His Second-Chance Duchess (The Darling Duchesses #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Tyneham, Dorset, England

How much longer could she keep hiding?

Georgina, Dowager Duchess of Tyneham, peered out from around the corner of the haberdashery at the limestone walls of St. Mary’s.

The little chapel sat silently in the spring sunlight as if watching over the cottages and shops of the village like a hen its chicks.

Next to it, the vicarage showed no signs of occupation, but it couldn’t be empty.

He would be there.

A shiver went through her. She’d managed to avoid him the last month since his arrival in the village, even through the Easter celebrations.

When she wished to assist in some charitable endeavor, she sent her donations by footman.

When the duke, who was currently in residence at Tyneham Manor, invited the vicar to dine, she pleaded a headache.

When she attended services on Sunday, she kept her head down and eyes averted.

Even if she sometimes sighed aloud, hearing that warm voice read the sermon.

The door of the vicarage opened now. Why did her breath still hitch when she caught sight of that curly blond hair?

She never had emboldened herself to run her fingers through it when they had been courting.

He slipped a low-crowned hat over it now as he descended the stairs, then glanced in either direction as if making sure all the gravestones were accounted for.

As always, his navy coat looked freshly pressed, his cravat was neatly tied, and his black boots shone with polish.

She could imagine those bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled a welcome.

He glanced toward the shops along the east side of the village green, and she jerked back, pressing the shoulders of her black satin pelisse against the whitewashed stones of the building.

Some members of the Organizing Committee for the Betterment of Children in the Tyneham Environs lived in the village, so it had made sense to hold the next meeting at the vicarage.

She’d been told the vicar would not be present, but she’d come early without a chaperone to make sure.

She hadn’t seen him leave until now, but she hadn’t seen anyone else enter either.

She closed her eyes, fingers clutching the ribbons of her reticule closer. Her heart thudded against her ribs, but she didn’t think she heard footsteps coming in her direction. Instead, a bell tinkled. She wasn’t sure what it was until a voice spoke up.

“Your Grace? Is something the matter?”

She opened her eyes to find that Mr. Pierce, the haberdasher, had come out of his shop and stood regarding her, greying head cocked. Had he noticed her loitering? Oh, what must he think of her?

She put on her best, sunniest smile. “I’m perfectly fine, sir. Thank you so much for your concern.”

Still he regarded her, shrewd brown eyes narrowed. “Was there something you needed?”

Peace, quiet, time to reflect.

Ah, not that. Reflection only brought the tears flooding back.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I was woolgathering, I fear. I have a meeting at the vicarage.”

His face cleared. “Of course. I’m sure I speak for everyone in the village when I say we appreciate your efforts to help the children.”

Georgie’s smile felt more genuine. “And I’m happy to be of assistance. How is your daughter? I trust the tincture we sent over was helpful for her catarrh?”

“Very helpful,” he assured her. “She sniffs and coughs much less now.” He glanced back at his shop. “I have lovely new ribbons in, some black, as you prefer. Perhaps you’d care to take a look?”

She was sufficiently supplied with black ribbons. Black gowns, black shawls, and black bonnets too. At some point, she would consider going to the grey or lavender of half mourning, but not yet.

“Perhaps another time,” she said. “The other members of the committee will be expecting me. Thank you again for your concern.”

He bowed. “Your Grace.”

As soon as he stepped into his shop, she drew in a breath and turned for the vicarage.

It was almost a disappointment to find the way empty. Someone had drawn a gig up in front of the smithy, and two women were crossing the green in the direction of the shops. But no one loitered near the vicarage. Time for her to go.

Glancing left and right, she scurried around the green, across the lane, through the gate, and up the stairs to the vicarage door. Just to be safe, she tapped at the panel.

No one answered.

So, Georgie pushed it open. She’d visited the vicarage many times since she’d first come as a bride to Tyneham Manor, but she hadn’t been inside after Hugh Caddington had been appointed vicar following the retirement of the previous minister.

The same etchings of cathedrals around the land held pride of place along the pale blue walls that ran from the entry hall and down to the kitchen, as if attempting to inspire the single-story church to grow into something more.

The east side of the house held the vicar’s study and bedchamber, so she turned to the west, which held the sitting room, dining room, and kitchen.

