Duchess Material

by Emily Sullivan

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Victorian Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

When her student goes missing, an independent bluestocking must seek the help of the arrogant duke who spurned her in this sizzling tale of romance and intrigue, perfect for fans of Netflix's Bridgerton series

Phoebe Atkinson is what society might call unconventional. Instead of marrying well like other women born to wealth, she chose to be a schoolteacher. Not to mention she lives in a leaky flat in an unfashionable part of town rather than stay in her parents’ mansion. But when her most promising pupil goes missing and the police ignore her, she has only one option: beg her sister’s best friend, the powerful Duke of Ellis, for help. If sending him a message from the police station doesn’t get his attention, nothing will.

The last thing William Margrave ever expected was to inherit a dukedom. But now that he has it, he’s determined to act the part perfectly—and that includes marrying the perfect duchess. A bluestocking Bohemian schoolteacher is decidedly not duchess material. But he can’t resist her plea for help regarding her missing student. As they fall further into the mystery, William discovers two things: that he never really got over his childhood crush on Phoebe, and he doesn’t really want to.

A “rising historical romance star.” –Booklist, starred review

Release date: November 19, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

May 1896

London, England

Will Margrave stared up at the imposing brick building and narrowed his eyes. Yet unlike with dogs, people, and even the occasional horse, his legendary glare made no impression whatsoever on the weathered edifice. It remained indifferent to his mood, which currently hovered somewhere between extreme irritation and reluctant curiosity. Around him, the pavement teamed with passersby, but everyone instinctively gave him a wide berth. They may not have known he was the Duke of Ellis, but Will always made sure his bearing radiated a certain amount of importance, wealth, and power. Such gravitas either provided an advantage or acted as a deterrent, depending on what the situation called for.

Given that he was currently standing in front of a police station, he needed all the outrageous privilege an aristocrat such as himself was bred to expect. He pulled the note that had upended his day from his pocket and read it again, though he had already memorized every word:

A Miss P. Atkinson has requested your assistance. She is currently in my custody at the Bow Street Police Station. Please come at your earliest convenience.

Regards,

Detective Inspector Holland

Phoebe Atkinson was the younger sister of his old friend Alex, who was away on a business trip in New York with their father until the end of the month. Given that, it was understandable why Phoebe had reached out to him. What remained to be seen was what kind of trouble a schoolteacher could have gotten into. Phoebe had always been rather impetuous as a girl, but that had been mere childhood mischief: stolen puddings and soiled shoes. Nothing that required the intervention of the police.

She’s a menace, Alex had once seethed after Phoebe snuck into her room. She had been looking for a book Alex insisted she didn’t have and accidentally knocked over an open bottle of ink in the process, ruining a treatise on whatever arcane subject Alex had been engrossed in that week and ensuring that Phoebe’s stained fingers marked her as the culprit.

A faint smile tugged at Will’s lips as he recalled the absolute melee that followed. Apparently age and wisdom had not dampened Phoebe’s riotous spirit. He then rolled his shoulders back and ascended the steps. Time for the duke to get to work.

When he gave his name to the gangly young officer manning the front desk, the lad’s jaw went slack for a moment.

“We were sure she was mad, asking for a duke.”

Will paused for a moment and raised an eyebrow. “No. Not mad.”

The lad then sprung from his seat and gave a quick bow. “Right this way, sir. I mean, my lord.”

“Actually, it’s Your Grace,” Will drawled.

“Of course,” the lad said with a blush. “Your Grace.”

Will would always be grateful for the many ways his title made it easier to pass through the world, but that didn’t make the gross unfairness of it all easier to swallow. However, he had learned long ago it was best to keep such complaints to himself, as those who weren’t at the top of the social ladder were often the most invested in it. Instead, he followed the young officer at a leisurely pace, as dukes did not rush for anyone—save the queen. Though the station was bustling with activity, he could still feel every eye in the room fix upon him as he passed by. They continued down a dingy hallway that smelled of damp and stopped in front of a closed door.

“The jail’s nearly full and Inspector Holland said it didn’t feel right, putting her in with the rest of the rabble. He’s familiar with the school she works at, you know. Does a lot of good for the neighborhood girls, so she’s in his office,” the young man explained as he unlocked the door. “I’ll go and fetch him for you.”

“My thanks.”

