THE INCONVENIENT DUCHESS
by Christine Merrill

Publisher: Mills & Boon

Hardcover: Aug. 2006 (U.K.)

Paperback: Oct. 2006 (N. A.)

ISBN: 0373294212

Compromised and wedded on the same day, Lady Miranda was fast finding married life not to her taste. A decaying manor and a secretive husband were hardly the stuff of girlish dreams. Yet every time she looked at dark, brooding Marcus Radwell, Duke of Haughleigh, she felt inexplicably compelled—and determined—to make their marriage real!

Excerpt

The front door was oak, and when she dropped the heavy brass knocker against it, Miranda Grey was surprised that the sound was barely louder than the hammering of the rain on the flags around her. It would be a wonder if anyone heard her knock above the sound of the late summer storm.

When the door finally opened, the butler hesitated, as though a moment's delay in the rain might wash the step clean and save him the trouble of seeing to her. She was afraid of what he must see. Her hair was half down and streaming water. Her shawl clung to her body, soaked through with the rain. Her traveling dress molded to her body, and the mud-splattered skirts bunched between her legs when she tried to move. She offered a silent prayer of thanks that she'd decided against wearing slippers or her new pair of shoes. The heavy boots she'd chosen were wildly inappropriate for a lady, but anything else would have disintegrated on the walk to the house. Her wrists, which protruded from the sleeves of the gown before disappearing into her faded gloves, were blue with cold.

After an eternity, the butler opened his mouth, probably to send her away. Or at least to direct her to the rear entrance.

She squared her shoulders and heard Cici repeating words in her mind.

“It is not who you appear to be that matters. It is who you are. Despite circumstances, you are a lady. You were born to be a lady. If you remember this, people will treat you accordingly.”

Appreciating her height for once, she stared down into the face of the butler and said in a tone as frigid as the icy rainwater in her boots, “Lady Miranda Grey. I believe I am expected.”

The butler stepped aside and muttered something about a drawing room. Then, without waiting for an answer, he shambled off down the hall, leaving her and her portmanteau on the stoop.

She heaved the luggage over the threshold, stepped in after it, and pulled the door shut behind her. She glanced down at her bag, which sat in its own puddle on the marble floor. It could stay here and rot. She was reasonably sure that it was not her job to carry the blasted thing. The blisters forming beneath the calluses on her palms convinced her that she had carried it quite enough for one night already. She abandoned it and hurried after the butler.

He led her into a large room lined with books and muttered something. She leaned closer but was unable to make out the words. He was no easier to understand in the dead quiet of the house than he had been when he'd greeted her at the door. Then he wandered away again, off into the hall. In search of the dowager, she hoped. In his wake, she detected a faint whiff of gin.

When he was gone, she examined her surroundings in detail, trying to ignore the water dripping from her clothes and onto the fine rug. The house was grand. There was no argument to that. The ceilings were high. The park in front was enormous, as she had learned in frustration while stumbling across its wide expanse in the pouring rain. The hall to this room had been long, wide and marble, and lined with doors that hinted at a variety of equally large rooms.

But…

She sighed. There had to be a but. A house with a peer, but without some accompanying problem, some unspoken deficit, would not have opened its doors to her. She stepped closer to the bookshelves and struggled to read a few of the titles. They did not appear to be well used or current, not that she had any idea of the fashion in literature. Their spines were not worn; they were coated with dust and trailed the occasional cobweb from corner to corner. Not a great man for learning, the duke.

She brightened. Learning was not a requirement, certainly. A learned man might be too clever by half and she'd find herself back out in the rain. Perhaps he had more money than wit.

She stepped closer to the fire and examined the bricks of the hearth. Now here was an area she well understood. It left a message much more readable than the bookshelves. There was soot on the bricks that should have been scrubbed away long ago. She could see the faint smudges on the walls, signs that the room was long over due for a good cleaning. She rustled the heavy velvet of the draperies over the window, then sneezed at the dust and slapped at the flutter of moths she'd disturbed.

So the duke was not a man of learning, and the dowager had a weak hand on the servants. The butler was drunk and the maids did not waste time cleaning the room set aside to receive guests. Her hands itched to straighten cushions, to beat dust out of velvet and to find a brush to scrub the bricks. Didn't these people understand what they had? How lucky they were? And how careless with their good fortune?

If she were mistress of this house…

She stopped to correct herself. When she was mistress of this house. That was how Cici would want her to think. When, not if. Her father was fond of myths and had often told her stories of the Spartan soldiers. When they went off to war, their mothers told them to come back with their shields or on them. And her family would have the same of her. Failure was not an option. She could not disappoint them.

Very well, she decided. When she was mistress of this house, things would be different. She could not offer His Grace riches. But despite the dirt, the house and furnishings proved he did not need money. She was not a great beauty, but who would see her here, so far from London? She lacked the refinements and charms of a lady accustomed to society, but she'd seen no evidence that His Grace enjoyed entertaining. She had little book learning, but the dust on his library showed this was not his first concern.

What she could offer were the qualities he clearly needed. Household management. A strong back. A willingness to work hard. She could make his life more comfortable.

And she could provide him an heir.

