportunity to meet.’

Now that Mr Alexander was finally in London, Mr Mix had to believe that the status of his job was precarious.

‘I know how my husband relied on you. I’m sure the new Duke will, as well.’ She tried to be reassuring when she noticed his right leg bouncing nervously under the table.

‘That’s very kind of you, Your Grace,’ he replied, giving her what appeared to be a strained smile.

He wasn’t the only one who was feeling the need to move. Lizzy wanted desperately to get up and walk about the room, but Lord Liverpool was already taking up that action. They didn’t need to bump into one another as they waited for the tardy Duke to grace them with his presence. It appeared he had settled into his new station in life already and was going to be one of those gentlemen who strove to create a grand entrance by arriving late, reminding them all that he was a duke of England and they all would have to adjust to his schedule. She had witnessed behaviour like this before. Well, she was a duchess and had held her esteemed rank longer than he had!

She was just about to request a glass of sherry to still her agitation when one of Mr Nesbit’s clerks appeared in the doorway and announced the Duke of Skeffington. Lizzy’s stomach did an uncomfortable dip. It had been six months since she’d heard someone announce that name and she had to remind herself that her odious husband was dead. Now that his successor was in London, she would have to grow accustomed to hearing that name without that familiar feeling of dread.

Turning her head, she finally came face-to-face with her late husband’s heir. The handsome gentleman standing tall in the doorway with the lean, athletic build was not what she had expected. He appeared to be only a few years older than she was and by the cut of his brown tailcoat and the state of his boots she could assume he was a man who dressed out of necessity instead of fashion—even though the cut of the coat did wonders to draw attention to his broad shoulders and the defined muscles in his arms. His dark eyes rimmed with thick dark lashes settled on Lizzy for a few additional heartbeats before he continued to survey the occupants in the room. For those extra moments that their eyes held, the room seemed to fade away.

Mr Nesbit came around the table, breaking the spell that had come over her, and shook the new Duke’s hand. ‘Your Grace, thank you for joining us. We were growing concerned that there might have been an accident.’

‘No, there was no accident. As you can see, Nesbit, I am in one piece.’

And a very fine piece he was in with that jet-black hair, a lock of which was threatening to fall into his dark eyes. But when it was apparent he had no intention of apologising for keeping them waiting, it reaffirmed Lizzy’s belief that only arrogant selfish men would hold the title of Duke of Skeffington.

‘You have been keeping us waiting for over an hour.’

She hadn’t intended to address him. She was at the end of her tether, waiting for confirmation that Skeffington had given her Stonehaven as her permanent residence. Six months was a long time to live without knowing what your future would hold—and it was all because of him. His laissez-faire attitude was irksome. It was the only explanation as to why she felt compelled to address him before Mr Nesbit had the opportunity to formally introduce them.

He turned to face her and Lizzy fought the urge to touch her hair to make sure it was still meticulously arranged.

‘And you are?’

His accent gave away that he was from the north and, if she had to guess, she thought perhaps the Lincolnshire area.

‘I’m Elizabeth, the Duchess of Skeffington,’ she replied before Mr Nesbit could step in.

‘You are his wife?’ His deep smooth voice almost had a hint of surprise in it.

‘If you are referring to your predecessor, then the answer is yes.’

He tilted his head slightly and appeared to be studying her more intently, and Lizzy forced her hands to remain lightly folded on her lap.

‘You are not what I was expecting.’

‘And I was expecting a gentleman who would arrive promptly to attend the reading of a will.’

‘I had a matter that needed attending to first. You could have started reading it without me.’

It was taking considerable effort not to raise her voice. ‘No, we couldn’t. If we were able to do that we would have done so months ago when you were gallivanting wherever it was you’ve been.’

‘Gallivanting?’ There was a quirk to his slightly full lips.

‘Yes, gallivanting. Now could we please finally have a reading of this will so we all can go forward with our lives? I’m assuming, Mr Nesbit, we are all here now and there is no one else we need to wait for?’

‘There is no one else mentioned in the will. Everyone is present.’

He introduced the new Duke, who Lizzy was having a hard time thinking of as Skeffington, to Lord Liverpool and Mr Mix. The man nodded a greeting to Rimsby and Mrs Thacker, before taking a seat beside Lizzy at the table.

