A Duchess for the Duke

Gregory Dinard, a young and inexperienced duke, finds himself in need of a companion to help him navigate the intricacies of his new role. Uncertain of his abilities and unwilling to take a chance at love, he looks for a marriage of mutual benefit rather than a match of mutual affection.

A woman of grace and intelligence, Lady Cecilia never expects to catch a duke’s eye. Despite her surprise, she agrees to the arrangement when the duke proposes an alliance with her, knowing it would allow her the freedom and opportunity to explore her love of architecture.

As they embark on their new life together, Gregory discovers both an affection for and an undeniable attraction to his wife that he cannot ignore. But can a practical marriage become something more, or will he face a future of unrequited love for his duchess?

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In this prequel novella to the Regency romance series, Clairvoir Castle Romances, you are invited to see how it all began with a duke, his duchess, and an old stone castle.

This novella can be enjoyed on its own, but those familiar with the Clairvoir Castle Romances will find the story of the duke and duchess especially satisfying. This is a sweet romance, kisses and closed door only.

May 1791

The quiet crackle of the fire in the library’s hearth was the only sound aside from the scratching of Gregory’s quill. Even in London, most of the world slept at this late hour. Except for him. The weight of the mantel he wore, the lists of all he must see to in a given day, kept him from finding rest. He existed alone in the silence with his thoughts. 

Until his mother strode into the room without so much as a knock on the door. She had reminded him only recently that duchesses did not knock in their own homes. Perhaps he should employ a servant to do so for her.

“I must speak with you before you find yet another reason to delay my chosen topic.” The duchess clutched at her black-lace handkerchief, her head held at a regal angle. She hadn’t entirely put off her black mourning for the late duke, even a year after his death.

Gregory Dinard, the current Duke of Montfort, dropped his pen on the blotter and rose to his feet. “Mother.” He came around his desk and gestured to a chair near the fire. “Come, sit down. I thought you had gone to bed.”

“I had.” She glided through the room toward him, as beautiful at forty-three as she had been the day her wedding portrait to the Fourth Duke of Montfort—Gregory’s father—had been commissioned. “Yet no sooner did my head touch my pillow than I realized this moment is the perfect opportunity to have this conversation with you. Out of respect for your father, and all you have had to learn and adjust as you have filled his role, I have remained silent. Now here we are, a year and a month since his death. It is time for you to move forward, Montfort.”

His insides chilled when she addressed him by his father’s title. It still did not suit him. He shuddered, then tried to cover the response by turning away from her. The topic she wished to address held no mystery for him. She wanted him to find a wife. She’d been hinting at it for weeks.

Better to put her off again.

“That is precisely what I have worked toward, Mother.” He gestured to the desk he had vacated a moment before. “I have taken my place in the House of Lords.” And how he hated that no one took him seriously. At only four and twenty, everyone saw him as too young and idealistic, despite his passionate nature. Even if he was one of the most powerful men in the room. And even though their current prime minister had taken on his role at the same age. “All our affairs are in order. The ducal lands are solvent.”

He let his gaze wander to the fireplace, its black stone reflecting the heat into the otherwise cold room. A room he tried and failed to feel comfortable within every time he sat down to work.

She tutted, bringing his gaze back to her. The duchess wrapped her black shawl more snuggly around her shoulders. “More than solvent. You are one of the wealthiest men in England.”

Gregory spread his hands, palm up. “What more would you have me accomplish, Mother?”

She tipped her chin up—a stubborn chin she had passed on to her son and two daughters. “Marry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A duke should beg no one’s pardon.”

“Mother.” Gregory resisted the urge to tug at his hair—a habit he had given up when he’d entered Lords. He’d powdered his hair rather than wear a wig that would make him itch all the day long. Now he rather wished to reverse that decision. “Now is not the time to bring a new duchess into the family.”

He knew well enough that the woman his parents had intended for him was…well…not a woman yet. They had informed their son he would wed when he reached thirty, and his father had pointed out a friend’s daughter as the bride. A daughter who would be eighteen when Gregory reached thirty, and she certainly wasn’t ready for marriage now. 

He never worked out how to refuse his father’s demands before the duke had died, making it a moot point. Since taking on the role of duke himself, he’d given no thought to marriage. A duchess required as much grooming as a duke, except they usually had less time to train for the position. Gregory had prepared his whole life, and he still felt lost. 

“It is the perfect time,” his mother countered, speaking with all the authority her role allowed. “You may help one another to learn your duties, and I am still here to assist. If your father’s passing proved anything to us, it is that people can be taken from this life in an unexpected instant.”

