The Duchess and the Cowboy: A Denim and Lace Victorian Western Romance

By Debra Erfert

Pride and Prejudice meets the Wild West


A young British duchess fleeing from her husband's murderer. A widowed American cowboy with a small daughter. Their second chance at love.

At twenty-one, Jane Langley the Duchess of Chatham is too young to be a widow. Her husband's misguided duel with his ruthless younger brother leaves him dead. The new duke's menacing threat to Jane—marry him or else—has her fleeing her home to America for safety and an opportunity to where she can buy her own property. Although Jane worries about her new role as a landowner in the Wild West, she wonders if a proper British duchess will be accepted in a land that lacks propriety. Does Carson City have a high society? Or does she become a pioneer woman? Her concerns change the morning she meets the ruggedly handsome cowboy, Mr. Bellamy.

Heath Bellamy is no stranger to misery. He lost his wife shortly after their daughter was born, and for the past two winters, the cruel Nevada blizzards killed too many of his ranch's cattle. They need grass to survive. When a new owner takes over the neighboring big spread, he sees the possibility of the herd grazing on her land. 

When their relationship turns from friendship to deep affection, they must decide if love is worth risking getting their hearts broken all over again.

"The Duchess and the Cowboy" is a historical romance novel of approximate 66,000 words. No cheating. No cliffhangers, and a guaranteed Happily Ever After!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debra Erfert
• Release date: Oct 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780999046098

Book preview

Chapter 1

North England

March, 1888

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SELDOM DID ANYTHING good come from rising before dawn. The sun would be higher in the sky, and the air warmer if Jane’s quarrelsome brother-in-law would have set the time for the duel at a decent hour. Besides, it was not as if it were a real to-the-death duel.

The silliness could have waited until after they broke their fast. Jane’s husband, Henry Langley, Duke of Chatham, challenged his younger brother after insulting words brought Jane to the brink of tears and flamed Henry’s face in embarrassing pink streaks. How long it took to produce an heir was not Greyson’s business. Yet the subject antagonized Henry the moment it was broached, and Greyson seemed to recognize it.

Jane followed Henry, and Smith, his valet, at an inconspicuous distance when they left the outer walls of Langley Castle, where he met Greyson and his valet. No, it was a different man with Greyson, one she didn’t recognize. He might’ve let Cuthbert go, she supposed. Knowing it was socially inappropriate for a woman to witness a duel, staying in the shadows of the tall trees seemed like the only prudent move if she wanted to watch her husband properly set down his brother. The four men moved to the center of the flat, snowy field.

We should go back, your grace. Ella, Jane’s abigail, kept a respectable distance behind her. Without Ella, she would still be in bed, and would have probably slept through the excitement. Henry was an experienced hunter and excellent horseman. Handling a pistol, even early in the morning, would lead to no great stress for the Duke. But Greyson, being the second son and not likely to inherit the title until he grew very old, if ever, had chosen a different path to spend his time: gambling and women. The two subjects oddly went together for him.

Shh! Jane didn’t slow her pace until a satisfactorily plump tree shielded her, yet it gave her a good enough view to witness Greyson’s humiliating come down. With pistols chosen, Henry and Greyson stood back to back. In an instant, Henry and Jane locked eyes. He must’ve known she couldn’t stay away. The valets backed away as their voices counted in tandem. On the tenth step, just before Henry pivoted, he gave Jane a comforting smile and a playful wink.

Two explosions popped before Henry got his arm fully extended. He slowly slumped to the wet ground with his pistol still in his hand. Jane dashed from behind the tree.

Henry! she screamed, running for her husband. Henry, she cried. Smith reached him first. He stuffed his cravat against Henry’s chest in the next instant. Jane fell to her knees beside him, watching in disbelief as blood saturated through his greatcoat and also the silk cloth.

Jane . . . Henry’s breathy word tore at her heart.

Don’t speak, my dear. Save your strength, she told him, taking his hand in hers. Jane looked up at Ella, staring wide-eyed down at them. "Run back and send for the carriage—and tell whomever to fetch the surgeon, quickly!"

Yes, your grace! Ella took off at a run.

Jane . . . Henry unsuccessfully attempted to lift his head. The pallor of his cool skin scared her. It seemed to take all his strength just to say her name. She leaned down and rested her face on his cheek.

