Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess Read online

  About His Wayward Duchess A marriage most inconvenient…

  When Sylvester Pontridge unexpectedly inherits the family estate and becomes the Duke of Strathavon, he decides to enter into a marriage of convenience with the plain, practical Miss Holly Millforte. Who better to help him set the crumbling estate to rights?

  But Miss Millforte is much more than Sylvester, or even she herself, could ever imagine! When Holly turns the tables on him, charming London society and stealing his heart into the bargain, can their marriage take a most inconvenient turn towards love instead?

  An old-fashioned comedy of manners in which adventure, blackmail, rakish cousins and true love abound…

  His Wayward Duchess Lady Adventuress Book 1

  by Daphne du Bois

  Kindle Edition

  ***

  Copyright © 2014 Daphne du Bois

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Dear Readers,

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  If you enjoyed His Wayward Duchess:

  Fantasy Books as Emily de Courcy

  Prologue

  “I don’t think you mean to marry at all. Whatever for? You’re not the leg-shackle type, my friend,” said the Earl of Avonbury, regarding the Duke of Strathavon through his modish gold quizzing glass. “Why give up your thirty five years of freedom? It’s all some new prank. Confess. Did Bettenhall put you up to this? You were never the least bit matrimonially inclined.”

  Sylvester Pontridge, the eighth Duke of Strathavon, and his cousin were stopped in Hyde Park, while their horses munched on some scraggy grass, though it was not yet the hour of fashionable promenade: this was how the duke preferred it.

  Strathavon looked back steadily into his cousin’s faintly scornful face, his blue-eyed gaze unwavering.

  “I never had reason to be the least bit matrimonially inclined before. It is, you’ll find, one of the perks of being born a younger son with a respectable income. But now there is Pontridge, and the other estates, to be run, and when my brother was…” he broke off, staring past Avonbury and into some earlier time.

  The earl, sensing Strathavon’s melancholy, strove to change the subject. “Well, possibly, though I am still not entirely convinced. But whom will you marry? You have no bride in mind that I have heard of. Has some charming young thing captured that rakish heart of yours?”

  It was not precisely true that Lord Strathavon was a rake, at least not since his younger days, when he had fully indulged the spirit of the Grand Tour. But Avonbury very much enjoyed teasing him about it, regardless. Such romantic escapades and notorious shenanigans seemed now to be far in the duke’s past as he grimly took up the family seat.

  Following the untimely death of his brother, he was a little too prone to antisocial brooding for anything like rakish behaviour. A reputation, however, once made, tended to stick no matter what one actually did.

  Strathavon looked up just in time to see a young lady walk past, deep in conversation with her companion, and looking defiant.

  Her brown locks were dreadfully out of fashion and her dress was extremely plain, yet she was clearly every inch a lady. Her expression was momentarily painted with such impressive stubbornness that he was absolutely captivated.

  He wondered what it was that had put her so visibly out of temper.

  If he listened carefully, he could just about make out her words.

  “But how can I, mama? It isn’t in the least bit fair, and what a dreadful bore,” she was saying to the handsome middle aged woman next to her. “I cannot flutter a fan if my life depended on it – I shall look a right fool…”

  The duke did not catch the end of the conversation, but something about her mulish expression under a plain straw bonnet stuck with him.

  “Strathavon?” his cousin repeated.

  “Why, that one,” he told Avonbury casually, indicating the passing lady with a tilt of his head.

  Avonbury turned around to look after the young woman.

  “Which do you mean?” He followed his cousin’s gaze. “Surely not the one in drab green.”

  “The very same.”

  “You must be properly shot in the neck! Too early for brandy isn’t it?”

  “I assure you, I am perfectly sober.”

  “And what would you want with some dull country miss? She will spend her days breeding spaniels and making you miserable. Who is she?”

  “Why, I haven’t the faintest notion,” said the duke loftily. “But I shall find out.”

  Chapter 1

  “Your Grace,” said the footman politely, as he handed the new Duchess of Strathavon down from her carriage.

  The vehicle was tasteful, perfectly matching the ancestral grace of the Strathavon name, and the new duchess balked at thinking of the ancient coat of arms, which was emblazoned on the doors, as her own.

  The wedding carillon of St George’s in Hanover Square still rang in her ears: the whole day had felt like a peculiar fancy, or some kind of carnival where time rushes past in a startling blur.

  Holly took a deep breath of fresh country air and tried to steady her nerves, forcing down the growing sense of uncertainty that had been building within her for the duration of the journey.

  At least the air was more or less the same no matter where you went, provided you stayed in the country. Her heart was suddenly pounding in her ears and she took in the grounds stretching on indefinitely either side of the house.

  The sound of a second carriage, this one loaded with trunks, broke the quiet morning stillness, and Holly was very glad for this intrusion of the mundane into what felt like a very strange dream.

