Project Duchess

Book 1: Duke Dynasty

by Sabrina Jeffries

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Regency Romance

Synopsis

From New York Times best-selling author Sabrina Jeffries comes a sparkling new series about an oft-widowed mother's grown children who blaze through society in their quest for the truth about their fathers...and in the process find that love just might conquer all.... A series of stepfathers and a difficult childhood have left Fletcher "Grey" Pryde, fifth duke of Greycourt, with a guarded heart, enviable wealth, and the undeserved reputation of a rogue. Grey's focus on expanding his dukedom allows him little time to find a wife. But when his mother is widowed yet again and he meets the charmingly unconventional woman managing his stepfather's funeral, he's shocked to discover how much they have in common. Still, Grey isn't interested in love, no matter how pretty, or delightfully outspoken, the lady.... Beatrice Wolfe gave up on romance long ago, and the arrogant duke of Greycourt with his rakish reputation isn't exactly changing her mind. Then Grey agrees to assist his grief-stricken mother with her latest "project": schooling spirited, unfashionable Beatrice for her debut. Now that Beatrice is seeing through Grey's charms to his wounded heart, she's having trouble keeping him at arm's length. But once Grey starts digging into her family's secrets, she must decide whether her loyalties lie with her family...or with the man whose lessons capture her heart....

Release date: June 25, 2019

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

London, September 1808

One fine autumn afternoon, Fletcher Pryde, 5th Duke of Greycourt, strode up the steps of his Mayfair town house, caught up in thinking through his business affairs. Which was probably why he missed the speaking look on his butler’s face as he stalked through the doorway.

“Your Grace, I feel it is my duty to make you aware that—”

“Not now, Johnston. I’ve got a dinner at eight, and I hope to catch old Brierly at his club before then. He’s unloading property near my Devon estate that I must have if I’m to continue my improvements. And I have reports I have to peruse before I can even talk to him.”

“More land, Grey?” said a decidedly young, female voice. “Sometimes I think you shop for properties as eagerly as women shop for gowns. Judging from your reputation for shrewd dealing, you probably pay less for them, too.”

Grey whirled toward the sound. “Vanessa!” He scowled over at Johnston. “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?”

His butler lifted his eyes a fraction, as close as the man ever came to rolling them. “I did try, sir.”

“Ah. Right. I suppose you did.”

Grey smiled indulgently at Vanessa Pryde. At twenty-four, she was ten years his junior and more like a little sister than a first cousin.

He removed his hat, driving gloves, and greatcoat before handing them to the footman. Grey didn’t recognize the servant, who was gawking at Vanessa like a pauper at a princess. The footman’s fascination was understandable, given her heart-shaped face, perfect proportions, and wealth of jet-black curls, but it was also most inappropriate.

Grey cast the fellow one of the quelling glances at which he excelled.

When the footman colored and hurried off, Johnston stepped up to murmur, “Sorry, Your Grace. He’s new. I will be sure to speak to him.”

“See that you do.” Then he turned his attention to Vanessa, who didn’t even seem to have noticed the exchange. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You ought to have been, Cousin.” With an elaborate curtsey, Vanessa flashed him a mischievous smile. “Or should I say, ‘prospective fiancé’?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he grumbled. Every time he tried to think of himself married to Vanessa, he remembered her as a babe in swaddling, being held by her father, his uncle Eustace Pryde, and he knew he couldn’t do it. He’d seen her grow up—he couldn’t imagine her as his wife.

Fortunately, she had no desire to marry him, either. Which was why whenever her ambitious mother sent her over here with instructions to get him into a compromising position so they could be forced into marriage, they spent most of the time drumming up a plausible reason for why Vanessa had “just missed him.”

“Don’t worry.” Vanessa gave a little laugh. “My maid is with me. As usual, she will swear to whatever excuse we concoct for Mama. So come join us for tea and cakes in the drawing room.”

Leave it to Vanessa to take charge of his household. As they strolled down the hall, he said, “You look well.”

Preening a bit, she danced ahead and whirled to face him, forcing him to halt as she swished her skirts about her legs. “So you like my new gown? I won’t tell Mama. She picked it out herself to tempt you. I told her yellow was your favorite color.”