The lad gave another awkward bow and scurried off.

Now thankfully alone, Will glowered at the closed door. He was hesitating, though he couldn’t account for why. It was only Phoebe Atkinson on the other side, not some man-eating lion. And yet, Will couldn’t ignore the distinct sense of unease buzzing under his skin. He had worked very hard over the years to remove the element of surprise from his life and thus rarely found himself in unfamiliar situations he couldn’t completely control. This, however, was the closest he had come to facing the unknown in quite some time. Will did not much care for it.

He let out a huff of irritation and had just reached for the doorknob when the memory suddenly came to him, unbidden and unwelcome. It had been an afternoon in late June and the air was thick with the heady scent of Mrs. Atkinson’s prized roses. Alex and Phoebe had been busy making paper fans for a picnic they had organized for later in the week. A picnic Will could no longer attend. Alex had gone inside to fetch some lemonade, leaving the two of them in the back garden of her parents’ country estate, which bordered his own family’s property. Will spent so much time at their house as a boy that it felt like a second home, and the three Atkinson girls almost like sisters. But Phoebe had grown up while he completed his first year at Oxford, and Will had spent the last month or so trying to navigate this bewildering new development.

Even Alex had reluctantly acknowledged that her sister had become interesting. Whereas Phoebe used to beg to be included in whatever they were doing, now Alex invited her to join. Phoebe was quick-witted and full of energy and, as Will was finding it increasingly difficult not to notice, quite pretty. Cal, his younger brother, had also proved to be interesting and they became a quartet of sorts that summer. If Alex was holed up in the library or Cal was busy with his painting, Will and Phoebe would often take walks by the river together to pass the time. But as those hazy days crawled by, he found himself seeking out her company more and more. Or idly wondering what would happen when he returned to Oxford. Would she allow him to write to her? And, perhaps not quite so idly, would she write him back?

Until all that wondering came to a grinding halt.

Will had come that afternoon to break the news of his unexpected elevation from young country gentleman to duke’s heir after his father’s cousin, a man he had never even met, lost his only surviving son from injuries sustained in a bar brawl with a Sicilian sailor on the Continent—or so the story went. From what Will gathered, the recently deceased had been a roguish sort of fellow who never took his duties seriously after the death of his elder brother some years before. That brother had died of typhoid. It was hard not to think the title was cursed. Will certainly felt that way. He wanted to be a barrister like his late father—not a damned bloody duke.

But Will’s opinions on primogeniture were irrelevant. Thanks to an above average number of girl children in his generation as well as a tendency for his more promiscuous relatives to only have boys out of wedlock, not mention plain old bad luck, it appeared that Will was to have a dukedom, whether he wanted it or not. Now instead of whiling away the rest of summer in this very spot like he had planned—had been looking forward to—Will had to go to Derbyshire and meet with some crusty old man.

Phoebe had been awfully quiet since he arrived and her sole focus was on twisting the paper fan in her hands. That made Will feel even more out of sorts than he already did, so to fill this unnatural silence, he began to speak—ramble, really—about all the various properties he would one day inherit, which included an obscene chunk of Derbyshire. It was a bit daunting to list them all aloud but he hardly wanted to sound out of his depth in front of her. Bad enough to be taken by surprise by a blasted dukedom. So instead Will spoke with his usual irreverent tone. As if this were just another one of his silly larks.

I mean, really. Him a duke?

It was laughable—if it had happened to anyone else.

“I suppose that makes me rather like your Mr. Darcy now,” he said, unable to resist the chance to tease her. “Perhaps I should start attending country dances and stand in the corner looking down my nose at the rabble.” Ever since Phoebe finished the Austen novel earlier in the month she had been endlessly sighing over the hero’s quiet transformation after being delivered a set-down by the sharp-tongued heroine. Though Will had not read the book himself, he was quite tired of hearing about the handsome and so very noble Mr. Darcy who changed just for the mere hope of winning the heroine’s esteem.

The whole plot sounded like utter rubbish to him.

But Phoebe only grunted in response while keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the fan. Her face was partially obscured by the thick waves of light brown hair that hung well past her shoulders. And while it was considered unseemly for a girl of sixteen to still wear her hair down even at home, to Will she almost resembled some kind of veiled medieval maiden. This combination of indecency and modesty was strangely titillating and perhaps that was why Will couldn’t stop staring at her even as he rambled on.

