A Duchess in Name Read online

“Do you mean my marriage? Yes, it’s done.”

  “Well, you have my congratulations,” she said in a businesslike but not unkind tone. “I wasn’t sure you’d return.”

  “How could you think I wouldn’t come back to the dig?”

  “I didn’t mean the dig,” she amended, finally moving toward him across the terrace. “I meant me.”

  She wasn’t looking for a lover’s pledge of undying devotion. Luciana was far too smart for that. Those kind of promises had never been a part of what they shared, no matter how long their arrangement had lasted.

  “You know I had no intention of staying there. It was business, nothing more. It will change nothing about my life.”

  She shrugged, her shrewd dark eyes examining him carefully. He resisted the urge to fidget. Luciana probably knew him better than anyone on earth outside of Randolph, and he didn’t like feeling as if she could see all the things he wasn’t saying. “It’s been known to happen, even in arranged marriages,” she said.

  “What has?”

  “Affection. Even love. It is possible.” Her tone was still impassive, but there was a spark in her eyes. Not jealousy. Luciana would never stoop to such a pointless emotion as jealousy. She had an interest in his feelings toward his wife, but only insofar as they might affect her own security.

  “I’m not in love with her. I don’t even like her.”

  Luciana crossed her arms over her chest, watching him steadily. “You don’t have to promise me anything, Andrew, you know that. I only ask you to be honest with me.”

  “I am being honest. Luciana, I don’t love her.”

  “If that should ever change—”

  “It won’t. It can’t.”

  “If it does, tell me, so I can take care of my own future.”

  “You know I look out for your well-being.”

  “For now, because that’s our arrangement. But arrangements can change.”

  “There’s no reason anything here in Italy has to change. There’s nothing between my wife and me. It’s just business.” The lie felt heavy on his tongue and the images he’d fought to suppress during the whole trip back to Italy flooded his memory again. The way Victoria had looked lying back beneath him, the way she’d felt when he’d driven her to release a second time, clinging to him and crying out... No. That was over and done with, an aberration not to be repeated.

  “I will never be that kind of husband to that woman. We needed her money; she wanted my title. We’ve both gotten what we wanted and now it’s at an end.”

  “So you plan to live here in Italy forever while she stays on in England?”

  “We wouldn’t be the first married couple to reside in separate countries. My parents have managed it successfully for over a decade.”

  “I thought you meant to never be like them.”

  He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “I haven’t been left much choice. She was never going to be a partner to me. She’s only a duty to be borne. I plan to forget her existence entirely.”

  Luciana smiled. “I wish you luck with that.”

  “Now, can we stop talking about my wife, please? The journey was awful. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be back at last.”

  Luciana cocked her head and smiled again, a different sort of smile. It was all softness and easy seduction. She reached out and fingered his tie, dragging it from beneath his waistcoat. “I see. What shall we do to welcome you back home?”

  Unexpectedly, he had the forceful urge to back away from her. Even being here alone with her felt wrong, and the nagging guilt was back again, which was ridiculous. He’d kept a mistress since long before his marriage. He’d fully intended to keep Luciana after his marriage. Plenty of men did it. It was so commonplace as to be hardly remarked upon.

  Aside from Luciana’s obvious physical charms, they were friends. The three years he’d spent with her was the happiest period of his life. She understood him and accepted him. She was fond of him, although he didn’t fool himself into believing she was in love with him. But she cared. And she was honest. Unlike his mother and Victoria, Luciana didn’t lie about who she was and what she wanted. He could trust her, and he needed someone he could trust.

  But why did his stomach cramp uncomfortably when Luciana ran a hand up his chest? God, was this nightmare imprinted on every part of his life now? Would he never be free of it? Was there no way to go back to his life before?

  Luciana paused, searching his eyes. “Is something the matter, darling?”

  “No, nothing. I’m a bit tired from the trip. Feeling under the weather. It was a grueling week.”

  She smiled knowingly. “Of course. Why don’t you lie down and rest? I’ll wake you when dinner is ready.”

  Andrew reached up to curl his hands around her shoulders. But when he meant to lean in and kiss her lips, instead, at the last moment, he kissed her cheek. And when he drew back, he had no urge to take it any further. Instead, what he desperately wanted was exactly what she’d suggested. Time to rest. Alone.

  * * *

  “I believe this might be a Gutenberg Bible.” Victoria hauled a volume down off the high library shelf, its leather binding cracked and grimed with age. “Oh no, it’s only a navy list from 1786. How very useful. Toss.”

  She threw the volume down onto a growing pile of books to be disposed of and kept sorting through the shelves. As she shifted to the next one over, a cloud of dust rained down on her head and she sputtered, swiping at her eyes. Her fine new trousseau remained wrapped in scented paper and packed in her trunks. So far at Briarwood, she’d worn only her darkest, drabbest old dresses, scarcely bothering to alter them between days, since her appearance didn’t matter a bit.

  “I do wish you’d leave that filthy business to the servants, My Lady,” Mrs. Palmer fussed from her station by the hearth, where she was showing a new, young scullery maid the proper way to lay a fresh fire.

