Page 1 of His Extraordinary Duchess

Chapter One

February 1815

Tyneham, Dorset, England

W hy did the men in her life require such careful handling?

Claudia, Dowager Duchess of Tyneham, sighed as she finished writing to the current duke. Again. Honestly, the man had been identified just before Christmas and confirmed in London by Parliament in January. Still, he persisted in whiling away his time in Society until it was a little over a month until Easter.

Had he read none of her letters? Did he think his attendance at Parliament the sum total of his duty? What about his holdings? What of the people who relied on him? The roof over the Tyneham Manor portrait gallery was leaking, a wall in one of the tenant cottages was listing, and His Grace’s attention was sorely lacking.

But that had been her lot ever since her husband had died five years ago, leaving her in charge of the estates and holdings of the Darling family, heirs to the Tyneham duchy.

She leaned back in the desk chair. To her right, feeble winter sunlight trickled through the heavily draped triple windows of the library to make squares on the cream and rose carpet. To her left, a fire glowed in the white marble hearth. The settling of a coal was the only sound. She might have been alone in the whole vast house.

At the moment, she certainly felt alone.

Claudia shook her head. She could not blame the new duke for all their problems. The previous duke had been a terror, subject to fits of rage and drunkenness. The land steward he had hired had proved himself an embezzler. Claudia had discharged him the day after the duke had died. But before then, other staff had fled, making it harder and harder for a house the size of Tyneham Manor to function.

In the last month, the new duke had sent maids of various sorts, including her own French maid; a coachman; and two gardeners. But still the fellow hadn’t dealt with what, to her mind, were just as pressing issues.

And so, she must write again. It was her only recourse. With brisk and efficient movements, she sanded the letter containing her bold statements, blew off the grit, folded the page, and melted a blob of crimson wax over the opening. Then she reached for the ducal seal.

Her fingers stopped of their own accord, as if they knew she had no right to use the gold stamp. Her husband, Joseph, the fourth duke, was dead; his son was dead; and his villainous third cousin, the last duke, was dead. This seal belonged to Maxwell, seventh Duke of Tyneham.

But the seventh Duke of Tyneham wasn’t here. That was entirely the problem.

She seized the stamp and brought it down on the wax with a thump that resonated through the inlaid desk.

Someone rapped on the library door.

Glancing up, she met her own gaze in the gilt-framed mirror across from her, set between glass-fronted bookcases that stood from the floor to the white plaster ceiling decorated with massive gold clovers. Her carefully arranged hair was so pale it had been extoled as moonlight when she’d had her Season. Her eyes were so pale a blue they had been compared to ice. She’d been called Incomparable, diamond of the first water, unassailable. Once, men had even fought a duel in her honor.

She didn’t miss a moment of it.

“Yes?” she called, sitting straighter in the carved-back wooden chair.

Charlie, Mr. Kinsle now that her head footman had been promoted to butler, stepped into the room. Here was the perfect example of the seventh duke’s unfathomable decisions. Mr. Kinsle certainly had the impressive height for the leader of her staff, and his raven hair was pomaded back from a face that could be suitably solemn.

Unfortunately, his tendency to grin at the least humor made him far less imposing than a typical man of his station. He was also quite a few years younger than their previous butler, but Claudia didn’t mind that fellow’s loss in the slightest. Mr. Starnum had been a sycophant to her and the other duchesses and a bully below stairs. Only a stipulation in her husband’s will had prevented her from discharging him.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Mr. Kinsle said, tugging down on his black tailcoat as if to settle it more firmly about him. “The architect is here and wishes to speak to you.”

Claudia frowned. “Architect? I engaged no architect.”

Mr. Kinsle grimaced. “So I gathered, Your Grace. According to Mr. Warden, the architect, His Grace hired him and sent him down from London. Something about the portrait gallery?” He raised his dark brows, as if hoping she’d remember.

So, the new duke had read her missives. That at least was gratifying.

Claudia nodded. “Very well. Send him in.”

Relief evident in his smile, Mr. Kinsle inclined his head and hurried out. A moment later, he ushered in the architect.

“Mr. Benjamin Warden, Your Grace,” her butler said with gravity approaching that of his position.

Mr. Warden stepped forward and bowed.

And something skipped through her heart like a lamb in spring.

What was that? She couldn’t recall a single time a gentleman’s mere presence had made her feel that way, even when she’d been introduced to His Majesty. So what if Mr. Warden was an inch or two taller than Mr. Kinsle, with broader shoulders, as if he didn’t spend all his time behind the drawing boards inherent in his profession? So what if that sweep of black hair waved about his face as if designed to tempt a lady to tuck it back? So what if his grey eyes sparkled with intelligence, and his mouth hovered in a half smile?

She wasn’t the type to swoon over a gentleman’s looks, his commentary, or his position. After a highly successful Season in which she’d been courted by a marquess, two dukes, and a prince of the blood, plus seven years of marriage, she had thought herself immune to such flights of fancy as a speeding pulse and a lack of breath.

So why was her pulse quickening and her breath catching in her chest?

Unacceptable. She was the Dowager Duchess of Tyneham. No one and nothing had the right to discompose her.

“Mr. Warden,” she said, indicating the chair in front of the desk with the iron control for which she was famous.

He folded himself onto the chair and set a leather satchel down beside him. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. I’m here because His Grace requested my services in remodeling Tyneham Manor.”