What if he wrapped one of those soft tendrils around his finger? What if he then gave it a tug? He flexed his hand and pressed it against his thigh, resisting the sudden, bone-deep urge to reach for her and find out. He was so distracted by this procession of thoughts that he left a pause in his little recitation and that was when Phoebe’s head snapped up. Sprays of sunlight gleamed off the crown of her head, making her hair shine like a halo made of burnished gold. But her expression was not anything close to the innocent adoration he had been imaging. Instead, the unfamiliar contempt in her hazel gaze was like a swift blow to the chin. For a moment he wondered if he had somehow spoken one of his indecent thoughts aloud instead of the acreage of his Oxfordshire estate, but she quickly set him to rights.

“I would imagine given that you’re such a well-endowed member of the ruling class now,” Phoebe said crisply. “You’ll be far too busy doing your important dukely things to come around here very much anymore, let alone a country dance.”

Her barely veiled sarcasm at this tumultuous turn of events had quite effectively doused his fledgling desire. “You think I would so easily forget where I came from,” he said, hot with indignation. “And everyone here.”

Including you?

Phoebe matched his glare. “Why not? You can’t even be bothered to stay for our little picnic.”

“No, Phoebe,” he said through his tight jaw. “I can’t.”

Something that could have been regret flickered in her eyes, but then she threw the fan down on the table and ran inside. It could just as likely have been disgust. Will reached out and picked up the crumped paper, trying to smooth it back into shape. Then his heart sank. She had written his name on the side. Will placed the fan back on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had needed her to understand. To see what he was up against. But she was too caught up in girlish nonsense.

Because she is still a girl.

Well, Will could hardly fault her for that. A day ago he had been caught up in the very same nonsense. But now…

Let her go, cautioned the voice in his head. It will be easier this way.

But for whom?

Eventually, Alex returned with the lemonade.

She gave him a quizzical look. “Did Phoebe leave?”

“It would appear so.” Will then shrugged in an attempt to affect unconcern. “I believe she has heard enough from me.”

The feeling was extremely mutual.

Alex remained skeptical, but Will changed the subject. And that was the last they ever spoke of her.

Will rarely saw Phoebe after that beyond the occasional stilted hello at a ball during her one and only season or a passing nod at an exhibition. His social circle changed significantly once he was named as the duke’s heir and given the courtesy title of Viscount Middlefield. Nearly every day he received piles of invitations to all sorts of balls, soirees, and clubs. Schoolmates who had never given him a second glance now sought him out, while women treated him like a god among men. If Will were being very honest, he… got a little caught up in it all for the first few years.

Only his friendship with Alex remained unaffected, mostly because she didn’t give a damn about his title one way or the other. Yet whenever he crossed paths with Phoebe, however briefly, an undercurrent of irritation leftover over from that long-ago afternoon hummed between them, usually accompanied by that hint of contempt in her eyes. But Will never did make it back to the Atkinsons’ Surrey house. Not since the summer when everything changed.

It irked him now to realize Phoebe had been right.

He had been too busy with dukely things.

Will opened the door to the inspector’s office with more force than necessary and as it hit the wall with a satisfying thud, someone let out a startled yelp. It was Phoebe, standing in the center of the room dressed in a dark blue skirt and matching jacket with a striped shirtwaist. Her straw boater hat was a little askew and obscured most of her hair, which, he thought with a pang of regret, was tied back.

And he hated that he noticed.

Her mouth dropped open and her hazel eyes went wide with astonishment rather than the usual contempt. “You actually came.”

She still thought so little of him, then.

“Of course I came,” he said, unable to control the sharpness in his tone.

Phoebe looked chastened. “It’s just that Alex is away, you know. And it all happened so fast. But I really didn’t expect you to—”

“Well I’m here now,” he cut in. No need for her to elaborate any further on her utter lack of confidence in him.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important,” she said. “I know how busy you are.”

Doing dukely things.

Will pointedly looked away and adjusted his cuffs. “You did, actually.”

He decided not to mention that it had been a carriage ride through Hyde Park with Lady Gwendolyn Fairbanks, the most celebrated debutante of the season and the ideal candidate for his future duchess. This whole courting business was deuced irritating, but as his mother had become so fond of reminding him, he was nearly thirty and it was long past time to find a wife.