“I hate yellow.”

Her blue eyes twinkled at him. “Precisely.”

A helpless laugh escaped him. “You, my dear, are a hoyden. If you would put a tenth of the energy you expend in provoking your mother into hunting down a husband, you’d have twenty men begging to marry you.”

Her spirits seemed to droop. “I already have that. But you know how Mama is. Until you are off the table, she won’t allow me to accept a lesser man’s suit.” She wagged her finger at him. “So will you please get married? To anyone other than me? Or I shall surely die an old maid.”

“That will never happen to you, and we both know it.” He narrowed his gaze on her. “Wait a minute—is there someone in particular you have your eye on?”

Her blush alarmed him. Vanessa had terrible taste in men.

“Who is he?” he demanded.

She tipped up her chin. “I’m not going to tell you.”

“Because you know I’d disapprove, which means he’s entirely wrong for you.”

“He is not. He’s a poet.”

Damn. Vanessa needed to marry a poet about like he needed to learn to cook. Then again . . . “A famous poet?” he asked hopefully. If the fellow had money, it could work. Anyone who married Vanessa would need pots of money, if only to keep up with her gown purchases.

She turned and marched on to the drawing room. “He will be. With my support and encouragement.”

“God help us all.” He almost felt sorry for this poet, whoever he was. “I suppose your mother disapproves.”

“As if I would ever tell her,” she scoffed as she entered the drawing room.

Vanessa’s lady’s maid sat erect on the settee, her expression bland. No doubt she was used to being the foil to her volatile employer.

“Then things have not progressed to a serious interest,” Grey said, relieved not to have to deal with that, too. He was still hoping to get to Brierly’s club before the man left.

“How could things progress at all?” Vanessa picked up a teacake and devoured it with her usual gusto. “Mama is so focused on my marrying you that I cannot get her to bring me to events my . . . friend might attend.” She shot him a dire look. “And thanks to the latest on-dit about you, she’s on a tear again. She actually believes all that rot about your running a secret cabal of licentious bachelors.”

He snorted. “I’d never run anything so tiresome and predictable. I don’t have the time or inclination for it, and that level of discretion requires too much effort to maintain, people being who they are. I hope you told her I’d rather focus my energy on my estates.”

“I did. She didn’t believe me. She never does.”

“Yet she sent you over here to engage the leader of this secret cabal of debauchery. She makes no sense.”

“The gossip only made her more eager to marry me off to you. Hmm.”

“She’s probably afraid I’ll spend all my wealth on ‘licentious’ living before you can grab me and my dukedom for our progeny.”

“Or she thinks that a man with such ungoverned desires would be easy to manipulate. She ought to know you better than that. I certainly do. There isn’t a single ungoverned thing about you.” Vanessa tapped her finger on her chin. “Then again, there’s another possibility—that Mama started the rumor about the cabal herself.”

“To what end?”

“By making you sound unappealing, she hopes to eliminate my competition.”

“I hate to tell you, my dear, but rumors of a man’s wickedness rarely seem to eliminate the competition. If that was your mother’s plan, it’s a foolish one. And it proves my opinion about gossip: Rumors are nothing more than entertainment for the bored. If people in society would put a tenth of the energy they expend in—”

“I know, I know—we’re all frivolous, with not a whit of usefulness between us,” she said archly. “You’re the only one with any sense.”

When her maid looked as if she might explode with holding in a laugh, he shot Vanessa a rueful glance. “Do you think me as pompous and arrogant as all that, pet?”

“Worse.” Then she softened the accusation with a smile. “And on that note, I shall leave you.” Her maid cleared her throat, and Vanessa said, “Oh, I almost forgot! I have this for you.” She fished a sealed letter out of her reticule. “It came to us rather than you. Which is curious. Perhaps your mother heard you hadn’t been here in weeks. Though why she thought we would see you any more often is anyone’s guess.”

He ignored the sudden tightness in his chest. “You know perfectly well why.”

With a sigh, Vanessa stepped nearer to speak in a low voice meant only for his ears. “Must you still punish your mother?”