Remodeling? What, was His Grace trying to remake the manor in his own image? They were in dire need of improvements, but there was no reason to go to such expense and bother. She may have married into the Darling family, but she had come to respect and honor the history of the house. Who would dare disturb its sacred traditions?

Only a duke who did not know what he was doing.

She bit back another sigh. She’d had to fight each of the last two dukes on some issue to ensure the safety and prosperity of those who depended on the Tyneham estate and those who depended on her. She wasn’t about to back down now.

“Nonsense,” she said. “We have no need for such services. You may return to London and tell the duke that.”

Before she had to endure another moment of his distracting company.

* * *

Ben Warden kept his smile in place. He’d spoken at length with His Grace, the new Duke of Tyneham. The gentleman was quiet, unassuming, and a year or two younger than Ben, but he had an unmistakable air of determination about him. If he wanted his ancestral home remodeled to better suit his needs and tastes, he had every right.

A shame he’d failed to warn Ben that the dowager duchess might have other ideas.

Though the word dowager hardly did her justice. Dowager conjured up images of silver-haired matrons with chins as weighty as their coronets. The Dowager Duchess of Tyneham’s hair might be a pale blond, but there was not a stitch of grey or silver in it. And her figure in the lavender gown trimmed with black braid and jet beads could only be called impressive.

“Perhaps you’d care to see His Grace’s instructions,” Ben said, withdrawing the letter from his satchel and holding it out to her.

She leaned forward to accept it from his hand, and their fingers brushed. Something skipped inside him like a child let out of the schoolroom on a summer’s day. Odd. Since he’d lost his Jane two years ago, he’d never felt the least urge to pursue another woman. And if he had, a dowager duchess would have been a poor choice. What had he to offer a woman who had wealth and power at her fingertips?

Her cool blue eyes moved back and forth as she devoured the words His Grace had written. Ben remained smiling, as if his whole future didn’t depend on securing this project. Remodeling a house the magnitude of Tyneham Manor would make his career. Even more importantly, it would allow him to give Oliver the stable home his son needed. No longer would Ben have to travel all over England to see to the construction of various civil projects. He could move to Grace-by-the-Sea, build homes for the rich and famous who were flocking to the spa, even build a home for himself.

She let the letter fall to the desk as if it had sullied her fingers. “I can see that His Grace has made up his mind. He failed to consult me. I cannot possibly have you proceed until he and I have discussed things. Thoroughly.”

How long would that take? Summer in Dorset had been unpredictable the last few years. If he hoped to have everything done before the late autumn rains set in, he needed to develop a plan in the next month and start work after Easter. And he didn’t trust that this bold beauty wouldn’t convince His Grace to change his mind and cancel the project entirely.

“Perhaps you and I can discuss it instead,” he tried. “I’m sure we could come to an arrangement that will please you and the duke.”

“Doubtful,” she clipped out. She held out her long-fingered hand, where a single gold band glittered. “Show me your plans.”

Ben sat back in the chair. “I haven’t drawn up any plans yet. I prefer to get to know the land, the house, and those who care about it first.”

She arched a brow that was a shade darker than her pale hair. “Interesting approach.”

He spread his hands. “I find everyone is happier when they’ve had a chance to be heard.”

Her mouth worked a moment, as if she was trying to craft the perfect set down. She had a lovely mouth, a rosy red at odds with her pale coloring, as if the good Lord had wanted to point out her best feature.

Or where exactly a fellow should place his own lips for a kiss.

He snapped his gaze back to her eyes, which were narrowing to slits of ice.

“Very well, Mr. Warden,” she said. “I will allow you to draw up your plans for my approval. But I warn you, I have exacting standards.”

Standards she did not expect him to meet. That was clear. Well, he’d risen to challenges in the past. This would be no different.

“I will endeavor to give you exactly what you want, Your Grace,” he promised her.

“That would be novel.” A smile blossomed, and she cocked her head so that a tendril of hair teased her cheek. “And what do you think I want, Mr. Warden?”

Was she flirting with him? Surely not! She was the duchess; she was in effect his client. He knew the dangers in treating her with anything less than the utmost professional courtesy.

So, why was his smile growing with hers? “I have no idea, Your Grace, but I look forward to finding out.”

“Excellent,” she purred. “You will, of course, involve me every step of the way.”

Oh, so that was her game. He preferred to have his clients thoroughly engaged in the planning, but that might be tricky now, considering the arrangements he’d made with His Grace. Ben didn’t understand why the duke insisted on such secrecy, but, as an architect, he was nothing if not inventive. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

She inclined her head, and he knew he was dismissed. He took back the letter from the duke, tucked it into his satchel, and rose. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace. His Grace offered the use of the dower house. I’ll set up my things there.”

“That would be for the best,” she agreed graciously. “Though I will expect you for dinner tonight. It will be a good opportunity for you to meet the others.”

He blinked. “Others? I wasn’t aware the duke had family members staying at the manor.” He wasn’t aware the duke had family members at all. The London papers had been happy to carry the story of the widespread search far down the family line to locate a very distant male relation who could inherit the title.

Now there was nothing flirtatious about her smile. He might even have called it vengeful.

“Apparently the duke wasn’t very forthcoming,” she said. “There are three dowagers in this house: myself, the widow of the fifth duke, and the widow of the sixth duke. Their dower arrangements, like mine, ensure we always have a place to live here on the Darling estate. I’m sure they’ll both be very interested in helping you with your work too.”

Three duchesses? All possibly as strong-willed as her?

He was doomed.