Page 1 of The Duke’s Return (Dukes of the Compass Rose #2)

“ G ood 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 organized down 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…”

“Wonderful! Oh, what a charming young man. I do hope he is unchanged. I’ve known him since the day he was born, after all.

That was just after my family lost our luck.

My first post was here to care for the lad when he wasn’t with his nursemaid.

Oh! I must prepare the house at once.” The housekeeper started rambling off chores to be done, heading for the door before she turned back. “Your Grace? My lady?”

Genevieve blinked, looking up. “Yes?”

“All will be well.” The housekeeper tapped her nose like she knew something special. And then she hastened out with a cheer like it was Michaelmas morning.

I forgot how much Mrs. Culpepper liked him.

Every woman did, it seemed, like Julian Ashcombe. No one could believe she had married him. What a near call it had been, cast from society for being the one to marry the charming rake. She’d have given up if her dear friend, Phoebe, had not convinced her to stop hiding under his name.

“Phoebe!” Genevieve pulled herself to her feet, remembering she had plans this morning. She glanced at her morning dress with a frown. First, she downed a few bites of her porridge and then she hastened out of the room.

It was going to be a lovely spring morning.

Determined to enjoy the last few days she would have before her husband upended the peaceful life she had made for herself, Genevieve found a pale blue dress that complemented her gray eyes and black hair.

She put on her favorite necklace, a gift from her parents at seventeen, and then headed off to the mews where Phoebe would be certain to collect her soon.

“Your Grace?” The butler strode over, beckoning her back before she could make her escape. “Your Grace, please. I just sent off servants to find you.”

She smiled apologetically at Mr. Norman. Their butler had abruptly retired over Michaelmas and the middle-aged man here had been promoted due to his length of experience here. He often appeared harried but repeatedly promised he was more than satisfied with his new post.

“Good morning, Mr. Norman. I was just on my way out the door, I’m afraid. Lady Phoebe will be arriving any moment. Can this wait?”

“I’m afraid not.” His face reddened as he stepped forward and then wavered before stepping back again, waving an arm back toward the entry way. She’d just passed the hall entry a moment ago. “His Grace has returned.”

The smile on her lips didn’t budge. But she blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

How fast is Mrs. Culpepper as a gossip, truly? I cannot believe she’s already informed everyone. We don’t even know when the duke will return. I’d rather keep such chatter quiet until we have certainty. He might not desire to come here.

“The Duke of Southwick?” the butler responded.

“Yes, I know him. I know I’m wed to him,” she added. “But he’s not expected for some time. Whatever Mrs. Culpepper told you, I would recommend we not make any plans until we hear from him.”

Mr. Norman shifted and tugged at his collar. “Yes, Your Grace. I’m sorry, my lady. I don’t know how to tell you this, but… he is here.”

“He’s here?” she repeated dumbly. “The duke? My husband? He’s here? He can’t… where could he be?”

Genevieve realized the answer before the words were all out of her mouth. She stared at the butler, certain this had to be some sort of mistake. A twisted jest.

But the duke had made a jest to her once in the past in the only conversation they’d ever shared. A frown made her lips twist. Sliding past the butler, she turned toward the entry hall.

There he was.

Her feet kept guiding her toward him, albeit more slowly once she laid eyes on the duke. Julian Ashcombe stood there in the front hall next to the small table with the most recent bouquet she had created. A rose wilted by his elbow as he set his hat down to bow to her.

A year had passed but he had hardly changed. It was as though he had turned around and come right back to her. But as she drew nearer, Genevieve noted the trimmed golden curls. The lines in his brow. And a slight twist of his lips.

They gazed at one another, she noted, like the strangers they were.

Parting her lips to speak, Genevieve tried to say something. To welcome him. But it made little sense when this was home. It hardly seemed right to scold him for not alerting her to his arrival. To hear it from one of his aunts was downright dreadful.

What am I to say? What should I expect? He told me he was taking a naval post and then he was gone. We really are strangers. I cannot think of anything we have to say to each other. And yet…

“I said I wouldn’t interfere, I know,” Julian said suddenly.

She straightened her shoulders. “I meant it.” Except that didn’t explain his presence which he seemed to acknowledge with a nod.

His following words were softer. “However, I did promise I would return eventually. And I am a man of my word to your promise still. I assure you, my affairs need to be addressed. Discreetly.”