I’m here, she whispered.

I’m sorry I . . . I didn’t defend your honor.

Jane lifted her head and stared into his deep brown eyes. He kept his stare pinned on her like she was his lifeline. You are my hero, she said, her words breaking at the end.

I will always love you, my sweet Jane, Henry told her. His hand lost its grip around her fingers.

Henry? Jane squeezed his hand with both of hers when it got heavy. Henry? His eyes seemed to lose focus. She pressed her lips to his. He didn’t respond to her kiss. Smith sat back, frowning. Do something! Jane demanded.

I’m sorry, your grace. His grace is—

No! Jane cut his words off. Don’t say it! She let loose of Henry’s hand and quickly took hold of his shoulders. With frantic ire, she shook him. "You cannot die! Henry!" she screeched and shook him again. His eyes rolled open and he moaned.

Good Lord, Smith croaked. He shrugged off his own coat and then stripped off his vest. After folding it, he pressed it onto Henry’s wounded chest. The sounds of pounding hoof beats rumbled in the distance, growing louder.

Taking her eyes off her wounded husband, Jane looked up. A carriage was speeding toward them, with men riding horses alongside it. Glancing over at the fiend who shot him, she saw Greyson casually walking away as if he were taking a stroll. Cuthbert stood off to the side. Where had he come from?

Your grace, Smith said. We’ll need room.

Jane vigorously shook her head as she reacquired her husband’s bare, cool hand. I will help.

Four footmen jumped from the coach while the groomsmen pulled their horses to a halt next to their injured duke. Ella climbed down from the carriage, carrying blankets. During the journey to the castle, Henry’s hooded eyes stayed open and trained on Jane, and she knelt on the floor, never releasing her hold on his hand. Six men carried him on a blanket up to his bedchamber.

Henry’s labored breathing was shallow, but he was still alive. The surgeon was reportedly on his way. Until then, Smith used Jane’s sewing shears to cut off Henry’s coat, vest, and shirt until he lay bare to his waist. The bleeding from the hole in the right side of his chest soaked through yet another cravat, and then a third. Jane held her husband’s face and gripped his hand even tighter as the acrid odor of his blood filled her senses. He’d lost so much. How could he still live?

You’re going to be all right, my beloved, Jane cooed, running her trembling fingers along his cheek and down into his grey-flecked beard. I need you, you know.

The side of his colorless lips twitched upward. They’d had that conversation before. He never thought she had ever needed him. It was him who truly needed her, from the beginning of their courtship. Arguing with him about something so inconsequential seemed an impudent waste of breath now.

Henry said in a voice growing weaker, Send everyone out, dearest. She took in a fast breath, intending to argue with him on that count. Smith had kept him alive since he had been shot. How long would he last without his presence? Please, Jane. . . Henry’s brows crimped together. The time is growing short.

Smith withdrew his hands from atop the duke’s chest, and she watched the footmen follow him out the bedchamber’s door. It closed with a soft metallic click. They were alone.

Dearest . . . I thank you for becoming my wife.

Don’t Henry, she whispered, holding her hand to her throat.

His eyes closed momentarily. "You’re the most precious thing in my life. You are my life. I’m sorry that our journey together is ending here, this way. He inhaled a weak breath. I will miss you, my duchess."

Oh, Henry— Jane forced her face into the crook of his neck. Please don’t speak like this.

You need to beware of Greyson. It will not be safe for you here after he . . . He gasped in another breath, his words softened still. I’m sorry I cannot protect you from him. He groaned once more, and then it was as if the air in his chest escaped and he was unable to retake it.

Henry? Jane lifted her face. Her husband’s eyes were closed, the lines around his mouth relaxed. Henry? She pressed her mouth to his, kissing his lips, trying to coax a response. His pliable lips stayed still, and she detected no breath coming from him. "No," she cried loud enough for Smith to burst back into the room.

Henry Langley, Duke of Chatham, died before the surgeon arrived, and Jane’s heart broke.

Jane’s brother, Lord Christopher Lockwood, stood next to her at the edge of Henry’s open tomb painfully aware that at twenty-one she was too young to be a widow. Christopher had arrived three days after getting word of Henry’s death. The letter she sent did not explain the circumstance behind the outdated duel he’d been involved in, nor that Henry’s own brother had been his killer. When her dead husband’s casket was carried into the crypt, her will to live was entombed along with him. Jane didn’t even have a child to cling to, to console her heart.

