The Other Duke

By

Jess Michaels

After many years and many kinds of publishing, I have decided to go full indie. This is an exciting, thrilling and terrifying time for me. Someone once said you jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down. Well, here it goes. It's funny, though, when you go "indie" you don't do it alone. So there are a lot of people to thank for making this book, this choice and this life possible.

First, I want to thank you readers for giving me a strong enough platform to even begin to make this choice. I hope you will love all the upcoming books and come along with me as you have on all the other journeys.

Secondly, to all those who helped in the process of the book. To Mackenzie Walton, my fearless, kind and awesome editor. Thank you for all the things. To Millie Bullock, not just the best copyeditor, but the best Mommy ever. I love you! To my friends who encouraged me in this change, Grace Callaway, Delilah Marvelle, Heather Boyd, Vicki Lewis Thompson and Lila DiPasqua. Your generous sharing of information and occasional handholding made a huge difference. To Beth Neuman for raucous games of Cards Against Humanity and amazing talks that make me remember I am human as well as a writer. Weird Girls Forever!

And finally and most of all to Michael Petersen. You have taken the leap with me in every way imaginable. You are my sounding board, my best friend, my assistant and the love of my life. I could hardly breathe without you, let alone be brave enough to try this.

Summer 1813

Serafina McPhee flinched as the seamstress tugged a few fingers of fabric tighter around her midsection and shoved a pin through the layers to hold them in place.

“If you continue to lose weight as you have, Miss McPhee, I cannot guarantee that you will look beautiful on your wedding day,” the woman snapped. “And it shall not be my fault, I assure you.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Windle,” Serafina said softly as the dressmaker huffed off to scribble figures into a little notebook on the table a few feet away.

“What a horrid woman she is,” Serafina’s best friend Emma said as she sidled up next to her and squeezed her hand. “You could never be anything but beautiful. Here, look.”

Her friend turned Serafina gently until they faced the full-length mirror behind her. Serafina stared at her reflection, and her heart sank. There was a part of her that wished the nasty dressmaker was right. That she would look at herself and see that her beauty had vanished, faded, altered to something less appealing.

But she looked the same as ever. And the dress, the beautiful dress that a dozen girls would have given their pinkies to wear, only heightened what the Lord had been cruel enough to gift to her.

Her father had spared no expense, and it showed. The pale cream silk had been spun with silver and gold so that the brocading along the bodice almost sparkled in the light. The fabric was perfectly cut to fall over her body in the most flattering way possible, enhancing her bosom before it cascaded over the rest of her form, just kissing her curves.

At present, her blonde hair was bound in a simple chignon, but on her wedding day the elaborate veil on the table behind her would be perfectly set within her curls, framing her face, likely making her the envy of friends and acquaintances, all of whom had been invited to the wedding of the decade.

And all Serafina wanted to do was run.

“Oh no, don’t cry,” Emma whispered, retrieving a handkerchief from her gown pocket

Serafina took the offering and swiped at the unwanted tears that now threatened to fall from her eyes. She shot a look at Miss Windle, hoping the woman hadn’t seen. The dressmaker would tell the world and Serafina’s life was complicated enough without speculation dogging her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back. “It’s only…it’s only I know
he
will only be worse once we’re wed.”

Emma sucked in a breath, her cheeks growing pink as she slowly nodded in understanding. But before she could speak, the door to Serafina’s chamber flew open and her father stepped inside.

“Mr. McPhee,” Miss Windle said with a smile, suddenly all sweetness and kindness when faced with the man who paid her hefty bills. “I didn’t expect you today. Does your daughter not look lovely?”

Serafina tensed as her father cast a quick look in her direction. She expected critique, but his expression was distant and troubled as he turned back to the seamstress.

“Miss Windle, will you excuse us for a moment?”

The seamstress cast a quick glance at Serafina and then nodded. “Wh-why of course, sir.”

She gathered her notebook and shot Serafina a glare, as if she had caused this request, before she stepped into the hallway. Once she was gone, Serafina’s father gave Emma a hard look.

“You too, Emma. I need to speak to Serafina alone a moment.”

Emma swallowed hard, squeezed Serafina’s hand and then slipped from the room, shutting the door behind herself.

Serafina moved down from the elevated platform where Miss Windle had forced her to stand for the past hour. As she stretched her back, she looked at her father more closely. He looked…almost
sick
.

“What is it, Father?” she asked.

He cleared his throat a few times. “Yes, well, there is no way to say it that will ease the news, I suppose.”

Serafina’s heart began to pound. The last time her father had stammered and sputtered in this way had been when she was a girl and he announced that her mother had finally died after a long illness.

“What has happened?” she asked, her voice seeming to ring in the room around her.

“Serafina, Cyril is…he’s…”

Serafina’s errant mind swiftly began to fill in adjectives to describe her fiancé.
Cruel. Horrible. Disgusting. Hateful.

“…dead,” her father finished.

She stared at him, incapable of doing anything else. Blood roared like a raging river in her veins and her ears rang as that simple word ricocheted through her like a well-placed bullet.

“Dead?” she repeated slowly when she was able to find her voice. “What do you mean?”

Her father let out a put-upon sigh. “He was killed in a carriage accident early this morning. Messy business.”

He continued to talk, but Serafina no longer heard him. Three words echoed in her mind, blocking out her father’s droning.

Cyril is dead. Cyril is dead.

She turned away from her father and paced to the window, covering her mouth as the truth sank in. In its wake followed a reaction she could not control, one she was absolutely horrified by.