His father had been a robust gentleman of fifty-seven. Hardly young. Yet he hadn’t been ill a day in his life, and then one morning he did not wake up. At least he had died in his sleep, instead of with a wasting disease. He never would have stood for growing slowly weaker. Not a man like the late duke, as full of thunder as a hurricane.

Gregory did not bother concealing his exhaustion from his mother. At past two in the morning, she had to be as tired as him. “I am certain you have all manner of arguments for your point, Your Grace. Must we discuss them tonight?”

“No. I will continue to make my point tomorrow. Tonight, I wish you to consider the candidate I have in mind for you.”

He was too tired to be surprised she had already chosen her ideal future daughter-in-law. To be sure she and he were of a mind on at least one thing, he said, “Not Lady Charlotte, I hope.”

“That child?” She sounded scandalized. 

“I am relieved we feel the same about that.”

“She was your father’s choice, not mine. Some foolish idea he had with that Prussian friend of his.” She snorted. “No. You need someone nearer your age. The world will thrust her into the role as you were into yours. We need a woman of maturity, in spirit if not in body.”

That sounded rather dull to him, but less alarming than the alternative. “Whom do you have in mind?”

“Lady Cecilia Boxbury.”

The name conjured a vague memory of a dark-haired woman with deep blue eyes. He remembered the words she had spoken to him better than he remembered her appearance. Though her eyes stood out in his memory, given the unusual hue. He tried to sketch in the missing details of her features and failed. Where had they met? A dinner, perhaps. 

Everything he’d done in the past year outside of Lords and his private office was a blur. Social engagements that did not further political ambitions were easily forgotten. 

Except what she had said to him that night. The way she had spoken about his father’s loss had given him pause.

“The Earl of Cromer’s daughter?” he asked at last.

“Of course.” The duchess rose to her feet without warning, and he hastily did the same. “She is a perfect candidate. Her mother is the daughter of an Austrian princess, you know.”

“Is she?” A distant relative to royalty would suit most members of the nobility, but as a duke, he could likely marry a princess in her own right. “I am surprised you were not considering the children and grandchildren of the crown heads of Europe.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” She sniffed. “If the Americans and French have taught us anything, it is that we cannot trust foreign alliances for our future. It is best to look at home for what we need, whether it is British goods or British wives.” 

Gregory nearly chuckled but doubted his mother would appreciate any humor he found in a statement she made with such sobriety. “Let me escort you to your chambers, Mother.”

“Thank you.” She took his arm, and he led them from the study into the darkened house. A few servants were awake, stationed at the end of corridors in case the family had need of them. They were sentries as much as they were footmen, too. The men were able-bodied, former members of the British Navy. Used to following orders to the letter. 

Dukes were not untouchable by virtue of their titles alone. His father had employed a personal guard for many years. More than once, the family had been grateful for that. 

Best to think on more pleasant topics so close to seeking his bed.

“Lady Cecilia,” he murmured as they went down the hall. “How did she catch your eye?”

“We both attended Lady Jersey’s afternoon lecture. She hosted that Mary Wollstonecraft woman. Now there is someone with radical ideas, especially for one so young.” She chuckled. 

“I am surprised you would allow yourself to be in the same room with her, especially after what she wrote about Marie Antoinette.” 

“I thought to try what you are always encouraging, Montfort. As you put it, I may disagree with someone and still find interest in what they have to say. I thought it would delight your youthful political sensibilities to know your mother keeps such low company.” She raised her eyebrows with a superior twist to her lips. “Never mind about Wollstonecraft. Lady Cecilia attended with an older sister. We sat near one another, and I heard much of their whispered conversation. People tend to think that women over forty must be deaf.” She sniffed. “I found her interesting, and I made inquiries.” 

Which meant Gregory had to do the same, with his mother’s mind set on the woman as a candidate for duchess. “I will arrange a conversation with her father.”

“Not yet.” The current duchess released his arm as they had arrived at her door. “You had better form an impression of her first. She is coming tomorrow for tea, in the garden. I will inform you when she arrives.” She tilted her head, presenting him with her cheek.

Too startled to act on more than habit, Gregory kissed his mother’s cheek and bid her goodnight. Then he found himself alone in the corridor of their London house. Staring into the dark. 

He had prepared all his life to become a duke. He’d never stopped to consider how to prepare himself to take a duchess. A wife. Likely a scheming, power-hungry woman, unable to see past his title and her own ambition.

“God help me.” He whispered his plea into the shadows. No one but God could know how ill-prepared he was for his role. Because a duke never showed weakness or indecision. He couldn’t afford to. Not even to his duchess.

He squared his shoulders. It was up to him to find the right woman for the role. If his mother’s favored lady fit the bill, then Gregory would not dither in his decision. He would make her his duchess as he did everything else—with surety and purpose.