Page 2 of Three Rules to Wed a Duke

“I do hope so,” Frances replied with a smile. “I live here with my aunt and uncle?”

The man squinted at her for a few seconds before a bright grin lit up his face.

“Is it really you, Miss Turner? Look-a here, how’re ya all grown up after all this time?” he asked, stepping back to admire her.

“It’s been a number of years. But you’re looking well, Mr. Jeffers,” she told the gardener. “And Mrs. Jeffers? Is she well?”

The old man’s smile faltered and he looked away briefly. He coughed and shook his head before turning his attention back to Frances.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Jeffers is no longer with us. Caught a terrible cough last winter that settled in her chest. Never did get better, and it weren’t long before—”

“Oh, Mr. Jeffers. How clumsy of me! I’m so very sorry to hear it,” Frances said in earnest, seething at the notion that no one had written to tell her. How could they not have informed her of the passing of someone who’d been with the family for such a long time? Did they truly think she had no need of hearing about it?

“Well, it’s all behind us now,” the gardener said, brightening once more. “Here, let me put these things down and I’ll get that trunk for ya.”

“Oh no, it’s no trouble. I can manage it! Well, perhaps if you could get one handle, I’ll take the other side.”

Together, Frances and Mr. Jeffers hoisted all of her worldly belongings to the front door. Instead of pushing it open, he lowered his end of her trunk to the ground and stepped back, hanging his head slightly.

“Her Ladyship is rather particular about who comes and goes through the front, ya know,” he said sheepishly, going back down the steps. “Mr. Robbins will help ya from here.”

Before Frances could even thank him, the gardener returned to his tools and disappeared to the far side of the property.

That’s right. Who could forget Her Ladyship’s “rules” for the house?Frances thought with irritation.

Frances blew out a breath in frustration, causing the wisps of dark mahogany curls that framed her pale face to dance briefly. She looked at the door for several moments, unsure of what to do. Should she simply go in? After all, this had been her home ever since the terrible accident when she was but ten. But she had lived at school for nearly as long as she had lived here. So, shouldn’t she knock and wait to be admitted?

Fortunately, she was spared having to decide. The door opened of its own volition, or at least thanks to the help of another welcoming resident.

“Miss Turner, how wonderful to see you back at home,” Mr. Robbins said, bowing formally.

“Thank you, Robbins. It’s good to be home,” Frances answered, hoping it didn’t sound like too much of a lie.

The butler turned and waved to a footman to come fetch the trunk, and a maid darted forward to collect Frances’ bag.

“Am I still in my same room?” Frances asked quietly, and the butler shook his head.

“No, my lady. Lady Hutchings has put you in the south gable,” he answered, barely concealing his disappointment and disdain.

So, that’s how it’s to be. The unwanted relation squirreled away beneath the eaves, sure to be miserably uncomfortable so she makes quick work of finding a husband and getting out of the way, Frances thought with a smirk.

“Now Robbins, we’ve discussed this,” she said, shaking off the unpleasant news. “I’m no lady. I’m merely Frances Turner.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but your father was the Earl of Quilby. That makes you the daughter of an earl, and a lady, as an earl is of a higher rank than… oh, say, a viscount? Never forget that,” the butler reminded her quietly. He looked around before leaning closer and adding, “And never let anyone else forget it, either.”

“I shall do my best,” she replied with a sly grin.

“Welcome home, Miss Turner,” he said once again. “I will inform the family that you have arrived.”

Once again, Frances was at a loss. Was she to wait in the drawing room to be received? Should she follow the servants with her things up to her room, such as it was?How terrible to be a stranger and a burden in my own home!she thought bitterly, looking around and wondering what she should do.

If Aunt Bridget had bothered to write to her more than once or twice a year, she might have had a better mind of these things. As it was, Frances had been packed off to school from the moment there had been word of an opening for her. The few years she’d spent here before that day seemed so long ago, nearly a world away.

“Oh, there you are,” Lady Hutchings said several minutes later, her nasally voice grating on Frances’ already worn nerves. Her dry tone matched her indifferent expression.

“Yes, I’ve arrived. It’s good to see you, Aunt Bridget,” Frances said, curtseying slightly. This seemed to brighten the woman’s mood a little.

“We had to move you to another room now that you’redeterminedto stay here,” she said, emphasizing the word a little too much.

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