If it had been up to Will, they would already be betrothed, but apparently ladies liked to be wooed a little—and Lady Gwendolyn had no shortage of admirers. That meant far too much of Will’s time lately had been spent coordinating the most insipid activities around the young lady’s packed schedule. No doubt Lord Fairbanks would be furious that Will had canceled on his daughter with so little notice, but he couldn’t in good conscience ignore Miss Atkinson’s message, however much he regretted it now.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology sounded genuine enough to faintly tug at a spot in his chest.

That’s your heart, you idiot.

Will cleared his throat as he met her gaze, but he found no trace of the expected contempt.

Yes. Definitely his heart.

“No apologies necessary,” he said curtly. “Just doing what Alex would want.”

Her eyes dimmed. “Right.”

“Now then. Would you mind telling me exactly why you are in police custody?”

But just as Phoebe began to speak, the door opened again. A dark-haired man with a thick mustache and a strong jaw entered. He looked around Will’s age but had several inches and a good thirty pounds on him—all of which appeared to be muscle.

“Afternoon, Your Grace,” the man said with a brief nod while his expression remained stern. “I’m Detective Inspector Holland.”

“A pleasure,” Will replied, shaking his hand. “Miss Atkinson was just about to tell me what grave offense has landed her in your care. Surely there has been some kind of misunderstanding,” he added with an apologetic smile that the inspector did not return.

“I’m afraid not, Your Grace. She was trespassing on private property. The constable who arrested her witnessed it himself.”

Phoebe scoffed, “As I already told you, I was simply trying to locate my student.”

“According to the property’s maintenance man you were causing a disturbance,” the inspector countered. “And refused to leave.”

“I didn’t have the chance to before the constable came! And I would think the fact that a fifteen-year-old girl has completely vanished would be of far more importance to the police.”

The inspector’s impressive jaw hardened. “There are proper channels for reporting missing persons. You can’t just go around accosting people in their own homes.”

“I did no such thing,” Phoebe said hotly. “I was merely asking the other residents of the building when they had last seen her. And everyone I encountered was happy to share any information they had. Which, I believe, is your job.”

Will shifted on his feet. Alex was right. She was a menace.

Detective Inspector Holland sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I understand your concerns, Miss Atkinson. Truly, I do. But you were still trespassing and it is my job to enforce the law.”

Before Phoebe could further antagonize the man, Will intervened.

“Inspector, with all due respect, has Miss Atkinson been charged with a crime?”

The inspector reluctantly shook his head. “It’s up to the building’s owner to press further charges.”

“But until then she is free to go, correct?”

Detective Inspector Holland had a glare to rival Will’s. “As long as her fine is paid.”

“Consider it done.”

After an awkward silence, the inspector shot Phoebe a dark look before addressing Will. “Just make sure she doesn’t go near the property again.”

“Of course.”

As the inspector turned to leave, Will held out his hand, a folded banknote in his palm. “And thank you for your assistance.”

Detective Inspector Holland stared at the money before he met Will’s eyes, not even trying to hide his disgust. “As I said before, Your Grace, it is my job. Good day.”

Will stared at the inspector’s departing back and the door closed with a slam. “An honest policeman,” he murmured. “Haven’t met many of those.”

“Excuse me,” Phoebe said crisply. “But you certainly do not get to dictate where I go.”

Will turned to her. “Naturally. But I thought it would move things along if I kept up the pretense.” At her look of confusion, he arched a brow. “You do realize he probably assumed you’re my mistress.”

Phoebe’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Well, you can hardly blame him.” He held out his arm. “Why else would you have called for me?”

She stared at the appendage as if Will had offered her a writhing snake. “But what if he says something?”

Will couldn’t help bristling at her reaction to the mere thought of being his mistress. “So you were fine with being arrested, but that is a bridge too far?”

Her jaw tightened, which drew his attention to her perfectly pointed chin. “I’m not fine with any of this. But yes, I find the idea that I would be any man’s mistress appalling—let alone a duke’s,” she added under her breath.

It was an entirely reasonable sentiment for a proper young lady, and yet Will couldn’t control the resentment thundering through him. “Then try to remember that next time you get brought in,” he snapped as the hot flush of humiliation worked its way up his neck. “And I’ll make sure to ignore any future summons from the police.”

Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink as she glanced down. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to insult you. I really am grateful.”

Will cleared his throat. Her apology made him even more uncomfortable than her rejection. “Yes. Well then,” he grumbled and held out his arm again.

This time Phoebe took it without resistance. She still smelled the same, he realized. Like clean cotton. Will stared at their joined arms for a moment before meeting her gaze. The corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile. “I’d forgotten how eloquent you are.”

Will frowned as her eyes twinkled with devious delight entirely at his expense. And to his utter horror, he liked it. Quite a lot.

As the carriage pulled into traffic and headed toward her flat near Bloomsbury, Phoebe stared at Will Margrave’s commanding profile through the veil of her lashes.

No.

He could not simply be “Will” to her anymore, but the Duke of Ellis.

Your Grace.

When he first burst into the inspector’s office it had taken Phoebe a moment before she recognized him—though perhaps that wasn’t terribly surprising given how little she had seen of him these last eight years. And even when they had happened upon one another, he was usually too preoccupied with the pompous gentlemen and fawning ladies surrounding him to spare her more than a passing nod—and sometimes not even that.

His posture had been stiff and his manner imposing, like every other man who thought himself terribly important. Though she supposed it was warranted in his case, if one felt anything other than contempt for the English aristocracy. Nevertheless, the old and illustrious title he had inherited eight years ago seemed to have seeped into his very bones, snuffing out any trace of the cavalier young man with the lopsided grin who had once invaded her thoughts far more than she would ever admit—to say nothing of her heart. But then his narrow-eyed gaze had fixed upon her, setting off an irritating flare of heat as her mind caught up to what her body already knew.

He actually came.

The incident in the tenement house had unfolded rather quickly once that awful maintenance man Mr. Felton appeared. Phoebe explained that she was simply looking for her missing student Alice Clarke, but he accused her of trespassing and immediately found a constable passing by. Phoebe had only invoked the duke’s name in a last, desperate attempt to put the constable off. After all, he was the most powerful person she knew—never mind that they were barely on speaking terms. Still, Phoebe issued the command with all the outraged self-importance she could muster. She was fairly certain she even said Unhand me, like a silly maiden in a penny dreadful. But her protest had done nothing. The constable just shot her an irritated look and hauled her off to Bow Street, muttering something like Damn modern girls never know their place.

“How long has your student been missing?”

She turned at the question and met her reluctant rescuer’s eyes. They were darker inside the carriage, closer to black than brown. Or maybe it was just the way he was looking at her. A mediocre novelist might describe them as piercing, but that was the only word that came to mind. Phoebe ignored the answering shiver of interest. “A week, Your Grace.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said with a sudden scowl.

She let out a short, surprised laugh. “Why? That’s how one addresses a duke, is it not?”

He rolled his eyes. “Your sister doesn’t.”

“That’s because Alex doesn’t have any respect for the peerage.”

A very undignified snort erupted from him. “And you do?”

Phoebe had spent enough time among people who thought that because their great-great-great-grandfather had been Groom of the Stool to Charles II or some other such nonsense that they were entitled to act however they wanted whenever they wanted to whomever they wished. She and Will had once mocked such people, until he became one of them.

“Touché.” She lifted a shoulder. “Very well. I will call you Ellis. Is that better?”

“No,” he said sullenly.

She couldn’t help smiling at the trace of petulance in his tone. He didn’t really expect her to call him Will anymore, did he? That was a relic from a far different era she would rather not revisit. When nobody knew he would become a duke and Phoebe could still delude herself into desperately hoping these feelings weren’t hers alone.

“But Ellis is your title.”

He gave an unduke-like shrug and turned back to the window. “I’d prefer Margrave.”

Then he fell into a short brooding silence and Phoebe was grateful she could look freely upon him for a moment. As the carriage took a turn, a beam of late afternoon sunshine illuminated his face to devastating effect and drew attention to his sharp cheekbones. Really, it was outrageous that a man would possess such cheekbones. One could allow the chiseled jaw and the full lips, but the cheekbones were simply too much. A lock of his thick, dark hair fell across his forehead and as Will absently pushed it back, Phoebe’s heart twinged at the familiarity of the movement. She wasn’t sure what angered her more, that he still retained the mannerisms of h. . .