A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection Read online

  Having grown up with a manipulative mother who had constantly used her tears to bring his father to heel, he could not abide crying in any form. A fact his last mistress, a beautiful widow with a penchant for naughty antics between the sheets, had learned the hard way.

  Eric felt no guilt for ending the seven-month arrangement. He had been more than generous to Melody during their time together, and he’d settled a handsome sum on her when they parted ways. Truth be told he’d quite enjoyed her. Out of all of his mistresses, she had been one of his favorites. But when she’d begun pressing for more than he was willing to give - and dissolving into tears like a petulant child when he refused her demands - he knew the relationship had run its course.

  Fortunately, the Melody’s of the world were quite easy to replace. Once he’d settled a few matters at Litchfield Park he would return to London and find another mistress. Preferably one who wasn’t so bloody dramatic.

  Eric’s dark brow furrowed as he continued to stare at his sleeping bride. One of the matters he needed to resolve before departing was the matter of an heir. At nine and twenty he was beginning to feel the pressure that plagued all titled men when they began to reach a certain age without having yet procured a son.

  His pressure was intensified all the more by his dissolute scoundrel of a younger brother. A brother who stood to inherit - and lose - everything he had spent most of his adult life rebuilding after the late Duke of Readington bled the Hargrave fortune dry at the gambling hells. It had taken him nearly a decade to regain what his father had lost, and he’d be damned if he allowed all of his hard work to go to naught.

  The money did not mean anything to him. Money could be lost and gained and lost again. But the land - the land where his ancestors had lived and died for nearly three hundred years - meant something. And he refused to let the estates, specifically Litchfield Park, go to someone who did not understand their significance. Which was where Caroline came in.

  With her pink lips slightly parted and a loose tendril of white blonde hair clinging to the curve of her cheek, she looked like a sleeping angel. It was the first time he had ever seen her at peace. Whenever he’d happened to glance upon her countenance before now she’d always appeared frightened, as if she were one second away from jumping into the nearest broom closet.

  She was a meek little thing he mused, rubbing his chin. Not that he minded. One of the reasons he’d selected her was because of her shyness and timidity. He certainly hadn’t picked her to be his bride because he desired her. A snort bubbled in the back of his throat at the very idea. Caroline was one of the least desirable women he had ever encountered. Which was precisely why she was going to be such an excellent wife.

  When a man wanted passion, he found himself a mistress. When he wanted a rightful heir, he found himself a wife. And only a very foolish, very stupid man ever attempted to have both with the same woman.

  The late Duke of Readington had been such a man and he’d paid a dear price for his stupidity. A dear, dear price. One that had made him the laughingstock of the entire ton and had ushered him into an early grave.

  Having seen firsthand the pain and the heartache that unrequited love could cause, Eric had no intention of repeating his father’s mistakes. Once he was assured Caroline was carrying his child, he would be returning to London with all haste. She, of course, would remain at Litchfield. If the mood struck he would return time to time to see how she and the babe were faring. Or, at the very least, send a proxy in his place. After all, he wasn’t a complete monster. Just a very matter-of-fact one who knew precisely what he wanted.

  And it wasn’t love.

  Caroline began to stir as the carriage left the main road and started up the long, winding drive that led to a sprawling country house built of white washed stone. It was not the largest estate in his possession, nor even the grandest, but the thirty-seven room manor and its surrounding fields and meadows would be more than sufficient for one woman and her child.

  His shy new bride would want for absolutely nothing at Litchfield Park. If she desired a pink flamingo it would be brought to her with a gold ribbon tied around its skinny neck. But his generosity did not come without certain stipulations.

  “You’re awake,” he said when she lifted her head and blinked drowsily at him. “Good. Before we disembark, I should like to take the opportunity to make a few things clear.” She blinked again, and he could tell the moment she became acutely aware of her surroundings because her gaze suddenly dropped to her lap and her slender shoulders caved inwards beneath her dark gray cloak as if she were a tiny bird seeking shelter from an impending storm.

  Eric gritted his teeth. He’d wanted a wife who wouldn’t dare challenge him, not one so frightened of her own shadow that she quivered with fear whenever he tried to talk to her. It wasn’t as if he had yelled at the girl or raised his hand in anger. Yet she was terrified of him just the same.

  What had he called her at the church? A frightened field mouse? Yes, that was it. Although looking at her now he wasn’t reminded of a rodent, but rather of a fawn. A shy, spindly legged fawn with soft gray eyes framed by thick lashes and a full bottom lip that trembled ever-so-slightly when she peeked up at him before quickly glancing back down.

  Absently he wondered what that quivering mouth would taste like. Soft and sweet, he imagined. Like the sugar sprinkled on top of a biscuit or a bit of honey drizzled into a cup of warm tea...

  Eric scowled, annoyed that he’d allowed his thoughts to drift in such a fanciful direction. Kissing his wife was not something to be looked upon with great anticipation. It was a responsibility. A duty. A task he would carry out not because he wanted to, but because he had to if he wanted to keep his brother from destroying everything he’d so painstakingly rebuilt.