Sitting this close to him was far more distracting than it should be. Lizzy skirted a glance at him with the intention of studying him a bit more, but when he turned his head and caught her eye, she quickly shifted her gaze and prayed she wouldn’t start blushing.

Lizzy settled into her seat and redirected her attention to Mr Nesbit. Now she would finally find out which of the four Skeffington estates would be hers and she could begin setting up her own independent household where she would never have to live with another man again. She had been praying it was Stonehaven in Dorset. It had been her private sanctuary outside London throughout her marriage and, most of all, it was the only Skeffington residence that felt like home to her. Her husband knew it was the one property, aside from the London town house, that she had spent the most amount of time in over the years and, since it wasn’t his ducal seat, it was logical that he would bequeath it to her to live in. Although, knowing her husband, he could be unpredictable at times.

Placing her hands under the table, Lizzy crossed her fingers as Mr Nesbit read the particulars of the introduction to the will. Skeffington’s snuffbox collection would go to Mr Mix, the chess set in their London drawing room was to go to Rimsby since they played the game together quite often, and a painting that belonged to Skeffington’s first wife was given to Mrs Thacker, who had been her lady’s maid when the woman was alive.

Finally, Mr Nesbit glanced at Lizzy. He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief before he continued to read from the will. ‘And for my wife, Elizabeth, since she failed to produce any heirs during our marriage, I bequeath to her the sum of eight thousand pounds.’

The amount given to her floated past without any knowledge of what it was. All Lizzy was able to focus on was the fact that the wretched man was publicly shaming her for her inability to conceive a child with him. As if it were all her fault that he had no direct heirs to take over the ducal seat. As if all the people sitting in the room couldn’t tell they had no children together and she had failed in her duty to bear him an heir. The presence of Mr Alexander was a clear reminder. The nails of her right hand were digging painfully into her palm as she tried her hardest to appear unaffected by her late husband’s intentional barb.

But then the words Mr Nesbit had read came back to her and she shook her head, convinced she hadn’t heard correctly. ‘That can’t be right. I was to have twenty thousand pounds as per my marriage agreement.’

Mr Nesbit wiped his sweaty brow once more and shifted his gaze between Lizzy and the paper in his hand. ‘That was if you bore him an heir.’

‘I was never told that. My father agreed to that?’

‘Apparently he did, Your Grace. It was in the marriage agreement. I have a copy in my files if you would care to see it.’

‘My father told me I was to get twenty thousand upon my husband’s death.’

‘That is correct. If there was a child. If you did not produce any children, then you were to receive eight thousand pounds, the amount of your dowry upon your marriage to him.’

There was a sharp familiar ache in her chest. How could her father have not thought to tell her about that clause in the agreement? How could he possibly think that was fair? They had to have agreed upon this at Skeffington’s urging, but now she had additional proof that her father was only interested in furthering his own connections through her marriage and would agree to anything to make sure he had the privilege of having a family connection to a duke.

She was the Duchess of Skeffington! How was she supposed to live on less than ten thousand? She employed an extensive staff, had three carriages, hosted the most extravagant balls and wore the finest clothes. Eight thousand pounds would never do. She had a reputation to maintain. Her only consolation was that hopefully she would be able to live in Stonehaven and retain the income from that estate which would help pay for her expenses.

Mr Nesbit caught her eye and looked as if he expected her to throw her chair across the room. ‘There is more, Your Grace.’

‘Yes, well, I imagine there is. But I think we all can agree that if he references my childless state again there is no need to read it. It will just be redundant.’

He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. ‘She also is to have the use of Clivemoore House until she dies or remarries.’

Dear God, no. The remainder of her life would now be spent in a house of his choosing, in a remote area of the country far away from her sisters and her aunt and where she had no friends. Even in death, that horrid man was going to make her life miserable.

She prayed that this time she truly had not heard Mr Nesbit correctly.

* * *

It was obvious to Simon, as he sat next to the woman who had been married to the old Duke of Skeffington, that she was someone who was very much taken with the finer things in life. She sat beside him with her thick black hair meticulously styled, the emeralds she wore about her long, slender neck and matching earrings were very expensive and he knew her capped-sleeve black gown with the thin band of fine white lace grazing the swell of her shapely breasts must be in the latest London style.

