A Duchess in Name: A Victorian Historical Romance

By Amanda Weaver

After graduating from British finishing school, an American heiress fulfills her duty and weds a destitute earl. A lie brought them together, but will it also tear them apart? Find out in this can't-miss Victorian marriage-of-convenience story from a compelling new voice in historical romance.Victoria Carson never expected love. An American heiress and graduate of Lady Grantham's finishing school, she's been groomed since birth to marry an English title—the grander the better. So when the man chosen for her, the forbidding Earl of Dunnley, seems to hate her on sight, she understands that it can't matter. Love can have no place in this arrangement.Andrew Hargrave has little use for his title and even less for his cold, disinterested parents. Determined to make his own way, he's devoted to his life in Italy working as an archaeologist. Until the collapse of his family's fortune drags him back to England to a marriage he never wanted and a woman he doesn't care to know.Wild attraction is an unwanted complication for them both, though it forms the most fragile of bonds. Their marriage of convenience isn't so intolerable after all—but it may not be enough when the deception that bound them is finally revealed.Book one of The Grantham GirlsAmelia Wheeler is the next Grantham Girl to rebel against family obligation in A COMMON SCANDAL.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carina Press
• Release date: Jan 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781459290617

Amanda Weaver

Amanda has loved romance since she read that very first Kathleen E. Woodiwiss novel at fifteen. After a long detour into a career as a costume designer in theatre, she’s found her way back to romance, this time as a writer.A native Floridian, Amanda transplanted to New York City many years ago and now considers Brooklyn home, along with her husband, daughter, two cats, and nowhere near enough space.You can find Amanda at www.amandaweavernovels.com. 

Book preview

Prologue

London, 1891

If the ground beneath her feet had opened up and swallowed her mother whole, Victoria was sure she wouldn’t shed a tear. She’d welcome anything—anything—that would make the woman stop talking and just leave. But the ground stayed stubbornly solid, as always, and Hyacinth Carson carried on without cease. As always.

You’ve got freckles developing, Victoria, just there, beside your nose. You’ve been out in the sun without a parasol again, haven’t you? Nothing is more important than preserving your skin, you know that. If you don’t take care, you’ll shrivel up like an old apple. You’re already too tall and your voice isn’t at all delicate. You must preserve whatever ladylike attributes you possess, girl.

Victoria blushed and began to raise a hand to her cheeks, then forced herself to stop. We had a picnic last week and I forgot for a moment…

Her mother began tugging her gloves on and Victoria sighed in relief. This week’s visit was nearly over.

And what’s this Lady Grantham is telling me, that you and the Godwyn girl want to attend some political discussion?

It sounds interesting—

No man wants a rabble-rouser for a wife, Victoria. You leave the politics to the men. Your job will be the house and the entertaining.

Yes, Mother. Oh, how well she knew it. Her sole purpose on earth was to unite her large fortune to a title, the grander the better. All of her fifteen years had been spent preparing her for that and nothing more.

Her mother leaned down to retrieve her handbag and scowled at the book left lying open, facedown on the settee. Are you reading this nonsense? she snapped, picking up the book and waving it under Victoria’s nose. She hadn’t been, but protesting her innocence was pointless.

Romantic claptrap. Hyacinth tossed the book on the settee again. "You keep your mind on studying your Debrett’s Peerage. That’s all the reading you’ll need."

She’d already memorized Debrett’s, of course. But it was pointless to tell that to Mother.

Of course, Mother. Long ago, she’d learned it was best to just nod and agree and wait for it to be over.

Hyacinth finished arranging her hat and stopped to look her daughter over one more time from head to toe. Your figure is filling out nicely at last. Plenty of men will find you appealing with a bosom like that.

Mother! Shame scalded her cheeks. She hunched forward, folding her arms over her chest.

Oh, don’t be a ninny. Any man marrying you will be doing it for the money, you know that. But with a pretty face and a good figure, he might not see you entirely as a burden. Be grateful.

