An Unlikely Duchess

An Unlikely Duchess

by Nadine Millard

published by Blue Tulip Publishing

www.bluetulippublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

AN UNLIKELY DUCHESS

Copyright © 2014 NADINE MILLARD

ISBN: 978-0-9915872-2-3

ISBN 10: 0991587227

Cover Art by P.S. Cover Design

To my wonderful husband who makes me feel like I’m living in my very own romance novel!

To my beautiful children who bring me more joy every day than I ever thought possible.

And to my family who support me in all that I do.

PROLOGUE

“You know, old chap, ‘tis not a bad sort of life.” This sentiment was expressed rather drunkenly by the gentleman being propped up, unsuccessfully for the most part, by another young gentleman in much the same state.

The two were exiting one of the more reputable gaming halls lurking on the wrong side of London. The Black Den, known as much for its light skirts as the light pockets people suffered when exiting, had become a regular haunt for the two friends since the beginning of the Season.

These were no ordinary gentlemen. They were considered the catches of the Season and, as a result, had suffered greatly at the hands of ambitious mamas with steel in their eyes and marriage on their minds.

The more drunk of the two, and younger by two years at twenty-eight, was Lord Carrington, future Earl of Ranford, whose seat would be a magnificent estate in Ireland. Having spent much of his twenty-odd years in England attending the best schools and then sowing his oats under the pretence of wife catching, the young lord had no real desire to be shipped off back to Ireland to waste away with no society or activity to speak of.

However, his father was getting on in years, and it was time to return home and learn the ropes before the mantle and responsibility fell to him.

The older, and even more of a catch as far as the mamas were concerned, was none other than the future Duke of Hartridge. The title alone was enough to have debutants swooning. Added to that his colossal wealth and number of properties, and even Prinny himself would not have caused as much of a stir as when Charles Crawdon, Marquess of Enthorpe walked into a room.

The gentlemen had been suffering the machinations of debutantes and their mothers since the start of the Season. Only that evening, the Marquess had literally had a young girl thrown at him by her mama in the hopes that the scuffle would look like some sort of scandal, therefore forcing an engagement.

He would rather face the entirety of the French army than the mothers of the
ton
hell bent on having their girls wed.

And whilst Henry Carrington had suffered his share of near misses, nobody was terribly thrilled about a son-in-law who would leave the country. After all, what was the point in having a peer in the family if one could not parade him around in front of one’s friends? But he was still an Earl, so he was in their sights.

And so it was that the young scoundrels, determined to paint themselves as disreputable rakes, though not quite brave enough to suffer the collective wrath of their fathers, frequented places like the Black Den, and associated with the demimonde and the women who had neither the means nor inclination to trap them into marriage.

Outside, the biting wind helped to revive the gentlemen somewhat, and as they awaited the arrival of the ducal carriage they were both contemplating the same thing.

“The end of the Season is fast approaching.” Lord Carrington was the first to break the contemplative silence.

“Yes, it is.”

“Your father expects an engagement.”

“So does yours,” Enthorpe bit back.

“Indeed he does.”

There was a slight pause, and then a desolate sigh.

“I think our days of rakishness are numbered.”

“Had they even begun?” Enthorpe enquired dryly.

“Not as much as I had hoped. I suppose I just do not have it in me to seduce widows and ruin debutantes.”

“No,” answered Enthorpe rather regretfully, “nor do I.”

Another pause.

“So, who will you marry then?” This time Enthorpe broke the silence.

“Perhaps Lady Mary. She is a good sort. I think we would rub along rather well together. She has indicated, quite forcefully, that a quiet life in the Irish countryside would be no hardship to her. It may as well be her as anyone. And you?”

“The Lady Catherine, I think,” was the eventual answer after some minutes pondering the question. “I must consider the duties of a duchess when making my decision. Nobody knows the rules of society as much as she. She is pretty and pleasant. And it will please my father to align ourselves with that family. She is on his list of acceptable wives.”

Neither of the men spoke in terms of asking these women. They knew, everyone knew, that a refusal would be completely out of the question for any of the ladies in Town.

There was an air of finality about the conversation between the two young men. They both knew they were on the cusp of respectability and their days of misadventure would soon be behind them.

Thus, it was with a fond nostalgia that the conversation continued once they were safely ensconced in the warmth of the ducal carriage and making their way back to Mayfair.

“It has been a good ride Thorpe,” said Lord Carrington fondly.

The marquess grinned. “It has been at that Carry.”

“I wonder how many brats you will have,” Carrington quipped.

“Less than you I warrant! An heir and spare is all I require, though I believe ladies have a fondness for daughters too.”

“I shall want at least four to fill up that museum of a house in Offaly. As long as one of them is a boy I shan’t mind about the others.”

“Boys will be infinitely more manageable than girls, Carry.”

“Nonsense. Girls are pliable and pleasing. They do as they are told quietly and without fuss.” Carrington answered this firmly and with confidence, having had no experience of sisters or close female cousins.

The marquess, however, had grown up with sisters and smirked at Carrington’s innocence and naivety.

“And what of the trouble of marrying them off?”

“Well, what of it? I shall give them their Seasons and they will marry.”