When he had entered the room and she cast a critical gaze at his wardrobe, he knew every rumour he had heard last night about the haughty Duchess of Skeffington had to be true. What he hadn’t expected to find was an attractive woman who was only slightly younger than himself. It was apparent she was a fortune hunter who had married the Duke of Skeffington because he was a wealthy old man and she had probably assumed he would die shortly after they were married. The eight thousand pounds was a substantial amount of money in his view and could set her up with very sound investments. And yet by the furrow of her brow he saw she was not pleased.

She rubbed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. ‘Would you repeat that please, Mr Nesbit? Not all of it. Just the last part.’

‘Certainly.’ The poor man gave a small cough and shifted his gaze nervously between the papers lying in front of him and the widow across from him. ‘The will states you are to live in Clivemoore House.’

‘Clivemoore House.’ There was a cool impersonal tone to her voice.

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Not Stonehaven?’

‘No, madam, Clivemoore House.’

She pursed her lips together as if she were holding herself back from saying something. ‘And there is no mention of the London residence?’

‘No, madam.’

Her gloved hands, which had been under the table, moved to her stomach. ‘I see.’

Well, Simon didn’t see. She was getting a house to live in for the rest of her life—rent-free. What difference did it make which house it was? He had spent the majority of his childhood living in other people’s houses. And there were countless nights that he would lie awake and pray that one day he would have a home of his own. Those were the wishes of a small boy who had not yet seen the world. He thought those feelings were long gone, until he realised that now those prayers had been answered.

And from the sound of it he didn’t have just one house. He had a few. How many houses did he own? As the new Duke, he should probably find that out.

‘What other properties are there, Mr Nesbit?’ he asked.

‘Skeffington House in London, Stonehaven in Dorset, and your ducal seat, Harrowhurst Castle in Somerset.’

‘Sound structures?’

‘As far as I’ve heard they are. Although it probably would be best for you to visit them and speak with your stewards.’

He owned property in England now. The last time he’d had a permanent home here, he was nine. Now he owned houses that he could stay in indefinitely and no relative would be telling him he had to leave them after a year. Although he trusted Mr Nesbit’s words, Simon knew it would not feel real until he’d stepped foot inside them.

Within minutes, the reading of the will was over and they all stood to make their way to the front entrance hall to leave.

‘Your predecessor was a member in good standing at White’s Gentleman’s Club here in London,’ Lord Liverpool said while shaking Simon’s hand goodbye. ‘I am sure I can introduce you to the right people and sponsor your membership.’

‘That is kind of you, sir, but I have no intention of joining White’s.’

‘Why ever not?’ the Duchess asked, even though it was none of her concern.

He turned and looked into her brown eyes. ‘Because I don’t intend to remain in England long. And if I join any club at all, it will be the Travellers Club.’

She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but Lord Liverpool cut her off. ‘With all due respect, Your Grace, a man in your position needs to remain here to fulfil his duties and needs to think carefully about the clubs he will join. It is not a decision to take lightly. The men you surround yourself with will help you shape policy in Parliament.’

‘I have no intention of shaping policy in Parliament. I intend to return to Sicily once I’ve got a good grasp of my holdings. I will be managing my estates and my investments from abroad.’

Lord Liverpool turned pale. ‘With all due respect, the men who have held your seat have been some of the most powerful politicians in the history of this country. There are men who look to the opinion of the Duke of Skeffington to guide their choices in legislature.’

‘Well, they can look to someone else now—someone who will be attending Parliament. I have other things to concern myself with.’

‘Such as?’ the Duchess asked.

Didn’t the woman standing near them have better things to do? She had just been given a house. Shouldn’t she be hurrying out to start packing?

‘Such as things that do not concern you, madam,’ Simon replied.

She gave a slight huff. She actually huffed at him before taking a step back and going to Mrs Thacker and Rimsby, probably to complain that some mere mister now had the title of Duke of Skeffington.

‘I do hope you and I can discuss your participation in Parliament further at your convenience,’ Lord Liverpool said, distracting Simon away from noticing how a few tendrils of her black hair brushed against the exposed skin of her pale neck.

It was apparent that Lord Liverpool would not let this matter rest. Simon had met men like this before. He would let him have his say and then he would continue doing what he wanted to anyway. It didn’t matter. He would not be in England long enough to have repeated visits by the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister of Great Britain. If all this wasn’t so annoyingly disruptive to his current excavation, he might have found it more amusing. As it was, he just wanted all of these details associated with his new title settled.

