Page 1 of The Duke's Return
CHAPTER 1
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Genevieve nodded to her housekeeper before collecting the offered collection of letters at her desk in the side room attached to the library. “Good morning, Mrs. Culpepper. Fine morning, is it not?”
“It’s a quiet one, to be sure.”
“And quiet mornings are lovely, at least to me. I know you would love nothing more than something terrible to happen so you might fix it,” she teased. “Shall I turn the footmen against one another so you might amuse yourself?”
Primming her bonnet, the elderly housekeeper nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.”
“Very well. Then I shan’t say a word about what I heard in the laundry yesterday morning,” Genevieve said casually while separating her correspondence neatly into three piles.
With an efficient bully of a housekeeper helping run the Southwick townhouse, Genevieve could keep her days organizeddown to the minute. It had been nearly a year already of living here, a duchess without her duke. And she had come to adore it.
“The laundry, you said?” Mrs. Culpepper leaned forward slightly while wiping an invisible smudge off the corner of the desk. “It wasn’t about Samuel, was it?”
Genevieve fought back the urge to smile.
And then she decided that she could. Because this was her household, her home, and her life. There was no one here to tell her what to do. Her husband was gone, and her mother never came to visit. With her sisters’ futures secured with hefty dowries and a dukedom at their back, Genevieve could rest easy while taking care of her household.
She could even gossip.
“No, our new stableboy fares very well. I think he wishes to become a tiger in the near future, but he’ll need to get stronger first. Rather…” She paused dramatically. “it was about Hodgkin.”
The housekeeper jerked back. “The head gardener? What about him?”
“I… oh.”
Genevieve frowned at the last of the letters, greatly annoyed by the sight of the Harcourt signature. She didn’t think she would ever grow used to it. Especially not with all the cousins and aunts and uncles forever barging in to demand her time or attention or money. Sometimes all three. That always gave her a migraine.
“You could turn them away, you know,” Mrs. Culpepper said in a mutter. She nudged the tray closer. “You’ve not finished your porridge. Is it too cold?”
“I was merely distracted, no, my apologies. And I cannot turn family away at the door. It would be cruel. Besides, if they were to write to the duke, who knows what he might say?” Genevieve groused in frustration. He never wrote. At least, not to her. Only his secretaries and solicitors, who reached out to her when necessary.
Which is never.
“Then you’re only letting them make you more miserable,” noted the housekeeper. “Now, what is it about Hodgkin? He’s not hiding flasks in the pots again, is he?”
Genevieve forgot herself for a moment as she read the letter, learning it was from her husband’s third aunt. Or fourth? Perhaps it was the fifth, the youngest. She had memorized much of Debrett’s but struggled with his family line the most. As for this letter…
“He’s writing poetry, that’s all,” she murmured while reading the letter again. Growing dizzy, she sat down. “Oh dear. This can’t be. I cannot…”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Is this truly happening? Perhaps I knew this day would come, but I’m not ready. I don’t know what I’ll do.
“Your Grace? Your Grace, I told you not to let the nerves win. You must eat up. Is something wrong? Are you ill?” Mrs. Culpepper fretted as she came around the desk.
Genevieve groaned before letting the paper fall from her fingertips. “No. But it would appear the duke may be returning. He’s recently finished his service to the Crown and may arrive in the coming days.”
Gaping, the old woman ignored propriety to pick up the letter and read for herself. But Genevieve didn’t mind; she had relied greatly on this housekeeper upon her arrival here on her wedding day. The woman had once been a governess and now helped her keep a tidy house.
Which was appreciated, since this was where Genevieve preferred to be. She only went out for visiting hours once a week perhaps. Then twice a week she accepted no visitors, not even the Harcourt family. Those visits were always so terribly tight-lipped with pitying looks. She loathed them.
But these were peaceful days. Perfect days. She spent these days at home, buried in books that she had come to adore reading. Gothic novels, tender romances, and fascinating histories had her forgetting herself for days at a time. Then she might garden or paint afterward should it be her heart’s desire.
“Remarkable news!” Mrs. Culpepper cried. She set down the paper neatly before Genevieve. “Oh, you’ll be glad of it, I know, Your Grace. You’ve enjoyed yourself all this time. But just wait until you have your husband at your side.”
“Yes. It will be…”