Victoria was too mortified to reply, but Hyacinth didn’t need one. See you stay out of the sun. And for heaven’s sake, do stand up straight, girl. We’re spending a fortune to have you properly finished here. I’d like to see the results of it.

Biting the inside of her lip and ignoring the sting of tears, Victoria stood up straight, so straight she could balance a book on her head while she poured tea. All the training had taught her to look flawless, no matter how she felt on the inside.

Her mother smiled in satisfaction, not noticing her daughter’s hands, curled into fists so tightly that her nails left marks on her palms. That’s better, although I despair over your height. She shook her head sadly. I should have limited the milk when you were small, to keep you petite, but it’s too late now. We’ll just have to work with what we’ve got. I’ll see you next week.

Without a hug or a word of affection, she left, and Victoria let her shoulders slump out of spite.

A whisper came from the doorway. Is she gone?

Pressing her palms to her cheeks, she willed the tears away before she turned to face Amelia and Grace. The only thing worse than enduring one of her mother’s visits was for her friends to witness her humiliation. Yes, for now.

The girls came the rest of the way in, settling on the settee. As much as Victoria hated the principle behind being finished and groomed for marriage by Lady Grantham, she didn’t at all hate living with Genevieve Grantham. Gen was wonderful, everything her own mother wasn’t. Amelia and Grace were here for finishing, too, and they’d become her dearest friends. She dreaded the day her time here was done and she’d have to move back home.

I’m sorry she railed at you about the novel, Grace said. That was mine. I shouldn’t have left it out.

It wouldn’t have mattered. She’d have just found something else to complain about.

Would you like to read it? I’m nearly done.

Victoria took it and scowled at the title. Silly romances. They’re no better than fairy tales.

Amelia sighed. Oh, but this one is deliciously racy. And the hero—

That’s just it. Victoria cut her off. He’s only some man in a book. We’ll never meet him, and if we do, we won’t be allowed to marry him. No, for us it’s a bunch of arrogant, broke old men with titles. Did you see the way Lord Sturridge was looking at me at the park yesterday? I haven’t even put my hair up yet. It’s disgusting. His poor sick wife is at home and he’s already casting about for her replacement. I don’t doubt he knows how much I’ve got, down to the penny.

Surely you’ll get a better offer than Sturridge.

He’s an earl. Mother would jump at it.

You’ll have better options than him, I’m sure of it, Grace assured her.

Perhaps, but I can’t think my life will be some fairy tale when it certainly won’t be. I’ll be married for my fortune, not for love. It’s not as if any of us will be marrying for love.

Some people do, Amelia protested. My parents—

Your parents are paying a fortune to finish you with Genevieve. Grace said it gently. They may have married for love, but that was before the money. You know what’s expected of you. Just like Vic, just like me, we’ll marry with our heads, not our hearts.

Amelia looked as if she wanted to argue it, but that was just her headstrong nature. She knew the reality of her circumstances as well as Victoria and Grace.

It makes me wish I didn’t have to marry at all, Amelia groused. If I’m going to have to marry some titled prat who despises me because of my background.

Oh, I want to marry. Victoria’s friends looked at her as if she were mad, so she rushed to explain. Living with Gen and you has been the only time in my life I’ve been happy, but when it ends, I’ll move back home with my parents. I won’t escape again until I marry. I don’t have to love my husband, or even like him, so long as marrying him means I can live my own life, and begin my own family. That’s all I want.

And the rest of it? Amelia ventured. The business between men and women?

I’ll manage it as best I can. As long as I don’t go into it expecting some fairy-tale love story, I’ll be all right.

Grace reached for her hand and grasped Amelia’s with her other. None of us will be getting a fairy-tale love story. But we shall always have each other.

Soon the unpleasant reality of life would descend on her. But not yet. For this brief time, she was still among friends and that faceless stranger with a title was still off in her future. She could only pray that when he finally appeared, she could bear him. She didn’t need a dream, she only hoped to avoid a nightmare.