  As the duke followed her out of the vehicle, she paused a moment to take in the elegant splendour of Pontridge Abbey and couldn’t help the slight shiver that went down her spine.

  The house was beautiful, but most of the windows were dark, and it seemed grim and lonely in the gloaming. Forgotten, almost.

  Pontridge Abbey sat on a hill, surrounded by parkland and a medieval stone wall, which gave it a sense of being set apart from the world.

  This was not strictly accurate, Holly reminded herself: they had driven past a perfectly cosy little village not a half-hour’s walk across the demesne lands of the vast estate.

  There was also a vicarage and a chilly-looking squat Norman church. There had even been a cheerful, swift-running little river with a tiny delicately arching bridge.

  The duke, her new husband, had informed her that it was called Pontridge Brook. She even saw a man working in the gardens of the stone gatehouse lodge that sat next to the village road and the estate farm.

  The steward’s house, lit up from the inside, had looked warm and cheerful in the sorry light, and Holly had wished that that was their destination. Thinking of ducal houses suddenly made her feel a little ill.

  She was being silly. The Abbey was a perfectly charming structure that combined Queen Anne architecture with elegant modern columns – it only wanted some sunlight to make it
perfectly welcoming. But if she were honest, the house itself was not really to blame for her growing unease.

  The very idea of having a husband was not one she had ever really considered. How did one go on?

  Taking a slow, deep breath Holly straightened her dress with her gloved hands, a nervous gesture her governess had always disliked.

  “My dear, if you please,” her new husband’s low voice interrupted her contemplation of the house and gave her a second shiver, though this one was entirely more pleasing than the first.

  The duke did have a marvellously entrancing voice.

  Holly accepted his proffered arm, secretly enjoying this small gesture. She allowed herself to be ushered into the grand pile that was to be her new home, thankfully stepping out of the light but persistent drizzle that was such a common feature of English weather.

  They entered the grand house through a tall front door, into a vast marble entrance hall, with a high worked plaster ceiling. The central hallway seemed to stretch on from there, and a principal stairway ascended into the upper floors.

  Holly felt much too nervous to properly admire the house, however, as the Pontridge staff were quietly lined up in the entrance hall, in expectation of meeting their new duchess.

  The housekeeper and the steward were introduced first as Mrs and Mr Tomkins, and then Farley, the butler, and followed by various maids and footmen, the head cook and myriad other members of Strathavon’s formidable domestic force of thirty two.

  They smiled at Holly and welcomed her to Pontridge.

  “I hope you will find the house to your satisfaction, Your Grace,” said Mrs Tomkins warmly.

  Startled once again at being addressed by this strange appellation, Holly hoped her own smile was neither wan nor wobbly. “Thank you, Mrs Tomkins – I am very certain that I shall,” she said, somewhat relieved at this show of friendliness.

  Holly did her best to remember names and faces, but her usually excellent memory for people seemed to fail her at this key moment. It was all just too much to take in at once.

  The staff watched her with looks of curiosity and silent assessment, and Holly wondered what they made of the new lady of Pontridge Abbey. She only wished that she might have endeavoured to look less road-weary and crumpled.

  The butler seemed to have planned for this eventuality, however: once introductions were made, Farley ordered that a footman take her ladyship’s cloak and a hot posset be sent up to her rooms. Her Grace would want her rest after so arduous a journey.

  “Thank you, Farley,” Holly said, with another attempt at a smile. After all, one should never be less than civil to one’s staff no matter how tired one happened to be. It was poor leadership, her eldest brother would say. Her mama would say it was a sign of poor breeding.

  The introduction was obviously Holly’s very first failing as the mistress of the house: she arrived at the house looking an utter mess, and promptly forgot the names of just about everyone.

  The problem was that, despite the fact that her mother had already ordered her new stationery, Holly didn’t really feel at all like a duchess. Surely, it had to feel very different from being the ordinary and dependable Miss Holly Millforte.

  She’d always felt such a title would come with panache and gravitas. But it was telling that, unlike most other duchesses, she had been sensible even in such things as the purchase of her wedding gown.

  The gown in question had been made for her by the village seamstress, to be worn for best afterwards: no exotic French silks for the very practically brought-up Miss Millforte.

  She wondered if the silks would have helped her feel the part of a great dame. Was she too young to start wearing turbans?

  Whenever she could spare a moment from her scholarly interests, Holly’s mama had made a point of bringing her up without any grand match in mind. She was the daughter of a poor bookish baronet, after all, and almost certainly destined for no greater fate than becoming the wife of a vicar, or of some such other country person.

  With this in mind, Holly had been permitted to spend the best part of her nineteen years happily gambolling about the country with her siblings and assisting Lady Millforte in domestic matters, at which she had always excelled.

