Laurie Benson - His Three-Day Duchess

She had considered asking to sit down with him to have a rational conversation to once more suggest they switch houses, but she knew he would view her need to live here as somewhat irrational. He was a man. If she discussed her desire to reside close to her family and friends it would sound like sentimental drivel to him and she was not about to let him know how truly alone she was feeling since her sisters had got married. She was a duchess. Sharing her feelings with him was beneath her position.

As she walked along the corridor of the first floor of the house past the rooms that held so many memories, all was quiet and still. It was as if the structure was waiting to be filled with the sounds of laughter and excited chatter. Those were the sounds that had reverberated around these walls when Lizzy was there with her sisters and Aunt Clara.

When she entered the library, she sat on the window seat that her younger sister, Juliet, would often curl up on to read on rainy days during the years she lived with Lizzy after their parents had died of consumption. In the breakfast room, she ran her fingers along the round table where she would often share meals with Aunt Clara and Juliet. In the silence of the room, she could still hear her aunt’s voice explaining the virtues of a strong cup of tea to start the day. And when she entered the conservatory, she still felt the pain in her heart from the time she held her older sister, Charlotte, in grief as she told Lizzy that she received word that her husband, Jonathan, had died during the Battle of Waterloo. They were everyday memories and some life-changing ones, as well, but they were the times that reminded her that in her horrible marriage without love she wasn’t completely alone. There were people who loved her and cared about her and valued her. Now she would no longer walk these halls and enter these rooms to be reminded of that.

She trudged further down the corridor and stopped at the closed door of the Duke’s study. Her husband had very rarely spent any time at Stonehaven. He would customarily visit the house twice a year to meet with his steward and inspect the house and grounds for himself. When he was in residence the door to his study would always be closed. All other times, the door to the room was left open. Even though she knew that Mr Alexander was probably inside with Mr Finley, the sight of the closed door made her muscles tighten as if she was anticipating Skeffington throwing it open and berating her for some minor faux pas. She could still picture his wrinkled lips, his yellowed teeth and the spittle that would form in the corners of his mouth when he would yell. The only consolation to leaving Stonehaven and finding a new house in London was that she would never have to look at that door or be inside that room again.

The next room was the Blue Drawing Room. When she tried to turn the door handle and go inside, she was surprised to find the room was locked. Why would he bother locking it? There was nothing of real value inside. Did he fear she would steal a deck of playing cards on her way out of the house? Or perhaps he believed she was inordinately fond of the Meissen dogs that lined the carved cream-coloured mantel of the fireplace?

The man really was a mystery. All that she knew about him was what she had been told by Lord Liverpool and Mr Nesbit. After Skeffington had died, they had informed her that his nephew, who was his presumptive heir, had also died two months prior in a riding accident. The ducal seat was to go to a distant cousin of her late husband and it had taken great pains to finally track Mr Simon Alexander down somewhere in Sicily. She didn’t know why he had been there, or how long he had been staying there. No one really seemed to know.

What she did know was that he had not returned to England for almost six months after Skeffington had died and the delay meant that for almost six months she was a woman without a home—until the will was read and she learned the remainder of her life would be lived out in the far north of England, away from everything that was familiar to her.

When she reached the armoury, she was relieved to discover it had remained unchanged. As she walked inside, she immediately recalled the sound of Juliet’s laughter the summer they decided to take fencing lessons with Monsieur LeBatt. Skeffington had decided to spend that summer at his ancestral home and there was no chance that he would be venturing down to Dorset in the heat. It felt like a form of rebellion to take the lessons and she found they helped to release some of the anger she felt towards her husband and towards her deceased parents who had arranged the marriage.

The four suits of armour that had belonged to Skeffington’s ancestors still stood sentry in the corners of the red room, gleaming in the late afternoon sun that was streaming in through the long windows. Ancient broadswords and ceremonial swords were hung on the great expanse of wall opposite the fireplace and the small swords that Monsieur LeBatt had used to teach her to fence were hung on the wall between the windows. There was no telling the last time a fire had burned in the hearth and when she took one of the small swords off the wall, the metal grip was cool in her hand through her silk glove.

The weight of the weapon felt familiar and, with a swish of the blade, Lizzy saluted the imaginary image of her old fencing master. He had taught her so much that summer and she tried to recall why she had not taken lessons with him the following year. She did remember Monsieur LeBatt telling her on one particular afternoon that she had quick instincts, which made her a formidable opponent. She liked to believe he was telling her the truth and not simply flattering her because she was paying him to teach her. False flattery was one of the things she liked least about possessing her prestigious title.

She lifted the blade straight out to her right side and lowered her knees a few inches. Placing her left hand up in the air at a ninety-degree angle from her body and turning her head towards the blade, she lunged to her right. The stretch of her thigh muscles felt heavenly after spending a good portion of the day in her carriage and she let out an unladylike groan.

The movement had somehow also relieved some of the tension in her shoulders that she hadn’t been aware was there and she tilted her neck from side to side to stretch it, as well. Rolling her shoulders, she adjusted her grip, then resumed her position and lunged again. This time she bounced off her soles as she lunged, taking a leap forward before retreating back to her original stance. The narrowness of the cut of this particular gown was somewhat restrictive and prevented her from lunging as far as she wanted. Needing a deep stretch of her legs, she picked up the skirt of her gown with her left hand so the hem was above her knees and once more she bounced off her soles and lunged towards the window.

A choking sound came from behind her and she spun around, sword in hand, and instinctively pointed the blade directly at the figure of the Duke standing in the doorway. His surprised expression must have matched her own because she felt her eyes widen and she immediately let go of her skirt. The downward swoop of the fine woollen fabric of her grey travelling gown pushed her cotton petticoat and chemise against her legs. For a moment, she feared she would trip if she took a step forward.

‘How long have you been standing there?’ she demanded, wanting to run out of the room from the embarrassment of knowing he had seen her legs.

‘Long enough to hear you utter an impressive grunt and appear to wish to attack the curtains.’

Thank God he hadn’t mentioned her legs. ‘I was not attacking the curtains.’

‘It wouldn’t bother me if you were.’ His gaze shifted to the red-velvet curtains behind her. ‘I don’t really care for them.’