“Mrs. Hallet?” she called. Shouldn’t the vicarage housekeeper be near?

No response.

Odd. Surely the others had arrived while she’d been talking with Mr. Pierce.

She wandered through the sitting room, a cozy space holding sofa and chairs in a semicircle around the limestone hearth with a low table in the middle.

The door to the dining room stood open, and no one sat at the walnut table either.

Beyond it, the door to the kitchen was closed.

Had they decided to meet at the round breakfast table it held?

“Mrs. Hallet?” she tried again, skirting the dining table and pushing open the kitchen door.

He must have had cheese with his breakfast, for she could still catch the scent of the sharp cheddar for which the area was famous.

At the table in the center, a pot of tea, a plate of scones, and a bowl of strawberry preserves waited.

There was certainly enough for the entire committee. But where were they?

Footsteps announced the approach of another a moment before a hand settled on her shoulder. “So, you’re my thief, are you?”

Georgie acted without thinking. As her father, the colonel, had taught her, she rammed her elbow into the fellow’s gut and stomped on his instep hard enough that she felt the reverberation up her leg.

With an oomph, he released her, and she dashed toward the door to the outside, heart once more colliding with her chest.

“Georgie! Your Grace! Wait!”

That voice. She should have recognized it the moment he spoke. Feeling as if all the blood had drained from her body, she slowly turned and faced Hugh Caddington, her vicar and the man she had once loved.

* * *

Hugh managed to stand upright, like a gentleman, though she’d taken the wind from him and his foot protested.

With a black satin pelisse swathing her curves and a black velvet bonnet covering her golden hair, it was small wonder he hadn’t recognized her from behind.

But he’d been so intent on catching the person who’d been pilfering from the vicarage that he’d let his zeal go to his head.

“Forgive me,” he said with a bow. “I didn’t know it was you.”

She was white as the caps on the Channel waves. “I certainly hope you don’t greet your other guests that way.”

At least there was a little fire in her soft voice now.

Since he’d arrived in the village, she’d gone out of her way to avoid him, and the few times she’d spoken it had been stilted and stilled, quite unlike the sweet young woman he’d once courted.

That Georgina had been excited about the world.

Everything she had seen had brought her joy, and her joy had magnified his.

According to rumors in the village, it had been the premature death of her husband, the fifth duke, that had laid her so low.

The black gowns she favored proclaimed her still in mourning, though more than a year had passed.

He understood. He still mourned the death of their courtship, and that had ended five years ago now.

“I don’t generally treat anyone that way,” he said, trying for a smile. “But someone has been stealing from the vicarage, and I had hoped I might present that person with an empty building to try again.”

Her sky blue eyes widened, and she took a step closer. “A thief? Here?”

He’d been as surprised as she was. The villagers were generally a prosperous lot, thanks largely to the patronage of the Duke of Tyneham and his family. Unlike when Hugh had lived in London, he’d spotted no beggars in the lanes, no itinerants in the hedgerows, and no orphans needing a loving home.

“It started with a blanket,” he admitted, careful not to approach her lest he disturb this sudden truce. “Then a loaf of bread. Most recently, my greatcoat disappeared.”

“How very odd!” She came around the table as if intrigued. The color was coming back in her cheeks, and her movement betrayed a flash of pink, which must line the pelisse. “And you’ve noticed no muddy footprints leading out? Heard no voice whispering in the night?”

Hugh smiled despite himself. “And seen no ominous shape hiding in the graveyard.”

She looked disappointed. “Well, that is a shame.” She glanced past him toward the door to the dining room. “Do you expect the others shortly?”

“Others?” Hugh asked, smile fading.

“The other members of the Organizing Committee for the Betterment of Children in the Tyneham Environs,” she explained patiently, as if he had forgotten.

“Sophia, the current Duchess of Tyneham; Mrs. Pritchard, the wife of our good wet grocer; Mrs. Fable, the widowed sister of our haberdasher; and myself. I was told we were to meet here at eleven this morning.”

“I’m afraid no one informed me,” Hugh told her. “But by all means, wait in the sitting room for them. I expect Mrs. Hallet back from the grocer shortly.” He stepped farther aside to give her access to the door.