  Victoria dragged her sleeve across her forehead. “I can’t sit in a corner working on some bit of fine embroidery while work of this scale is undertaken in the house. It will drive me mad. I can’t clean hearths or patch roofs, but I can at least sort some old books. I want to be useful.”

  “Your very presence is useful, My Lady.”

  “You’re being kind, Mrs. Palmer, but this will take more than my good intentions. This was a lovely house once, and I mean to make it so again.”

  She stood on tiptoe atop the old, ornately carved library ladder to reach a small set of cloth-covered volumes in the corner of the shelf. Inside the front cover of the first book, she found, written in a tidy, old-fashioned hand, “Mariah Hargrave, Duchess of Waring,” and the first entry on the facing page was dated June 3, 1797.

  “Oh, how fascinating,” she breathed, running her fingers over the words of the woman who was one of her predecessors in this house. She probably managed it far better than me. When she knelt down to sit on the top step of the ladder, she collided with a warm, furry body, but this one was much more pleasant than her previous encounters.

  “Move along, Pounce. Go make yourself useful.” The great tabby-striped tomcat stretched luxuriously before ambling away in search of something to catch and kill. She began to skim through the late duchess’s journal, and in moments, she was fully absorbed. When she looked up some time later, Mrs. Palmer was still there, although now directing three girls in the rolling up and removal of a large, moth-eaten rug on the floor.

  “Mrs. Palmer, this says Briarwood used to have a land agent. Do you remember there ever being one here?” A land agent seemed to be exactly what was needed to deal with all those problems the tenants were having, the ones she didn’t have a hope of understanding.

  “Oh, we haven’t had a land agent since old Mr. March left, some thirty years ago. Things were already in decline by then, and he was never repla
ced.”

  “Do you suppose he’d wish to come back?”

  “He’s been dead for years, Your Ladyship. He left because he was retiring.”

  Deflated, she sighed. “Oh, I see. Well, that’s that, I suppose.”

  “Of course, there’s always young Mr. March.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s the grandson of the old Mr. March. He’s an attorney in Whitchurch now.”

  “Do you think he’d want to come to Briarwood as a land agent?”

  Mrs. Palmer’s expression grew sad. “This land is in his blood. I think he’d give anything to help restore it to its glory.”

  Victoria smiled. A little good news, for once. “Mrs. Palmer, would you ask Mr. March to come for tea tomorrow? We can manage proper tea, can’t we?”

  Mrs. Palmer smiled back in perfect accord. At least she had one ally in her task. “Proper tea is entirely within our current capabilities. And I’ll happily invite Mr. March to come.”

  Chapter Nine

  Briarwood Manor, Hampshire

  May 4, 1895

  Dear Lord Dunnley,

  Your man of business in London was kind enough to send me your address in Italy. I confess I was surprised at your abrupt departure after the wedding. I had counted on having time alone after the wedding day to get to know each other better. However, as the circumstances making our marriage a necessity were likely more abhorrent for you than me, perhaps you need more time to come to terms with the situation. I hope in time you’ll find our union less disagreeable.

  I have some issues of a practical nature that must be addressed, however. The situation at Briarwood Manor is dire. Extensive repairs must begin on the house at once simply to ensure its structural integrity. Several of the tenants have come regularly to voice their concerns and complaints. I fear farming falls well outside my scope of knowledge, so I’m very limited in my usefulness. I had hoped you might return to see to them, but your work seems to be keeping you in Italy for the time being.

  Therefore, I’ve determined to hire a land agent. I’ve made the acquaintance of Mr. Arthur March, the grandson of Briarwood’s last land agent. He would be happy to take up the position upon your approval. I’ve enclosed his references and particulars. Please do let me know your wishes as soon as possible as no work may commence without the help of an agent.

  Due to the pressing nature of my many concerns, I fear I will need to take action before this has a chance to reach you and for your reply to reach me.

  Sincerely yours,

  Victoria, Countess of Dunnley

  Briarwood Manor, Hampshire

  May 25, 1895

  Dear Lord Dunnley,

  Our work at Briarwood continues apace. I had no idea its history was so long. Such a noble home deserves to be restored. I only hope I can do it justice.

  It’s been some time since I wrote to you about the matter of hiring Mr. March as land agent. Since I have had no reply in the negative, I shall assume he meets with your approval and I will secure his services. There is much to be done to alleviate the suffering of the tenants, and we require a land agent to oversee the work. Please write at once if you disagree with my decision.

  Sincerely yours,

  Victoria, Countess of Dunnley

  * * *

  Briarwood Manor, Hampshire

  August 25, 1895

  Dear Lord Dunnley,

  Restoration work on Briarwood Manor continues apace. As I mentioned in my last letter, the roofer wanted to bring in extra men to enable the work to move faster. Since you voiced no objection, I felt free to authorize the expense. I am pleased to report they have made excellent progress and much of the south wing is complete. This has allowed the plasterers to begin work in the upper bedrooms sooner than anticipated, which is welcome, since there is water damage to be addressed in those rooms.