Chapter One

Four years later

Trying to find anything in the crush of the Burlington Arcade at the height of the Season was impossible. Victoria wanted a new pair of spring gloves, but it was packed to the gills, and she’d had enough of being jostled by a bunch of pushy society matrons. She was about to suggest to Grace and Amelia that they give up and go for a quick walk in the park, but they were deep in conversation about a terribly weighty matter.

I think the color looks rather good on me. Amelia held up a sheer silk wrap, draping it over one shoulder and examining herself in the shop mirror. A dowager in a wide-brimmed hat shoved past, but Amelia simply shoved her back. Amelia was good at shoving. Grace glanced up from a box of glass buttons and scowled at Amelia’s reflection. Amelia, it’s salmon pink.

It is not. It’s carnation pink.

Salmon, Grace said flatly. Like the inside of a fish.

Carnation, Amelia argued. Like that tremendous bouquet from Tony Batchelder sitting in Victoria’s front parlor this morning.

You must be blind.

Their good-natured argument continued for a few minutes more until Amelia appealed to her. Vic, which is it? Salmon or carnation?

If you like it, what does it matter? It looks pretty on you with either name.

I’d rather not carry a shawl that reminds people of dead fish.

Since when have you started caring what people think?

Amelia sighed, refolding the shawl. I don’t, to the eternal despair of my parents. All the same, I think the shawl is a ‘no.’ What about you? Did you find any gloves?

Perhaps these. What do you think?

Pretty. Grace peered over Amelia’s shoulder.

There are two pair… Victoria ventured, sliding one toward Grace.

"Pretty for you," Grace said, and turned away. Amelia met Victoria’s eyes over the tray of gloves and raised one dark eyebrow. Of course Grace refused the gloves—and anything else skirting too close to charity. Victoria and Amelia were the heiresses groomed to marry titles. Grace’s problem was the opposite, orphaned and without a penny to her name. She’d only been sent to Lady Grantham because of a misguided bequest from a deceased great-aunt.

Over the course of several generations, the Grantham townhouse had seen countless young ladies pass through its doors as they were finished for Society. The best noble families in Britain sent their daughters to the legendary Lady Grantham for that certain something only she could provide.

As the years wore on, inevitably a new generation of middle class manufacturing magnates, like Victoria and Amelia’s fathers, wanted that same polish for their daughters, hoping to secure them entry into the bastions of British society traditionally closed to them. The business began to change, until Lady Grantham was better known for cleaning up working class heiresses and finding them titled, but cash-strapped, husbands, than she was for teaching them how to curtsy before the queen. And when the first Lady Grantham finally died, her great-niece, Genevieve, had stepped in to take over the role of Lady Grantham, matching girls with money to noblemen without it. These days, Genevieve Grantham was hardly the only one. A veritable small industry had developed in Europe to facilitate just such pairings.

Grace didn’t have a fortune to attract Gen’s impoverished nobility, but Gen adored her, so she’d kept her on, even when the aunt’s bequest ran out. But it couldn’t last forever. If Grace couldn’t find some decent man to marry soon, she’d be forced to go to work as a governess. Or worse.

Victoria laid the gloves back in the tray. They’d lost their appeal.

The bell over the door tinkled, announcing another shopper, but it was only Gen coming back from a quick trip to the new milliner two doors down. Victoria and Amelia had left Gen’s house the year before when they’d made their debut, but they still saw her often. Victoria missed those days, when it had been the four of them. A full year of her mother’s relentless pressure to marry well had driven her half-mad. She was willing to say yes to anyone, just to bring the hunt to a close.

Did you find your gloves? Gen asked, adjusting her hat. Dressed head to toe in her signature chic black, Genevieve Grantham looked like a glossy, elegant raven set down amongst the brightly colored shoppers.

I can’t find anything in this crush. The shops become so impossible during the Season. I’d better get home soon. No doubt my mother has made plans for me for the afternoon. Shall I see you all at the opera tonight?

We’re going, aren’t we, Gen? Grace asked.

Of course. And Amelia will be there, too, won’t you?

Yes, Papa and I are going, but please tell me it’s not that dull one about the chap who kills himself for love.

They’re all about that. And besides, nobody goes to the opera for the music. Grace was nothing if not a realist.