Lord Liverpool held out his hand and Simon clasped it firmly. ‘Until we meet again, Your Grace.’

Not having people address him by the name he had used his entire life was beginning to grate on his nerves. ‘Until we meet again, Lord Liverpool.’

Mr Mix, who Simon understood to be the old Duke’s secretary and had been managing the ducal properties since the old Duke had passed, went hurrying by on his way to the front door. He was the one man who Simon needed to speak with to settle all the details about his new title and estates. If anyone knew the condition that his estates were in, it would be Mr Mix. He would also know where the ledger books were kept so that Simon could finally see how much of a wealthy man he was. When he returned to England, Lord Liverpool had informed him by post that all debts had been settled and that there were funds remaining. The only question was, how substantial was the size of the fortune sitting in his bank account and just how profitable were those estates.

‘Mr Mix,’ Simon called out, walking towards the door to catch the small, thin man before he disappeared out into the midday sunshine.

The man stopped before stepping outside. He bowed respectfully, but his eyes kept darting towards the door as if he had somewhere to run off to.

Simon held out his hand. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Mix. I understand you served as secretary for my predecessor?’

There was a slight hesitation before Mr Mix took his hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘That’s correct, Your Grace.’

‘Please, call me Simon. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you. I realise that you and I have no contract for employment, but I thought we might discuss the state of the old Duke’s affairs and perhaps we can come to an agreement for the future. And you need to come to my house to collect those snuffboxes the Duke has given you.’

Mr Mix offered him a polite smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘Of course, when should I call on you?’

‘If you have no appointments tomorrow, I think the morning would be best. I’m staying at the Pulteney Hotel on Piccadilly. I imagine we have many things to go over together.’

‘I imagine we do. Very well, Your Grace. I will see you then.’ He tipped his hat in a respectful manner and walked out the door.

Simon put on his own hat and turned to leave when the clear voice of the Duchess rang out in the entrance hall, stopping him in his tracks. He closed his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head before he turned around.

They were the only two people left in the unadorned hall and they stood only a few feet away from each other. She was close to his height, which was tall for a woman, and up close he could see her delicate features were rather scrunched up, as if she was trying to determine what to say to him.

‘Sir, I wish to have a word with you in private.’ She swallowed and looked back at the doorway that led to Mr Nesbit’s office as if she was concerned the man would come out and find them together. ‘Thank you for allowing me to remain in Skeffington House until the end of January. My man of affairs, Mr Sherman, notified me of your acceptance of our request this morning.’

‘My pleasure. I shall not be in England long so you may take the time you need to move to your new residence. Good day.’

He turned toward the door again, but once more her voice stopped him.

‘I have a proposition for you.’ The last statement was spoken in almost a whisper.

A proposition by a pretty woman—even one who was as trying as the Duchess of Skeffington—was something to consider. Simon turned back towards her and wondered what she could possibly want from him. ‘Go on.’

She cleared her throat. ‘I was wondering...that is to say...would you consider...?’

‘I am not one to couch my comments to please the world, Duchess. I do not get the impression you do either. What is it you want?’

‘I want Stonehaven.’ She said it clearly, although she was twisting the handle of her reticule as she made the statement. ‘That is to say, I would like to know if you would be willing to exchange Clivemoore for it?’

He hadn’t had the time to review each of his houses. How could he possibly give up one before he knew anything about it? And if the Duchess of Skeffington wanted that one so badly, it had to be worth something.

‘Why do you want the house?’

‘Sentimental reasons.’

‘You and your husband spent lovely weeks there and it holds good memories?’

‘No. I simply prefer that property above the others. If you are leaving England as you say you are, then it should not matter to you which house I get.’

There had to be more to it than that. He had met fortune hunters like her before in his life. Hell, he had been tossed aside by a few. If he had to wager, he would put money on the notion that Stonehaven provided more of an income than Clivemoore.

‘Ah, but your husband had a reason not to put you there. I am simply adhering to his wishes.’

‘And what about my wishes? I’m still alive. He is dead.’

Without meaning to, he let out a low laugh. Her very direct nature was comical.

‘Yes, well, it’s quite obvious you are still alive and the reason I am here is because your husband is dead... How did he die, by the way? I never thought to enquire before now.’

‘A chicken bone...he choked on a chicken bone one night at dinner.’