“Don’t be nonsensical,” he said lightly, to hide the guilt that swamped him. “I’m not punishing her. Besides, she has her other children to keep her company. She doesn’t need me fawning over her.”

Vanessa sniffed. “As if you would ever fawn over anyone. And yes, you are punishing her, whether you admit it or not.”

The pity shining in Vanessa’s eyes made him regret having said anything about his mother.

He reached for the letter, but Vanessa wouldn’t release it. “She does love you, you know.”

“I do.” What else could he say? He loved her, too, in his own way.

Grey started to shove the letter into his coat pocket, then paused. The missive seemed awfully thin for one of Mother’s. With a sense of dread, he opened it to find the briefest of messages:

With much love, Mother

Grey stared numbly at the words. Maurice, the only father he’d ever really known, was dead.

Please come. I can’t do this without you.

Holy hell, Mother must be devastated.

Apparently, his distress showed in his face, for Vanessa snatched the letter and read it, then lifted a horrified gaze to him. “Oh, Grey, how awful. I’m so very sorry.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, though he felt like a fraud. He’d barely seen Maurice since the family’s return from Prussia a few months ago. He had let his bitterness keep him away, and now it was too late.

She was now rereading the letter with a furrowed brow. “Maurice . . . that would be Sheridan’s father, right? I suppose he will now become duke.”

The odd note in her voice arrested him. “Sheridan? Since when are you so chummy with my half brother? You only met him once.”

“We’ve met thrice actually,” she murmured. “We even danced together twice.”

Uh-oh. Sheridan had best watch himself around Vanessa. When she fixed her affections on a man, she could really dig her teeth in. “Don’t tell me he’s the ‘poet’ you have your eye on.”

His sharp tone made her glance up. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sheridan doesn’t have a poetic thought in his head.”

She was right, but how had she known that? “You’ll have to call him Armitage now that he’s duke.”

“All the more reason for me not to have an interest in him. I will never take a duke for my husband, no matter what Mama wants. You’re all too . . . too . . .”

“Pompous and arrogant?”

As if realizing she shouldn’t be insulting a man who’d just lost a close relation, she winced. “Something like that.” When he said nothing, she added, “You certainly have a number of dukes in your family.”

“That’s what happens when one’s mother marries well three times.”

“She’ll be leaving quite a dynasty behind her. Some would say that’s excellent planning.”

“She didn’t plan on being widowed thrice, I assure you,” he said sharply.

Vanessa looked stricken. “Of course not. I’m sorry, Grey, that was most thoughtless of me.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s . . . I’m just unsettled by the news.”

“I’m sure. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

Grey didn’t answer, his mind having already seized on the reminder that Sheridan had become Duke of Armitage. Maurice had only been duke a few months, and now Sheridan was being forced to take up the mantle. His head must be reeling. Grey needed to be at Armitage Hall, if only to help Sheridan and Mother with the arrangements for the funeral on Tuesday.

Wait, today was Sunday. But which Sunday? Damn it, had he already missed his stepfather’s funeral?

“When did this letter arrive?” he asked.

It was the maid who answered. “I believe it was this past Friday, Your Grace.”

“That’s right,” Vanessa said. “Friday.”

Armitage Hall was near the town of Sanforth. If he caught the footmen before they unpacked his trunk, Grey could be changed into his mourning clothes and back on the road in an hour. He’d easily reach Lincolnshire by tomorrow. “I must go,” he said, turning for the door.

“I’ll go with you,” Vanessa said.

“Don’t be absurd,” Grey snapped before her maid could protest. “You will go home as usual and tell your mother I wasn’t here. You have the perfect excuse for missing me this time. Just say I’d already been notified of my stepfather’s death and had left for Lincolnshire. Understood?”

“But . . . but how could you have been notified if I hadn’t yet brought you the letter?”

“Say that the servants told you I’d already received one here.” His common sense finally asserted itself. “Indeed, I probably have, since I haven’t looked at my mail yet. Mother wouldn’t have left anything to chance. She would have sent multiple notices.” No matter how distracted by grief she might be.

Vanessa laid her hand upon his arm. “Grey, you need someone with you. You’re clearly upset.”

“I’ll be fine.” He would, damn it. “Now go on with you. I have preparations to make before I can leave.”