The Season is in high gear, Gen added. All the most eligible men will be there tonight. It’s an excellent opportunity for all of you.

Victoria groaned. No doubt I’ll spend the night dodging Lord Sturridge.

I can’t believe he’s still after you. He’s three times your age and a drunk. Grace peered at a rack of silk ribbons as she drew her gloves on.

Lecherous, as well. I haven’t had a conversation with him yet when his eyes actually met mine. They usually don’t get farther than my bosom. By her mother’s twisted estimation, that was a promising sign.

Don’t marry him, Vic. Amelia placed a hand on her arm. Anyone but him.

It has to be someone, and soon. The Polish count from last Season wasn’t good enough for Mother and neither was Sir Francis. She’s desperate to have it settled before the end of this Season.

There are more promising options. One will turn up shortly.

Thank you, Gen, but I’ve already resigned myself to the worst, so it doesn’t much matter who I marry. But back to the opera. It might be fun if you’re all there, and you can all conspire to keep me out of Sturridge’s withered clutches for at least one more night.

Maybe we’ll all meet the men of our dreams there, Amelia said with a wry laugh.

Genevieve fixed them all with her uncompromising gaze. For us, those men will stay in our dreams. We keep our feet on the ground and leave romance to other women.

None of them argued with her. They knew the truth as well as she did.

* * *

Hyacinth Carson had a dilemma. There were two options for the evening’s entertainment and a choice must be made. They could attend the opera, of course, where Lord Sturridge was sure to be in attendance. Victoria had managed to fend him off for over a year now, but Hyacinth was sure she could force the girl to see reason, if it came to it.

She fingered an invitation to a dinner at the Sanfields’. She had it on good authority from one of her spies that the Duke of Waring would attend.

The Duke of Waring was broke and everyone knew it. The eldest son had been all set to marry the wealthy Lady Phoebe Sheffield and restore the family fortunes, but he’d broken his neck in a hunting accident last year and that was the end of that. There was a younger son, though, living abroad in Italy and almost completely cut off from his family. Soon the duke would force the boy into marriage, and Hyacinth had been doing everything in her power to force him in Victoria’s direction.

She’d been working on the Duke of Waring for months, sinking far more time and resources into pursuing his son for Victoria than any other man on her list. Waring had been broke before the son’s death, but now he was destitute. Hyacinth had made sure of it. He was most certainly desperate to marry his son to an heiress, but could they manage to steer the young man toward Victoria or would some other upstart millionaire swoop in and steal him away?

Voices echoed off the marble entryway, and moments later, her husband, Phillip, entered the room in his usual blustering way. Phillip Carson was a tremendous presence, nearly as broad as he was tall, red-faced, with thinning hair atop his head, but with an elaborate blond moustache and bushy sideburns, as if to make up for that. There was very little Hyacinth found appealing about her husband outside of his money, but fortunately there was enough of that to make his other deficiencies irrelevant.

You were asleep when I got in last night, pet, but I have a present for you.

Hyacinth hiked an eyebrow but didn’t look up from her invitation. Really?

I’ve found Victoria a husband. Stitched up the deal last night. It’s as good as done.

She sat back with a start. What do you mean, you’ve found her a husband?

I mean, it’s all set. Shook hands with the boy’s father myself.

How dare you take it upon yourself to make such a promise without consulting me? You know how hard I’ve worked on this. Shooting to her feet, Hyacinth advanced on her husband.

Phillip Carson laughed, as if enjoying a great joke upon the world. I think you won’t be complaining about this bridegroom. The girl’s now all but betrothed to the Earl of Dunnley, heir to the Duke of Waring.

You’d best not be teasing me, Phillip.

D’you think I’d tease about a thing like matrimony, knowing your feelings on the subject?

What… How did you manage it? she finally sputtered.

Phillip’s smile grew wide. He could take or leave Society, but business set his heart beating faster. Brokering a deal or besting a business opponent was the only thing that could put such a look of rapacious glee on his face.

