Enchanting the Duke - Lana Williams

Prologue

London, England, September 1872

“Take good care of her, won’t you?”

Douglas Slade, the ninth Duke of Rothbury, stilled in surprise at the request as he prepared to add his signature to the paper before him. Good care? His thoughts swirled at what that meant.

Mr. Taylor’s eyes watered suspiciously as he continued, “Eleanor is my only child, you know. The light of my life.”

Yet the man had signed the marriage settlement as if eager to strike the deal and be shed of her.

“She’ll receive the same care all of those who depend on me receive.” That much Douglas could promise. Nothing more. Never mind the odd kick of his heart at the thought of having Eleanor Taylor as his wife. He gave himself a mental shake. It shouldn’t make any difference that he’d have one more person dependent on him.

This wasn’t a love match, after all, but a marriage of convenience. A trade of sorts. Eleanor would have the title of the Duchess of Rothbury, and Douglas would gain a fortune along with a wife to give him an heir. There was no doubt he was receiving the better part of the bargain.

The money would go far in restoring the duchy to its previous glory—to the grandeur it embodied before his father had done his best to ruin it without ever having inherited. But it wasn’t about glory for Douglas. The only thing that mattered was his responsibilities—the lives of his tenants, his duty to Parliament and to the Queen.

Now he would have one more duty to add to the list—husband.

Marrying Eleanor was no particular hardship. She was beautiful, intelligent, witty, and merry. They should suit rather well, except for the last part. Merry was not in his vocabulary. He wasn’t known as the Dour Duke for nothing. He had no time for frivolity when so much rested on his shoulders.

He was a man of discipline and honor, qualities drilled into him at his grandfather’s knee. Hours spent reciting his duties and assisting his grandfather while other boys his age were outside fishing or playing in the woods. There had been no time for frivolity nor was there now. Duty first. Self never. His personal motto was a reminder to make certain he never became his father or broke the vow he’d made to his grandfather.

“The same care as your tenants? But she’ll be your wife.” Mr. Taylor’s brow crinkled as if he were displeased with Douglas’s response. “Your duchess. The mother of your children.”

“The same.” That was all Douglas could permit. If Taylor’s expectations were unrealistic, did that mean Eleanor’s were as well? If so, that was unfortunate, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—change his response. No purpose would be served in making false promises as to what he intended the marriage to be. He only hoped Eleanor could understand that.

Did she already detest him? Think him cold? Unyielding? Many of the fairer sex seemed to. Was the title of duchess something she desired so much that she was willing to agree to this arrangement and marry a man who considered laughter a waste of energy? Who rarely smiled because life held little that amused him?

They’d only spoken a few times. Enough for Douglas to be certain she would act appropriately and do the title justice. He wanted her to be the opposite of his own mother, who’d spent far too much time seeking her pleasure above all else. At least, according to his grandfather. He didn’t remember enough of her to know.

Yes, Eleanor Taylor would suffice as his duchess.

Never mind that something stirred within him when her warm brown eyes the color of melted chocolate met his, as if she had a secret she couldn’t wait to share. That his lips twitched oddly when she offered her bright smile. That her vivaciousness fascinated him, and he’d hardly been able to take his gaze from her the few times they’d been together.

Those were only temporary feelings. No doubt they’d dim once he came to know her better. Or rather, once she came to know him, the Dour Duke.

If only—

But no. Wishful thinking led nowhere. He firmed his mind as he tossed down the pen and rose from the table. “She will be a duchess. Surely that’s enough.”

Chapter One

London, England, December 1872

Eleanor Slade, the Duchess of Rothbury, ignored the whispers and stares as she walked down Bond Street with Babette, her maid, in tow. The crisp air hadn’t discouraged shoppers eager to find the perfect Christmas presents for loved ones.

“There’s the duchess who married the Dour