“Of course.” She nodded to her lady’s maid, who joined her. “I shall tell Mama of your loss. Perhaps that will keep her machinations to a minimum for a while.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” He leaned close to whisper, “Take care with your poet, my dear. You deserve better.”

She made a face. “I don’t suppose I’ll get a chance at him, anyway, now that you’re in mourning. Mama will make me wait to see anyone until you’re available again.”

“Good. I shouldn’t like to think of you marrying someone beneath you while I’m not around to prevent it.”

Tossing back her head, she walked toward the door. “There’s something to be said for marrying for love, you know. I swear, sometimes you remind me of Mama in your opinions about marriage.”

With that parting sally, she waltzed out, with her maid trailing behind her.

How ridiculous. He was nothing like Aunt Cora, that grasping harpy. He was merely sensible. Love didn’t enter his equations because it had no monetary value. When he married, it would be to some sensible woman who’d be content with having a wealthy dukedom at her disposal, who had no dreams of cloud castles and no hope for sentiment or love or any of that romantic nonsense from him.

He had learned the hard way to guard his heart.

Lincolnshire, England

The Honorable Miss Beatrice Wolfe stood outside Armitage Hall surveying the entryway with a critical eye. The funeral escutcheon had been hung on the door—not crookedly this time—and the arches and windows were draped in black crape. It looked proper, the way it ought for a duke.

She hadn’t taken such care with her uncle Armie, as she and her brother Joshua had always called the previous Duke of Armitage. Just the thought of Uncle Armie’s last years, of how he’d tried to paw at her or slap her behind every time she’d come to the hall, chilled her.

By contrast, Uncle Maurice, who had inherited the dukedom after Uncle Armie’s death, had treated her with respect and kindness. He and her aunt Lydia had brought light and laughter and good times back to the hall.

Now death hung over the place again. Tears welled in her eyes. Why, they’d only a week ago removed the black crape and funeral escutcheon signifying Uncle Armie’s death! Two dukes dead in a matter of months. It was a blasted shame. It really was.

Her cousin Sheridan appeared in the doorway, looking like a wraith after the past few days. He’d been close to his father, and was taking his death harder than anyone except Aunt Lydia. No doubt it had hit Sheridan’s brother Heywood hard, too, but since Heywood was in the army and probably hadn’t even received word yet of his father’s demise, she wouldn’t know.

Sheridan flashed her a wan smile. “Forgive me, Bea, for troubling you, but Mother asked me to check again to see if Grey has arrived.” He surveyed the drive beyond her. “I can see he has not. If he had, there’d be a monstrous grand traveling coach out here.”

Beatrice laughed. She liked her cousin. At twenty-eight, he was only two years her senior, so she felt comfortable with him. None of the family stood on ceremony, but Sheridan in particular did not, though that would undoubtedly change. “You’ll have a monstrous grand coach yourself now that you’re Duke of Armitage.”

“Probably not, actually.” A bleak sadness crept over his features. “The dukedom is in a bad state, I’m afraid. No money for grand coaches. With any luck, I can improve that, but it will take time. And I wasn’t expecting to inherit so soon.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. How is Aunt Lydia faring?”

He sighed. “Not well. This has taken us all by surprise.” Shifting his gaze to the wood beyond the expansive lawns, he tensed. “Is . . . um . . . your brother planning on attending the funeral?”

She swallowed. Joshua was difficult, to say the least. “I’m sure he will.” That was a lie. She couldn’t be sure of anything with him.

But her words seemed to relieve Sheridan. “Good. We don’t see as much of him as we’d like.”

“I wouldn’t see him if I didn’t live in the same house as he. Joshua isn’t fond of people.” To put it mildly. Not that she blamed him, given his circumstances, but she’d do her damnedest to convince him that attending the funeral was the least he owed to the new residents of Armitage Hall.

Particularly to Sheridan, his new landlord, who could toss them out of their home, the former dower house, whenever he wished. Especially since Sheridan’s mother was now the dowager duchess and might prefer to live in the house that was hers by right.

Beatrice wouldn’t think of that. “Is there anything more I can do to help Aunt Lydia?”