  “Have I done something to upset you?” Caroline whispered, her cheeks draining of what little color remained as she noted the heavy furrow in his brow. “Because I’ve stopped crying-”

  “You’ve done nothing,” he said shortly. “But perhaps we should have this discussion at a later date. When you’ve had time to settle in to your new surroundings and rest.”

  They drew to a halt at the end of the circular drive and the door was promptly opened by a young footman neatly attired in black livery. He stood at attention with his gaze politely averted while Eric stepped out of the carriage and then turned back to reach for Caroline’s hand.

  Enclosed in white lace, her fingers were as small and delicate as the rest of her and stood out in sharp contrast against the deep black of his coat sleeve. He felt her tremble as she lifted her head and looked up at her new home with wide, unblinking eyes, taking everything in from the solarium comprised entirely of glass to the outdoor terraces that wrapped around the third and fourth stories. There was even a tower jutting up from the east wing. It had been closed off years ago, but was still an impressive sight to behold with its stained glass windows and circular roof.

  “Litchfield Park was part of my mother’s dowry,” he explained in the flat, mildly disgusted monotone he always used whenever he spoke of the woman who had given birth to him. “It was completely renovated just last year. You should be very comfortable here.”

  “It’s enormous,” Caroline said softly.

  He shrugged. “It is not nearly as large as Readington Crossing, but I believe it will be more than suitable for raising children.” He saw no point in telling her that the real reason she was here was because of the estate’s remote location. Tucked away in the middle of the Surrey countryside, it was a four day ride to Readington and another two to London, effectively ensuring his wife would not be bothering him with any surprise visits.

  “The stables are that way-” lifting his arm, he pointed off to the left where a stretch of white fence line was just visible through a row of towering shrubbery “-and the orchards and greenhouses are behind the house. There is more, of course, but Mr. Newgate will be able to give you a full tour.”

  “Couldn’t you do it?
” she asked, tearing her gaze away from the tower to peer up at him out of soft gray eyes brimming with uncertainty and just a touch of wistful hope. Her grip on his forearm tightened and Eric frowned when he felt his loins stir in response to such a small, innocent touch.

  “Couldn’t I do what?” he said suspiciously. When had her eyes gotten a hint of green in them? And why the bloody hell was he looking at her mouth again and imagining what her lips would taste like? A trick of the light, he decided, and a touch of exhaustion. God only knew he hadn’t slept much the night before.

  Thoughts of his impending marriage had kept him tossing between the sheets well into the cold, dark hours of early morning. When he’d finally risen it had been with the grim determination that no matter what came, he would not repeat the sins of his father. He would not give his wife control of his heart and stand idly by while she gleefully tore it to shreds. He would not become a broken shell of his former self, spending money like water and drinking himself into oblivion.

  And he would not, under any circumstances, fall in love.

  “Give me a tour of the grounds. I - I just think,” she added hastily when his brow creased, “it would behoove us to spend more - more time together now that we are married. Don’t...don’t you agree?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “I do not agree. In fact, I could not disagree more strongly.”

  The corners of her mouth tightened in distress. “But-”

  “Mr. Newgate will show you to your private quarters. I have more important things to attend.” With that icy remark he turned on his heel and strode briskly away, the heels of his boots stomping the ground with so much force that small stones flew up in his wake.

  Chapter Three

  Caroline watched her husband walk away with an aching in her chest that bordered on despair.

  He hates me, she thought bleakly. He hates me and I haven’t the faintest idea why.

  Perhaps she’d said something that had upset him. But that would have required them to have had a conversation lasting more than a few sentences, which they’d yet to do. Maybe she’d done something he had found untoward...but then again, she’d spent more time having her face powdered than in the duke’s company.

  A cold wind, hinting at weather yet to come, had Caroline pulling her cloak more snugly around her shoulders. The carriage pulled away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the drive without any idea of what to do next. She was supposed to be a duchess...but Eric had dropped her on his doorstep as if she were an unwanted relation and then gone - well, she had no idea where he’d gone because she knew absolutely nothing about him. Or this place; this large, overwhelming, foreign place that she was now supposed to call home.

  This time when tears threatened she managed to sniff them back. She wasn’t about to give the duke an excuse to despise her any more than he already did, nor did she want to step off on the wrong foot with the household staff.

  Unlike many of her peers, Caroline’s gentle nature had always lent itself to a relationship of kindness and respect between herself and the working class. She wanted the same at Litchfield Park, especially since it seemed as though the servants were going to be the only ones speaking to her. She had no friends here. No family. As for her husband...well, suffice it to say he should have been both but instead he was neither. For the first time in her life she was completely and utterly alone.

  “Might I offer you some assistance, Your Grace?” This came from the footman who had opened the door when they’d first arrived. Wrapped up in her own melancholy thoughts, Caroline had completely forgotten he was standing no less than three feet away.

  “Oh!” she gasped, flattening a hand across the top of her chest. “I - I am terribly sorry. I just...I don’t know what...that is to say...oh drats,” she said helplessly when her eyes flooded with tears. What was wrong with her? Surely being left in front of the house as though she were some sort of vagabond orphan was enough humiliation for one day. She didn’t need to add sobbing in front of a footman to the list.