  Mrs. Palmer has brought in three new scullery maids this week, in addition to the many hired last month. The new help has made great strides restoring the public rooms downstairs, and we expect they’ll be able to begin work in the bedrooms as soon as the plasterers have finished their work.

  We were finally able to procure the services of Mrs. Fiske as cook, whom I mentioned in my last letter. She was somewhat hesitant about taking a post in a house in which no family had been in residence, but Mrs. Palmer was able to win her over. The dramatic improvement at mealtimes is testament to our good fortune in securing her.

  We’ve also hired two more kitchen maids, an under butler and another footman. We were forced to find a replacement for Mikey Herbert, one of our old footmen, when he eloped with Martha Burns, the new kitchen maid. They were both fine workers and we were sorry to lose them, but we wish them well in their new life together. I suspect many hearts were broken when Mikey departed. He was very popular amongst the female staff.

  We are still in need of a head butler, but finding an appropriate candidate for such a crucial role in our household is no small task. We will take our time, and in the meantime, scrape along as best we can with what we have.

  Mr. March has many ideas about improvements to the land, which I will do my best to relate to you. Land management is not my strength, but Mr. March is patient with his explanations and I am learning much. Briarwood is a lovely place, under the disrepair. I’m happy to say, we’re beginning to see some improvements as the work continues. In time, it will be restored to its former glory. The tenants love the land deeply, and I’m determined to restore it for them. With Mr. March’s help, we’ll succeed.

  I hope your days in Italy are as busy and productive as ours are here. You must have much work to do to keep you so long away from England.

  Sincerely yours,

  Victoria, Countess of Dunnley

  * * *

  “Can you explain what you mean by parallel channels in the north field, Mr. March?” Victoria rubbed at her temples as she tried once again to make sense of the topographical maps spread out on her desk.

  Her understanding of the running of the estate had come a long way, but it wasn’t ever going to be a subject she was comfortable with. Consulting with the land agent about irrigation improvements should have fallen to her husband, but he’d never answered a single one of her letters, not in all the time she’d been writing them. She’d stopped expecting him to, even though she kept up the pretense of asking his opinion on every major issue in the management of the estate. She asked, he never answered, she got on with it and did what she thought was best. So far, it had worked very well for her.

  Mr. March leaned over the desk, pointing at the plans with his pencil. Arthur March was a bachelor in his forties and had been working as a modestly successful attorney specializing in land issues before Victoria had hired him away from his practice to manage the Briarwood Manor estate. As Mrs. Palmer had assured her, he had a great fondness for Briarwood and the surrounding lands, having grown up hearing his grandfather tell stories of its glory days. As he was a lifelong resident of the area, he knew most of the tenant farmers and held their concerns dear. He was deeply committed to bringing Briarwood back from the brink.

  “These fields, the ones past Orley Dell, were improved with a series of irrigation ditches in 1852.” He traced the ditches with his fingertip. “They did quite a bit to turn a rocky, root-bound patch into viable farmland. However, in the intervening years, the ditches have done rather too good a job of bringing water in from the river, and now the excess runoff into the dell has turned it into a bog.”

  “I see.” She followed at least that much of the lesson. “And no one was here to monitor the situation.”

  “Precisely, My Lady. I propose extending the current ditches to the northeast quarter to allow excess water to run off into those fields rather than pool in Orley Dell. If Orley Dell were brought back into production, we could increase
the hay yields alone by two tons, maybe more. We’ll have to see how the fields bear next spring, but they could carry a crop of alfalfa or even wheat.”

  “And your reservations?”

  Mr. March shrugged. “Only the expense, My Lady. It would require an extra crew of men to get it done before the winter, and we’ve already got the extra men hired for—”

  “Do it,” she cut him off. “The plan seems sound, and I agree, the tenants need access to that field by the spring.”

  “If you wish to wait for word from the earl...”

  She attempted to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I feel sure His Lordship would agree wholeheartedly with your plans, Mr. March.”

  March began rerolling his irrigation maps. “It seems you and he are in accord on everything.”

  What a joke. It was quite easy to be in accord with someone whom one never saw or spoke to. “Indeed we are.”

  “I hope to have received some preliminary bids for the hot water boilers by tomorrow. We can go over them if you like.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  He gave her a brisk, businesslike nod and left the study. She didn’t know what she’d do without his steady, stalwart presence. Mr. March was the solid center of gravity that all of Briarwood orbited around.

  After Mr. March departed, Victoria did her usual rounds of the work being done around the house, checking on progress, taking note of potential problems. Restoring Briarwood invested her with a purpose in a way she hadn’t expected. After years spent in the shadow of her mother, nothing but a vehicle for her ambition, being mistress of Briarwood Manor, commanding such a significant undertaking, was a liberation. Now each day had meaning. She had proved to be more than simply some pretty heiress. She made things happen. She was useful.

  Being mistress of her own home was as satisfying as she’d always hoped. But somehow in all those years of imagining a life with only the merest suggestion of a husband present, she never thought the reality could feel so cold and lonely. She was surrounded by people all day long, but no one, not even the steady Mr. March, was a partner to her.