“Conjure my half brother Grey up out of thin air?” He shoved a hand through his ash-brown curls. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

He uttered a harsh laugh. “I’m not. I can’t even be certain that he received Mother’s letters. Sometimes I think my brother has forgotten he even has a family. He’s too busy being the important Duke of blasted Greycourt.”

She didn’t know what to say. Though she’d never met the “Duke of blasted Greycourt,” she’d read enough in the scandal sheets to know she wouldn’t like him. For one thing, he was said to have had several illicit liaisons with women, each more beautiful than the last, and that alone made her wary. It reminded her only too well of Uncle Armie.

“Is it true what they said in the paper?” she asked. “That your brother runs a secret cabal of licentious bachelors?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. Grey tells us nothing of what he’s doing. For all I know, he could be running charitable boards in his sleep.”

“I doubt that,” she muttered, then realizing she was insulting his brother, added hastily, “but the business about the cabal does sound farfetched. Why keep it secret, for one thing? A duke can do whatever he wants with impunity, so why not have a regular cabal of debauchery? What’s a cabal, anyway? It sounds like a club. Is it a club? I mean—”

It dawned on her that she was babbling as usual. Sheridan was certainly regarding her with amusement.

She should stop. “Anyway, dukes are good at clubs. So it’s probably just a club.” One that kept the riffraff out. Because dukes were good at that, too.

Especially Greycourt, from what she’d heard. He was richer than God, so he could afford whatever club he wanted. Supposedly, he’d gained his wealth by being ruthless in his business dealings, so he could also destroy whomever he wanted. That might be why society hung on his every word. Or perhaps it was because he rarely spoke without saying something of consequence.

Despite her concern for her aunt, she rather hoped he didn’t come. Men like him exasperated her. Not that she met many of them way out here, but the few she’d encountered through Uncle Armie hadn’t left a good impression.

Sheridan released a heavy breath. “Anyway, I fear I’ve dragged you into my annoyance at my brother, which I didn’t intend. You’ve already done so much to help us.” He waved vaguely at the windows. “All this. Handling the funeral arrangements. Keeping up with the household ledgers. What would we do without you?”

The praise warmed her. Perhaps Sheridan wouldn’t be eager to kick her and Joshua out after all. “Thank you. I like being useful.” Especially to her aunt. Aunt Lydia was unlike any woman she’d ever met—full of vim and vigor, with a kind heart and a sharp mind. Rather like Sheridan.

He nodded toward the entryway. “I’d best get back inside. Mother wanted me to choose the burial suit.” His throat moved convulsively. “She says she can’t bear to do it.”

Poor man. “I can understand that. You’re a good son.”

“I try to be.” He glanced down the drive again, and his face hardened. “Speaking of sons, let me know the moment Grey arrives, will you?”

“Of course.”

He started to walk inside, then paused. “One more thing. Mother wanted me to tell you that she intends to continue helping you prepare for your debut. It may just move more slowly.”

“Oh!” Beatrice had forgotten about that. “Tell her not to bother with such a thing right now, for pity’s sake. I’ll be fine.”

“Actually, Mother does better when she has a project to throw herself into. And she’s appalled that you never had the chance to be brought out properly in society. She intends to remedy that.”

“It’s very kind of her.” Though it was also daunting. Beatrice felt more comfortable roaming the woods with the hunting dogs than roaming a ballroom. She hated having men assess her out-of-season attire, small breasts, and less-than-perfect features before dismissing her as unworthy of their attention.

“Mother is only doing what’s right.” Sheridan watched her expression with cousinly concern. “We all know how lax Uncle Armie was in his duty toward you.”

“Thank you.” If they thought he was only “lax” then it was a good thing they had no idea what her life had truly been like with him.

She held her breath, praying that Sheridan said nothing more about Uncle Armie. When he continued on into the house, she relaxed. Having them all underfoot in the next few weeks might prove more complicated than she’d thought. She hoped that dealing with Uncle Maurice’s death kept them too busy to pry into her affairs. And Joshua’s. Especially Joshua’s, which even she didn’t have the courage to examine too closely.

Thrusting that thought to the back of her mind, she took one more l. . .