Joy. Utter joy thrilled through her entire being. Cyril was
dead
. That meant no more horrible afternoons in his company, no more false reasons to get her alone so he could…
court
her.

No more wedding.

She looked down at the gown she had despised not ten minutes before and suddenly loved it more than anything she had ever worn. She would not marry. She was free!

“But it hardly matters now,” her father said with a shake of his head.

Serafina forced the giddy smile from her face and turned on him, determined not to be the worst person ever to walk the earth.

“How can you say that, Father?” she asked, measuring her tone carefully. “Cyril is dead. No matter what he was or did in life, there are certainly those who will mourn him. His mother will be devastated.”

She frowned at the thought. The duchess doted on her son with a fervent desperation. This might just kill the nasty woman. Or simply drive her off the edge of sanity.

Her father wrinkled his brow as if he didn’t understand Serafina.

“What are you going on about, girl? I’m not talking about Cyril’s mourners, I’m talking about
your
position.”

She shook her head. “My position?”

“I didn’t come to tell you of this development sooner because I spent the morning going over the marriage contract with the solicitor. We are very lucky, Serafina.”

The joy Serafina had begun to feel started to bleed away with the broad smile that broke across her father’s face.

“How can this be lucky when my marrying a duke was of such importance to you?” she whispered, not wanting to hear the answer, but knowing she had to.

“The contract was written such so that it says you will marry the Duke of Hartholm,” her father said, eyebrows lifting.

“But he is dead,” she said.

“No, dukes never die,” her father chuckled. “Men do. There is already a new Duke of Hartholm, you see. Or there will be once the formalities are conducted as early as the end of the day. The solicitor believes that man won’t be able to break our contract. You will marry as planned, my dear.”

Serafina stepped backward, staggering over the train of her gown, hearing the delicate fabric rip beneath her slippers just as she felt her heart being torn in two. It felt as if there was a rock in her stomach, weighing her down.

“But…but Cyril had no brothers,” she managed past her dry throat. “So
who
is the new duke?”

Raphael Flynn paced across the parlor floor, his anger and upset rolling through his veins, rising in his chest where it choked him until he could hardly see or think or speak.

He turned on his heel and faced his family. His sister Annabelle sat at the escritoire, poring over documents without looking up or acknowledging him.

At the fireplace stood his younger brother Crispin.  Despite the early hour, he clutched a glass of scotch tightly. Rafe’s brother’s face was lined with intense emotions, just as Rafe knew his own was.

And on the settee, their mother watched it all, her lips pursed and cheeks pale with worry.

It had been like this for two days, since news had reached them that Rafe’s cousin, the rarely seen and even less liked Duke of Hartholm, had been killed in a sudden and rather scandalous accident. Two days since Rafe’s life had entirely changed.

“I never even
liked
Cyril,” Rafe managed to bark out, directing his comments toward Crispin, who was his closest friend as well as his brother. “Why should I be forced to inherit his life?”

He turned to pace away again, but his mother got to her feet and stepped forward, stopping him from his relentless movement as she lifted her hands to gently straighten his cravat.

“Hush,” she said, but her voice was soft and held nothing but kindness. “Have a bit of respect for the dead, Raphael.”

“How can I?” he asked, even as he covered her hands with his and stared down into her face, searching for an answer she could not give him. “I do not
want
to be a duke.”

Annabelle glanced up from her papers and slowly removed her spectacles. She let out a sigh that stabbed Rafe to his very soul.

“What you want, I fear, no longer matters,” she said with a frown. "The articles of inheritance are very clear. As the eldest male cousin,
you
are the next in line for the title.”

Rafe’s temples began to throb and he reached up to cover his eyes. “And what of the
other
issue?”

His sister searched through the papers and held up a few of them. “You mean the betrothal contract?”

The nausea that had been coming and going in waves for two days hit him again and he swallowed past the bile that gathered in his throat. He struggled for air before he whispered, “Yes.”

Annabelle set the papers down and slowly got to her feet. She crossed the room to him, her eyes filled with pity. Her expression told him the answer even before she lifted to her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m so sorry, darling. It seems the contract was written very well indeed. The solicitor was correct in his initial assessment. You have inherited Cyril’s fiancée along with his title, lands and what little remains in the entailment.”

Rafe pulled away from her and walked to the window. He leaned his head against the cool glass. He wished he could melt through the barrier and run away. Far away.

“God damn it,” he barked before he slammed his palm against the glass, making it vibrate.

“Rafe,” his mother said, her voice very tight. “Don’t blaspheme.”

He turned to look at her. He had not inherited much of her looks. He and his brother had always favored their father, but in that moment her expression was a perfect mirror of his own feelings. She looked sick with worry, her face pale and drawn and tired.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he said as he shook his head. “But God
damn
it.”

His mother smiled slightly and crossed to him to take his hand. She squeezed gently, clearly looking to offer comfort that simply didn’t exist for him. Not now. Not for a long time to come.

“I know, dearest,” she said. “And I would not wish for you to have these burdens press down on your shoulders. Nor for you to wed some stranger. But we must maintain calm. After all, everything has been unstable these past few days, and who knows what will come next, for better or for worse. All we can do now is go to the funeral as planned. You will meet this young lady and her family and we will work it all out. Somehow.”

Rafe smiled at her, but the expression was only meant to offer his mother the reassurance he couldn’t grant to himself. After all, her words might be perfectly correct, but they gave him no solace. Because in the end, he could not believe that things would work out. They had a good many times in his rather charmed life.

But not this time.