Well, I ran into the good duke at the club last night and invited him to sit down to a game or two of cards. Waring’s a desperate man, as we both know. Even winning at a few hands of cards would give him a bit of scratch to keep things going for a while longer. And he did win. For a few hands. And then he began to lose.

To you?

Phillip smiled in his wide, predatory way, his florid skin shining with a slight sheen of sweat. I made sure of that. And when he was tapped out, he asked for a loan. No longer got anything to use to secure one, though. So I suggested his son.

What do you mean, his son?

I told him if he lost, his son would marry my daughter.

She looked away, pursing her lips. So you won him in a card game.

Don’t go getting missish on me now, pet. I got you what you wanted.

I’m not. The heir to the Duke of Waring. Victoria will be a duchess someday. I couldn’t hope for better.

Why are you still making that face?

Hyacinth waved her hand dismissively. Only… Don’t tell Victoria how it came about. She can be so priggish. It won’t sit well with her, no matter the outcome.

The man is a stranger. She’ll wonder at his showing up out of the blue to offer for her.

I’ll take care of that. She’s always known any man marrying her would be doing so for her fortune, so it won’t surprise her. But don’t tell her what we did to bring it about. She’d make a fuss and she’s already wasted enough time.

Very well. She need never know the details. So, pet, you’ve got what you wanted, a future duke for your daughter. Let’s hope it makes her happy.

Hyacinth tipped her head to the side. How could it ever not make her happy? What else is there she could possibly want?

Chapter Two

Corneto, Italy

Bloody hell.

Andrew Hargrave, the Earl of Dunnley, and the future eighth Duke of Waring, cursed as his trowel hit a stone and slipped, driving his knuckles painfully into the rock.

He’d been working this area for three days, and he had nothing to show for the hours spent on his knees but a small handful of early Roman coins, and those were common enough to excite little interest. Still, he’d wash them up and send them to his sisters. Louisa and Emma would enjoy showing them to their school friends.

Something more substantial would have to turn up soon or there was no way the Royal Society of Archaeology would finance the dig for another summer. They’d only done so in the first place because he wielded the power of the Waring title. The Society wasn’t at all convinced he was right about his theory that the undisturbed tomb of an Etruscan queen lay on this hillside, removed from the more well-known Tarquinia necropolis nearby. He and Randolph had stayed on through the winter, when other archaeologists had returned to England to write articles from the cozy warmth of their libraries, in an attempt to unearth something—anything.

Muttering under his breath, he drove his trowel back into the cold earth with a bit more force than necessary. Losing their backing would be a disaster. He and his partner, Randolph, had shucked off their families when they’d come to Italy to pursue this dream, and while it had been liberating, it also meant they now supported themselves, stretching the grant money as far as possible to survive.

If they couldn’t find a way to keep this going, he’d be forced to return to England. His life was here, his work was here, and so was his… Well, what he and Luciana had was difficult to define, but he had no intention of letting it go.

When the light grew too dim to see by, he had to finally declare defeat and abandon the quadrant he’d been excavating. If there was any treasure in there to be unearthed, it would keep until tomorrow. Slowly, he unfolded himself and stood, brushing off dirt and dead grass. When he’d finished packing up his tools, the Italian hillside barely showed he’d been there at all.

In the tent at the base of the hill, he found Randolph hunched over his traveling desk, making notes on a handful of pottery shards he’d dug up the week before. He was bent nearly in half, his tall frame far too big for the folding camp chair he sat on. His knees pressed against the underside of his little table.

He glanced over his shoulder as Andrew entered the tent.

Any luck today?

Just those coins from this morning, and that’s nothing, really.

When he and Randolph had arrived in Corneto with the theory they’d formulated together at Cambridge, loads of enthusiasm, and not much else, Luciana had been their salvation. Her husband, a local archaeologist of some minor note, had died several years ago, and he hadn’t left her much to live on. She’d been happy to come to work for them, assisting them in making the right local connections and helping set up their dig. And not long after that, she’d become Andrew’s lover.