Their mother had passed last year. Even then, Henry had been her strong shoulder to cry upon. Christopher was no substitute today. She watched him gaze at Louis, the Earl of Winchester, their eldest brother. His straight back was evidence that no warmth would be forthcoming from him. At twenty-nine, Louis acted every bit like the future Marquess of Sheffield, very dignified and proper. Their youngest brother, William, barely nineteen and headed back for his last year at Cambridge, was too wrapped up in himself to notice Jane’s grief. Christopher slid his arm around Jane’s shoulder. She turned her head—slightly, to let him know she recognized his effort. Could be, she leaned into his embrace a little, too.

The large gathering parted for Jane as she walked to her carriage with her head upright, shoulders straight. The undercurrent of whispering stopped as she passed. Their gazes held sadness for her. Henry Langley was a likeable landlord. When he married Jane two years after his first wife had died, the celebration went on in the county for nearly a week.

Jane caught sight of Greyson as Christopher handed her up into her well-sprung Barouche. Greyson was standing outside his Phaeton. The hardened stare the new Duke of Chatham had given Jane gave her a sudden chill.

Chapter 2

JANE LEFT HER heart in the church graveyard. The springtime grasses struggling to grow up through the melting snow couldn’t keep her attention when, at other times, it had captivated her imagination of the future. She’d had such hope for happiness. Henry’s funeral service had been more mechanical than emotional. Jane was at a loss what to do. Henry had given her direction. Together, they’d had a purpose. They were a family.

The two matching grey horses pulled the barouche-landau through the open outer wall gates. Jane shifted in her seat, accidentally elbowing Christopher. He immediately took her hand. He read her intent wrong. She needed room to breathe. With the carriage’s top up, the small interior constricted her nearly to suffocation.

The thought of getting out and walking the rest of the way to the castle steps flittered through her mind. How could she get the driver’s attention? Open the door and yell? Would she fall out if she tried? Her brother wouldn’t appreciate being left alone, since he had come all the way from London. Father and Charlotte, his bride of only six months, had left from the church, headed for Lockwood Castle, their estate near Kent. Jane’s oldest brother, Louis, had to rush back to his increasing wife, who was unable to travel during her time. Jane tried not to let bitter thoughts keep her from being happy for his family. She loved her sister-in-law. Well, Jane liked her well enough, at least. Louis and Alice suited well, and she, at least, would be giving him an heir.

After the carriage came to a stop, Christopher stepped down first before turning to reach up to Jane. Even before she was handed out, Jane could see another coach pulling in behind hers. After not having any other emotion than grief for the past three weeks, she could feel anger building inside. Greyson came to take possession on the estate. He had already assumed the title of Duke of Chatham not twenty-four hours after Henry died. Now Jane would need to vacate her rooms and live—where? If Greyson were a generous man, she’d have a wing of the castle to call her own. Or he would send her to London, or to one of several other estates Henry had owned, that Greyson had now inherited.

Jane would prefer not living near the man who had murdered her husband. She quickened her pace to the steps leading to the front entrance.

Lockwood, Greyson called out.

The sound of his voice grated against her nerves. Christopher, who was escorting her with much haste, stopped his forward movement long enough for Greyson to settle in beside them.

If you will, I need to speak to her grace in private. Greyson stood with his arms behind his back, looking contrite. She knew better. He had been unapologetic since he shot her husband.

Christopher gazed down upon her, his brows knitted closer together.

I’ll be in directly, Jane said, dropping her hand away from her brother’s arm.

Good enough. Christopher nodded before climbing the steps. She watched him go just inside the doors, but his silhouette was visible on the other side of the glass. He was well within the sound of her call, if she needed him.

Greyson took hold of her elbow, moving them aside from her carriage being pulled away. I’m sorry if this seems like the wrong time for this discussion, but I wanted to let you know that I will be taking possession of Langley Castle in a fortnight.

Jane nearly cried. Two weeks? That was all the notice he was giving her before he took over everything? But just when she thought she’d been given the worst possible of news, he drove a dagger through her life when he tightened his fingers around her arm.