  Yet now, most unexpectedly, she found herself faced with all the arduous tasks and duties of a duchess: if she only had the faintest notion of what these might entail.

  And, worst of all, the duke did not seem to have given this problem any thought at all. To be fair, the whole marriage had been a very rushed affair.

  They had been married by special licence in St George’s just that morning, after a courtship of less even than the customary minimum of one month.

  Strathavon had insisted that he was too tied up in matters concerning the restoration of his estate: no time could be wasted in contracting the match and arranging for the special licence.

  They’d partaken of a short wedding breakfast at Millforte Court. It had seemed to Holly that Lord Strathavon was talked at by every Millforte sibling at once, despite their father’s imprecations. After the meal, the couple swiftly departed for Pontridge.

  Leaving any later would have meant having to put up at a post-house for the night and the duke had deemed any such arrangement highly inefficient.

  Holly supposed that society would simply assume that they were so much in love that the duke had been unable to wait a day longer to bring home his cherished bride. Even she had presumed that some affection must have influenced his marital choice. Affection, after all, had been her primary reason for accepting his offer.

  Her despairing governess had warned Holly at length about her unfortunate habit of making unfounded assumptions – building castles in her head. Now Holly thought that the old harridan had been right after all.

  She had seen entirely what she had wanted to see, for Strathavon had given no indication of any affection beyond the standard genteel politeness: he liked her well enough, she supposed, and her wishful imagination had supplied the rest.

  Holly had been wearing the willow from the moment she set eyes on the handsome, clever and remote Duke of Strathavon.

  She had never been a believer in a love that struck so suddenly, but something about his spirit had called to hers, had created an undeniable connection. She had done her utmost to deny such nonsense at first, but her efforts hadn’t been any good.

  What business had she falling in love with so grand a gentleman? But love had a way of seeping around the edges of denial.

  If pressed, Holly could not have said what it was that had struck her so about the mysterious duke: his countenance, his straight bearing, his sharp, intelligent eyes or the wry smile with which he faced most societal interactions.

  “You would do me the greatest honour imaginable, Miss Millforte, if you would consent to becoming my wife,” he had said, with all the gentle consideration which, to her eyes, had heralded nothing less than a man very much in love, if one not entirely able to show his ardour in a more obvious display.

  Holly knew all about gentlemen being unable to show their ardour: it was in every romantic play she had ever seen.

  And Strathavon had not minded her modest marriage portion, lack of pretty society manners, or even her boisterous relations.

  She couldn’t help smiling slightly as she remembered the amusement with which he had watched her passel of siblings escort her to the waiting carriage.

  They had shamelessly indulged in some last-minute good-natured teasing, promises (and threats) to visit, and entreaties to write. There had even been some tears from Holly’s youngest sister, Arabella.

  Despite assurances that Holly would visit as often as possible, Arabella felt that Holly might as well be going to live on the moon as in Pontridge Abbey. She knew Pontridge to be in Gloucestershire and by the sea, which made it intolerably far away.

  The duke had borne all this with surprising good humour. He seemed to have earned the approval of Holly’s siblings by promising that they may indeed visit
. He permitted John to have a look at the Pontridge library, and agreed to teach Henry and Arabella the sword when they were older.

  Mary, their old housekeeper, came out to wish the young lady well and happy.

  At last, the duke had handed his new wife into the carriage and the couple drove off. Soon, they’d turned with the drive and the house, along with her vast family, was well out of sight. If the duke had been overwhelmed by this show of familial sentiment, his good breeding did not permit him to show it, and instead he’d asked Holly questions about the house and the grounds.

  “I’m afraid that you will find Pontbridge in disarray,” Strathavon had said as the countryside rolled by beyond the carriage window. “I have only just begun setting it to rights after my brother’s passing, and Maximillian was never much good at estate management.”

  Holly had remembered hearing that Strathavon’s older brother was killed in the Fourth Coalition late the previous year, after having been promoted from the position of aide de camp under General Mackenzie, and that the duke was only just out of mourning.

  She could not ignore the note of warmth that had crept into his voice at the mention of his brother.

  “Naturally, you will be able to draw on any funds you require to restore the house.”

  While eminently practical, such was not the conversation Holly had ever thought to hear from her new husband the very first time they were on their own, embarking on their life together. She had not known how to respond.

  If he were one of her friends or siblings, she might have teased him gently out of such a serious mood, but as it were, she couldn’t guess how he would take it. And she did not wish to start off the first day of married life with a quarrel.

  Suddenly, there was an unbreachable chasm between them, which she could not ignore. Had she made a terrible mistake?

  In the last few weeks, she had been completely caught up in being the recipient of so astonishing an offer of marriage. There had been the hasty wedding preparations to be made and then she had been distracted with parting from everything she had ever known in favour of this strange new life.