Georgianna: The Last Real Duchess (The Real Duchesses of London) by Lavinia Kent Page A
Authors: Lavinia Kent
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burial had been so odd. Distant relatives who'd never even indicated they knew her name had positively fawned over her. Then there was the "your grace.” She still peered about the room looking for someone else whenever the term was used.
Richard didn't seem to have the difficulty. Every time someone called him by his title or nodded a "your grace" his shoulders seemed to grow wider, his chin higher. She'd never thought of her husband as dukely before, but now she couldn't stop thinking about him that way.
Darnation. She'd been actively avoiding thinking about the man and where did her thoughts take her?
Although perhaps that was a good thing given that at any moment she'd be presented with the man in the flesh.
Pasting a soft smile on her face, she paused at the top of the grand stairs. She might not feel like a duchess, but she could certainly act like one. Step by quiet step she descended.
The hall was empty. Richard must already be in his study, glancing over the accounts. It would be just like him to head off to work without even a simple greeting – although perhaps that was her fault. She had not rushed down when she'd heard him arrive, if anything she'd tarried, waiting as long as she possibly could before coming.
The smile began to feel stiff. The study lay at the far end of the south wing, tucked behind the billiard room and overlooking an ivy-covered courtyard. She'd expected Richard to move to the old duke's offices when he'd last been here, but he'd made no move. Not that she blamed him, the book-lined study had always been one of her favorite rooms.
The door stood open just a crack. She knocked lightly and then entered.
It was empty. Not even a paper had been moved to indicate that Richard had been here. The fire lay unlit. Not unusual given the season, but more evidence that her husband had not been here yet.
Still, it must have been him she'd heard arrive. Nobody else was expected.
Turning, she strode back to the front hall, the smile no longer present upon her lips.
There was nobody there, not even a footman.
Holding in her sigh, she turned towards the kitchens – and almost collided with the porter.
"My pardon, your grace."
"Was that not the duke that I heard arrive?" she asked.
The porter slowed. "Why yes. It was."
Then where was he? She held herself back from snapping the question. She must remember that she didn't care. "And where might I find the duke? I have matters to discuss with him."
"I believe he went out riding. He expressed the need for fresh air."
She blinked. "He needed fresh air?"
"Those were his words. Will there be anything else?"
"No, that will be all.” The urge to ask if Richard had truly ridden all the way here and then gone out for fresh air was strong, but she resisted. It was clear her husband was avoiding something – and deep in her gut she knew it was she.
#
He was avoiding his wife. There was no other reason Richard was still atop a horse. And unlike the gelding he'd ridden from London, Brutus, his new stallion, was not a gentle ride. He might never walk again.
And yet he did not return.
In truth, he'd come from London to see Georgianna. These past months without her had been so empty. He'd been convinced it was the right thing to send her home, but day by day he'd missed her. And so he'd come, hoping for . . . he knew not what.
He'd decided that the only way forward was to talk to her – only that meant talking to her. He didn't know what to say and, frankly, he was frightened of confronting her after all this time.
Hence, this ride.
Pulling back on the reins, he drew to a halt.
This was not accomplishing anything.
He had come home to claim his wife and it was time he got on with it.
Turning back, he stared down at his home. He'd lived here the majority of his life, but never before had he gazed down at the great estate and thought of it as his. The gray stone manor house spread out, its wings arching about the large courtyard. Behind it lay
Richard didn't seem to have the difficulty. Every time someone called him by his title or nodded a "your grace" his shoulders seemed to grow wider, his chin higher. She'd never thought of her husband as dukely before, but now she couldn't stop thinking about him that way.
Darnation. She'd been actively avoiding thinking about the man and where did her thoughts take her?
Although perhaps that was a good thing given that at any moment she'd be presented with the man in the flesh.
Pasting a soft smile on her face, she paused at the top of the grand stairs. She might not feel like a duchess, but she could certainly act like one. Step by quiet step she descended.
The hall was empty. Richard must already be in his study, glancing over the accounts. It would be just like him to head off to work without even a simple greeting – although perhaps that was her fault. She had not rushed down when she'd heard him arrive, if anything she'd tarried, waiting as long as she possibly could before coming.
The smile began to feel stiff. The study lay at the far end of the south wing, tucked behind the billiard room and overlooking an ivy-covered courtyard. She'd expected Richard to move to the old duke's offices when he'd last been here, but he'd made no move. Not that she blamed him, the book-lined study had always been one of her favorite rooms.
The door stood open just a crack. She knocked lightly and then entered.
It was empty. Not even a paper had been moved to indicate that Richard had been here. The fire lay unlit. Not unusual given the season, but more evidence that her husband had not been here yet.
Still, it must have been him she'd heard arrive. Nobody else was expected.
Turning, she strode back to the front hall, the smile no longer present upon her lips.
There was nobody there, not even a footman.
Holding in her sigh, she turned towards the kitchens – and almost collided with the porter.
"My pardon, your grace."
"Was that not the duke that I heard arrive?" she asked.
The porter slowed. "Why yes. It was."
Then where was he? She held herself back from snapping the question. She must remember that she didn't care. "And where might I find the duke? I have matters to discuss with him."
"I believe he went out riding. He expressed the need for fresh air."
She blinked. "He needed fresh air?"
"Those were his words. Will there be anything else?"
"No, that will be all.” The urge to ask if Richard had truly ridden all the way here and then gone out for fresh air was strong, but she resisted. It was clear her husband was avoiding something – and deep in her gut she knew it was she.
#
He was avoiding his wife. There was no other reason Richard was still atop a horse. And unlike the gelding he'd ridden from London, Brutus, his new stallion, was not a gentle ride. He might never walk again.
And yet he did not return.
In truth, he'd come from London to see Georgianna. These past months without her had been so empty. He'd been convinced it was the right thing to send her home, but day by day he'd missed her. And so he'd come, hoping for . . . he knew not what.
He'd decided that the only way forward was to talk to her – only that meant talking to her. He didn't know what to say and, frankly, he was frightened of confronting her after all this time.
Hence, this ride.
Pulling back on the reins, he drew to a halt.
This was not accomplishing anything.
He had come home to claim his wife and it was time he got on with it.
Turning back, he stared down at his home. He'd lived here the majority of his life, but never before had he gazed down at the great estate and thought of it as his. The gray stone manor house spread out, its wings arching about the large courtyard. Behind it lay
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