She pushed the thought quickly from her mind. That would be part of her duties, of course. And, despite Cici's all too detailed explanations of what this duty entailed, she was not afraid. Well, not very afraid. Cici had told her enough about His Grace, the Duke of Haughleigh, to encourage her on this point. He was ten years a widower, so perhaps he would not be too demanding. If his needs were great, he must surely have found a means to satisfy them that did not involve a wife. If his needs were not great, than she had no reason to fear him.

She'd imagined him waiting for her arrival, as she made the long coach ride from London. He was older than she, and thinner. Not frail, but with a slight stoop. Graying hair. She'd added spectacles, since they always seemed to make the wearer less intimidating. And a kind smile. A little sad perhaps, since he'd waited so long after the death of his wife to seek a new one.

But he did not seek, she reminded herself. Cici had done all the seeking, and this introduction had been arranged through his mother. She added shy, to his list of attributes. He was a retiring country gentleman and not the terrifying rake or high-flyer that Cici had been most qualified to warn her about. She would be polite. He would be receptive. They would deal well together.

And when, eventually, the details of her circumstances needed to be explained, he would have grown so fond of her that he would accept them without qualms.

Without warning, the door opened behind her and she spun to face it. Her heart thumped in her chest and she threw away the image she'd been creating. The man in front of her was no quiet country scholar. Nor some darkly handsome, brooding rake. He entered the room like sunlight streaming through a window. Not as old, she thought. He must have married young. And his face bore no marks of the grief, no lines of long born sorrow. It was open and friendly. She relaxed a little and returned his smile. It was impossible not to. His eyes sparkled. And they were as blue as…

She faltered. Not the sky. The sky in the city had been gray. The sea? She'd never seen it, so she was not sure.

Flowers, perhaps. But not the sensible flowers found in a kitchen garden. Something planted in full sun that had no use but to bring pleasure to the viewer.

His hair was much easier to describe. It shone gold in the light from the low fire.

“Well, well, well. And who do we have here?” His voice was low and pleasant and the warmth of it made her long to draw near to him. And when she did, she was sure he would smell of expensive soap. And his breath would be sweet. She almost shivered at the thought that she might soon know for sure. She dropped a curtsy.

He continued to stare at her in puzzlement. “I'm sorry, dear. You have the better of me. As far as I know, we weren't expecting any guests.”

She frowned. “My guardian wrote to your mother. It was supposed to be all arranged. Of course, I was rather surprised when there was no one to meet the coach, but…”

He was frowning now, but there was a look of dawning comprehension. “I see. If my mother arranged it, that would explain why you expected…” He paused again and began cautiously. “Did you know my mother well?”

“Me? No, not at all. My guardian and she were school friends. They corresponded.” She fumbled in her reticule and removed the damp and much-handled letter of introduction, offering it to him.

“Then you didn't know of my mother's illness.” He took the letter and scanned it, eyebrows raised as he glanced over at her. Then he slipped off his fashionable dark jacket and revealed the black armband tied about the sleeve of his shirt. “I'm afraid you're six weeks too late to have an appointment with my mother, unless you have powers not possessed by the other members of this household. The wreath's just off the door. I suppose it's disrespectful of me to say so, but you didn't miss much. At the best of times, my mother was no pleasure. Here now…”

He reached for her as she collapsed into the chair, no longer heeding the water soaking into the upholstery from her sodden gown.

“I thought, since you didn't know her… I didn't expect this to affect you so. Can I get you something… brandy… decanter empty again… WILKINS… damn that man.” He threw open the door and was shouting down the hall, trying to locate the muttering butler. “WILKINS. WHERE'S THE BRANDY?”

So she'd shown up dripping wet, unescorted and unexpected into a house of mourning; with a dubious letter of introduction expecting to bully her way into the affections of a peer and secure an offer before he asked too many questions and sent her home. She buried her head in her hands, wishing that she could soak into the carpet and disappear like the rain dripping from her gown.

“What in the bloody hell is going on?” His Grace had found someone, but the answering voice in the hall was clearly not the butler. “St. John, what is the meaning of shouting up and down the halls for brandy? Have you no shame at all? Drink the house dry if you must, but have the common decency to do it in quiet.” The voice grew louder as it approached the open door way.

“And who is this? I swear to God, St. John, if this drowned rat is your doing, be damned to our mother's memory, I'll throw you out in the rain, brandy and girl and all.”

Miranda looked up to find a stranger framed in the doorway. He was everything that the other man was not. Dark hair, with a streak of gray at each temple and a face creased by bitterness and hard living. An unsmiling mouth. And his eyes were the gray of a sky before a storm. Strength and power radiated from him like heat from the fire.

The other man ducked under his arm and strode back into the room, proffering a brandy snifter. Then he reconsidered and kept it for himself, taking a long drink before speaking.

“For a change, dear brother, you can't blame this muddle on me. The girl is your problem, not mine and comes courtesy of our departed mother.” He waved the letter of introduction in salute before passing it to his brother. “May I present Lady Miranda Grey, come to see His Grace the Duke of Haughleigh.” The blond man grinned.

“You're the duke?” She looked to the imposing man in the doorway and wondered how she could have been so wrong. When this man had entered the room, his brother had faded to insignificance. She tried to stand up to curtsey again, but her knees gave out and she plopped back onto the sofa. The water in her boots made a squelching sound as she moved.

He stared back. “Of course I'm the duke. This is my home you've come to. Who were you expecting to find? The Prince Regent?”

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