"I want you to understand that the day you no longer wear mourning black, you will marry me. Greyson pulled her closer to him, and with a voice so low only she could hear his icy mandate. But you can be sure, we will not be strangers on our wedding night."

Panic joined in with her anger as the Duke released her. All it would take was his word to the ton that he had been intimate with her to sully her reputation to the point she’d have no choice but to accept his proposal, as cold as it was. He turned and strode to his Phaeton and climbed inside. Jane didn’t wait to see if he left before running up the steps and in through the door Alistair, the butler, had opened for her. It seemed every household staff member except Cook waited just inside for her return, and she was most likely busy preparing a meal Jane had no desire to eat.

Jane, what happened? Christopher asked, falling in beside her as she headed for the staircase.

That devil demanded I marry him. She grasped her crepe silk skirts and lifted them enough to climb. Stomping her way up each step didn’t dispel her wrath at the way Greyson assumed she would live her life with him. She’d married his older brother, and while she might not have been in love with him at the time, Henry had been every inch the gentleman from their very first introduction. He’d been widowed for a few years by then, and ready to give his heart to another woman. Jane might’ve been young at nineteen, but encouraged by her father to accept the proposal when she would’ve rather waited for a love match, their two years together had been good. Just thinking about Greyson moving into Langley Castle and replacing Henry in her mind, and in deed, revolted her. How dare he? She would not let him do so much as touch her again. Greyson may have inherited all of her husband’s lands, but she did not come with his title.

Your grace— Ella kept up with Jane’s fast pace. Did Lord Langley, er . . . Ella cleared her throat as if something unpleasant was stuck and threatened to choke her. Did His Grace harm you?

Jane didn’t pause in her step, but her maid didn’t know how close she came to being correct. Where Henry had been gentle, Greyson was harsh and hard, direct and forbidding. She’d put up with his abrasiveness during holidays and infrequent visits because polite society dictated so. They were two brothers with total opposite personalities. Now Henry was gone. The better man had died. Life wasn’t fair, but Jane didn’t plan on accepting everything that fate planned on throwing at her without trying to smack the worst of it away.

I’m all right, Ella. Jane swept into her husband’s book room with every intention of leaving the castle before Greyson had a chance to return. She hadn’t been thinking clearly about her future until Greyson had given her a figurative wake-up slap in the face. His idea of a future sounded like pure torture. It wasn’t anything Jane would go along with without a pistol being held against her head, and probably not even then.

I want you to send a footman to make sure Lord Langley—I mean the Duke—has actually left the grounds.

Your grace? Ella asked, obviously confused at such a request. But Jane knew Ella had no more respect for Greyson than any of the other staff did for him. He was rude to everyone, no matter what their station in life. Jane lifted her hand and fanned it toward the door, giving her maid a well-learned stare that should’ve frozen her to her slippers.

Yes, your grace. Ella curtsied before turning and quickly taking her leave.

Jane stopped at the ceiling-high window and gazed down onto the expanse of snow-covered ground surrounding the east side. The view, although beautiful, could not tell her if Greyson had truly left, or if he was lurking around until she retired for the night. Sleeping with a loaded pistol next to her pillow might be a good idea tonight. She happened to know where one was.

Why would Greyson stay? Christopher asked.

Jane hadn’t noticed him still behind her. He stood near a tall bank of shelves that held some of Henry’s favorite books. I don’t trust him.

Neither do I. So we’re agreed on that, then. Christopher leaned his shoulder against the shelf. What else is there? I noticed the storm clouds overhead when you blew inside.

He. . . Jane hated to admit something so personal to her own brother, but he had always been willing to listen to her secrets, her dreams, even when they were young. He doesn’t expect to wait until we’re wed before coming to my bed—not that I plan on marrying him!

Christopher bolted upright and dashed out of the book room. Heavens. Jane didn’t need another confrontation or dueling death on her shoulders. She ran after him. Stop, Christopher. Let him be. I have a plan! Her words made little or no difference in the hasty speed of his exit out of the front door. She caught up with him and Ella near the gardens.

He’s gone. Christopher was heaving in his breath. I checked the stables. His horses are not there, nor is his Phaeton in the carriage house.

Jane brushed her shirts. "He said he’d be back in a fortnight. That’s how long I have