“My dear Carry, do think of the Season
we’ve
just had. You will subject your daughters to the likes of us?”

“I had not thought of that,” answered Carrington, his sudden look of consternation confirming that he’d forgotten that his daughters would not be exempt from the ups and downs of the marriage mart.

The marquess gave him a moment to digest this new piece of information and to re-evaluate his desire for girls.

“I’ve got it,” he announced so suddenly that Enthorpe almost jumped out of his skin.

“Damnation, Carry! You almost scared me to death!”

“Apologies, old man. But I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“The solution, of course.”

“To what?” the marquess asked in exasperation.

“Why, the marrying off of my children,” announced Carrington in a booming voice. “I shall just marry them to yours!”

Now, neither of these young men were hair brained or stupid. However, both were very firmly in their cups and, in such a state, the idea seemed ideal. Having enough sensibilities between them still to actually hash out some details, they decided that since the duke’s heir probably should live where his actual dukedom was, it would be more appropriate to marry off a daughter of the earl’s to a son of the duke’s.

And, as young men of vast wealth and power are wont to do, they immediately called upon the duke’s solicitor and forced that poor man out of his bed to draw up a legally binding contract that would secure the futures of their children. And all this before either man was engaged.

Thus, both men went on to marry their intended ladies and start on the children they were to produce, safe in the knowledge that at least two of them could look forward to a very agreeable match…

CHAPTER ONE

Offaly, Ireland, 1815

“Remind me again what we’re doing here.” The command, issued in a bored drawl came from Edward Crawdon, Duke of Hartridge.

The ducal carriage was bouncing along a rather bumpy, if beautiful, road in the Irish countryside, carrying its passengers to stay with
Very Dear Friends
. A term oft used by his mother and usually, as in this instance, meaning people Edward had either never met or could not remember.

His mother speared him with a steely glint and slightly raised eyebrow, designed to quell his stubbornness even from infancy.

“I told you dear. Several times. We are to visit our very dear friends, the Carringtons.”

“You do know, Mother,” pressed Edward, “that I have never actually met the Carringtons?”

“You’ve met Ranford, dear.”

“Have I?”

“Why, yes,” the dowager answered sweetly. Too sweetly.

“And, how old was I when I met him, Mother?” He speared her with a steely look of his own.

“I cannot recall the exact age…”

“Take a guess.”

“Oh, about three or four perhaps.”

Edward smirked as his suspicions were confirmed. There was something going on.

“It is odd, is it not Mother, that we would be invited to stay with Ranford six years after Father died, and for no real reason?”

“Of course not,” Lady Catherine answered brusquely. “He and your Father were terribly close, and I have always maintained a correspondence with Lady Ranford. I expressed a wish for a change of scenery and she was kind enough to invite me to stay for some weeks before the Season. Would you have me travel here alone at my age?”

Edward looked at his mother and raised another eyebrow. His mother was far from in her dotage. At 54, she was neither old nor incapable of travelling without her son. She was fit, healthy and had retained much of the beauty of her youth.

She had aged some six years ago when his father had passed away suddenly in a riding accident but, being good
ton
, had recovered remarkably well and was happy to become the dowager at a relatively young age. Now she could sit back, relax, and pressure her only son into marriage and the production of grandchildren. Besides which, she wasn’t alone, never going anywhere without her lady’s maid, Annie.

Edward knew his mother well enough to know that something was going on. And he’d be damned if he’d walk into the situation, whatever it may be, blind.

He turned to question the other occupant of the carriage, his cousin Tom. Tom and he had always been close, more brothers than cousins he supposed. The son of a second son, he was very comfortable being a gentleman of means but little in the way of occupation. He had half-heartedly studied the law before settling himself in a small estate outside of London. He lived comfortably and well. His wealth could not be compared to Hartridge’s but there were few men who could boast of that. His father was, by all accounts, a cruel and bitter man whose jealousy of Edward’s own father had caused a lifelong estrangement. Tom had been taken under wing by the dowager and her late husband, saving him from his father’s cruelty and allowing him to develop into a happy and pleasant young man without being poisoned by his father’s moods. He was also very likely to be privy to whatever it was Edward was missing in this scheme.

“Well, Tom,” he questioned, “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Your grace?” asked Tom, politely.

“Come now Tom, do not play the innocent with me. I’ve known you far too long for that to wash. What am I doing in an Irish backwater?”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, Edward. Your mother wanted to visit with her very dear friends. It is only fitting that her son should come too.” He blinked a few times, which was always a sure sign that he was nervous, but his face remained a cool mask of innocence.

Biting back a growl of frustration, Edward changed tact.

“You know, it is terribly irresponsible of me to take myself out of the country when there is work to be done. Our investments and properties will not take care of themselves.”

“No, they will not,” his mother agreed, “which is why you employ the most efficient and capable stewards for when you cannot be there. You are one man, my dear. It would be quite impossible for you to shoulder all of that responsibility yourself.”

Too late, Edward realised his mistake. There’d be no stopping Mother now.

“If only you had a wife to unburden yourself with,” she began. Predictably. “Someone who could help ease your worries, talk through your problems and–”