  “Your Grace?” the young man repeated, looking vaguely alarmed.

  “I - I do apologize,” Caroline managed between sniffles. “I’m not usually like this, you see. But then things are not at all like they usually are, are they?” She pulled off one of her gloves and used it to dry her eyes. “Could you be so kind as to direct me to Mr. Newgate? I believe he is supposed to give me a tour.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. Right this way.” Looking relieved to be passing her on to someone else, the footman led her up between two enormous ivory pillars and into the grandest foyer she’d ever seen.

  The first thing that caught her eye was the gold chandelier hanging down from a vaulted ceiling, its dozens of candles reflecting off the marble tile beneath. A grand staircase rose from the middle of the foyer and led up to a double hallway that was so long it stretched out of sight. The air carried a hint of beeswax, no doubt from all of the mahogany trim that gleamed from a recent polish.

  It was a splendid entryway. One that truly befitted a duke.

  But not his duchess, Caroline thought silently as she peeked into the adjoining parlor. There was a heavy masculine overtone to everything, from the deep green paper hangings to the leather furniture. There was also a sterileness to it all. A cold formality that made her wonder if her husband had ever spent any time here. Without a single personal memento - not even a painting - the dark, somber house could have belonged to anyone.

  A door to her right opened and an older man stepped through, his chest swelled with self-importance and his knobby shoulders proudly erect. He wore the black suit and the white lapels of a servant of high importance, leading Caroline to guess she was about to meet the estimable Mr. Newgate even before he strode up to her - perhaps hobbled would have been a better word - and bowed.

  “Your Grace,” he said in a raspy baritone that aged him just as much as his gray hair and the myriad of lines upon his weathered countenance. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Mr. Newgate, and I have served as butler for the past thirty-seven years.”

  “That is quite an impressive feat, Mr. Newgate.” She hesitated. “My husband asked that you show me around the estate. If it isn’t too much trouble, that is. I know you must be very busy and I would not want to take up your valuable time...”

  “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace. Shall we start with the library?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said, her face brightening. “That would be splendid. Oh, and Mr. Newgate, if I could make one small request. I realize that I am a duchess now and that it carries its own title, but I really would be much more comfortable if you and the rest of the household staff called me by my given name. You could even shorten it to Caro if you like.”

  The butler looked positively scandalized. “Certainly not, Your Grace,” he huffed. “Certainly not. If you would allow Thomas to take your cloak and gloves, we shall begin in the east wing with the library and work our way westward. Follow me, if you please.”

  Well it had been worth a try. Handing her outer garments off to the footman, Caroline smoothed her hair, shook a wrinkle from her dress, and followed the butler.

  After her tour - which consisted of all thirty seven rooms excluding her husband’s private study and bedchamber - Caroline found herself quite exhausted. She was shown to her room by a plain-faced servant named Anne who, after learning that Caroline had not brought her own lady’s maid, eagerly volunteered herself for the position.

  “I’ve never been one before,” she confessed, brown eyes anxious and hopeful. “But only because there’s never been a lady at Litchfield Park before. Well, at least not while I’ve been here. But I’ll do whatever you require of me, Your Grace. I like to work. And I’m quite handy with a pair of curling tongs.”

  Caroline sat on the edge of the canopied bed. “What do you know about removing freckles?”

  “Re-removing freckles, Your Grace?” Anne bit her lip. “Not very much, I am afraid.”

  “Then i
n that case I believe you will make a splendid lady’s maid.” A genuine smile - the very first one in what felt like a very long while - flitted across her face when Anne let out a squeal of excitement.

  “Oh, thank you, Your Grace!” she cried, all but bouncing up and down. “Thank you! I will not let you down. I promise. Where should I start? Would you like me to put away your things?”

  Over the past hour carriages bearing trunks filled to the brim with Caroline’s various dresses and accessories had begun arriving. After four failed seasons she’d managed to accrue more than her fair share of ball gowns, and it seemed her mother - who had taken it upon herself to do all of the packing - hadn’t wanted to leave a single one behind.

  “Or draw you a bath?” Anne continued enthusiastically. “Or fluff your pillows? Or take down your hair? Or-”

  “If you would be so kind as to close the curtains,” Caroline interrupted, “I believe I shall take a rest. Could you wake me before dinner? I would like very much to dine with my husband.”

  “Oh. But...of course, Your Grace.”

  “Is something about my request unusual?” she queried, noting the way Anne’s gaze flitted suddenly to the side.

  “N-no,” the maid said haltingly.

  “I fear you are about as good at telling a fib as I am, Anne.” Her mouth curved. “Which is to say not very good at all. What is it?”

  Visibly squirming, the hugged one arm tightly against her side and shifted her weight from foot to foot. “It’s just that...well...it isn’t a love match, is it?” she blurted. “You and the duke. I thought...that is to say, everyone knows…”

  “That my husband hates me,” Caroline said softly when Anne trailed off.

  “No, Your Grace! That isn’t what I meant-”

  “The curtains, if you would.” Suddenly feeling very weary indeed, she pushed herself towards the head of the bed and drew a soft wool blanket up over her waist. “Please close the curtains.”