As he passed Luciana’s workstation, he squeezed her shoulder and she reached up to touch his hand with a smile. It was a comfortable, easy arrangement for both of them. Luciana was a bit older than he, and not looking for a commitment, only some security while they remained together. He wasn’t the first man she’d taken as her lover since her husband’s death, and he admired her open, artless approach to their relationship. He was extremely fond of her, especially as she wanted him only for himself, as disinterested in his title as he was.

We have to find something major soon or else the Society will withdraw its funding. Andrew dragged a hand through his dark hair, shaking out some of the dust.

Randolph scowled at his notes, but he didn’t respond. Keeping the dig going was just as pressing for him as it was for Andrew. If he couldn’t establish a name for himself in the field, he’d be forced back to England and his own unhappy future, taking orders in the church, as his family wanted and he most certainly didn’t.

I’m sure you’re on the right track, Luciana said. There’s so much evidence the Romans were here, you said so yourself.

Yes, but the Romans were all over Italy. That doesn’t mean our Etruscan queen was here. Or if she was, that her tomb has survived intact.

Don’t get discouraged now, Drew, Randolph said, pushing back in his chair. We’ll find something soon, I know it.

Oh! Luciana came to her feet. I nearly forgot. The boy from the village came a bit ago with a telegram for you.

For me? No one ever reached out to him here, and certainly not by telegram. It was as if he’d fallen off the face of the world, utterly forgotten by everyone back in England, and he liked it that way.

Luciana handed it to him, and he tore open the envelope.

February 25, 1895, London

There is an emergency. You are needed in London. Come at once.

The Duke of Waring

Unease unfurled in his belly. Generally, he ignored anything his father had to say, but that word—emergency. If something had happened to one of his sisters, if one of them was ill…

I have to go.

Who is it from? Randolph asked.

My father. He commands me home at once.

Does he say why?

No, and that’s what worries me. He showed the telegram to Randolph, who read it, then shot him a knowing look.

I’m sure I can guess why he wants you home. Bloody hell, Andrew, the timing couldn’t be worse.

Yes, it was entirely possible this was yet another ploy to get him home so the duke could accost him about finding a rich bride, but what if he was wrong? He would never forgive himself if Louisa or Emma needed him and he wasn’t there.

I’m fully aware of the pressure we’re under here. And if this is just some trick on his part, I won’t stay. But if it’s something to do with my sisters…

Randolph frowned. Of course. I’m sorry, Drew. I didn’t even think of that. Of course you have to go.

Luciana came up behind him and rubbed his arm. Yes, go and see after your sisters. We’ll manage without you.

I won’t leave you hanging. I’ll go and come straight back as soon as I’m assured they’re all right.

Sound plan. Randolph said. Go on and pack. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll return and we can get on with this. We’re close, Drew. I can feel it.

Randolph was so much more optimistic than he was, always ready to believe that happiness lay right around the corner. Andrew had lost that ability some time ago. Better to be braced for the bad than to count on the good and be disappointed. He’d learned that lesson from his family very early on and they’d never stopped reminding him of it.

He picked up the three coins from this morning and tucked them into his pocket. They’d be his talisman while he was gone, his reminder that this was where he belonged, one for Randolph, one for Luciana and one for their lost queen.

Be careful they don’t sink their claws into you and keep you there, Randolph said as Andrew turned to leave.

He fingered the coins in his pocket. It would take a crisis of unparalleled importance to keep him in England any longer than absolutely necessary. That would be impossible, I promise you.

* * *

After stepping down from the carriage in front of the Mayfair townhouse, Andrew took a moment to stretch his back. He’d been traveling—either by rail or ship—for nearly two full days and he could feel it in his bones. What he wanted now was a hot bath, a large brandy and a stationary night’s sleep. But first he’d have to sort out exactly why he’d been summoned home with such haste.

The front door opened and a footman appeared on the steps.

Lord Dunnley?

I am.

It wasn’t surprising the man wasn’t certain of his identity. His father paid miserably and irregularly, so the servants changed over often. He didn’t know this one.

Another footman appeared to take his bag.

Shall we bring in the luggage, Your Lordship?

"There