Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries

      London Society Times

      DOWAGER DUCHESS LOSES THIRD HUSBAND

      As promised, dear readers, we have made haste to bring you the latest on-dit, and a most startling one it is, indeed. The former Lydia Fletcher now has the dubious distinction of having been wed and widowed by three dukes: the 4th Duke of Greycourt, the 2nd Duke of Thornstock, and the newly deceased 3rd Duke of Armitage.

      She has also managed to bear each an heir, and in one case, even an heir and a spare—with, it must be said, mixed results. While her son Fletcher Pryde, the 5th Duke of Greycourt, has increased his father’s wealth tenfold, he is also rumored to run a secret cabal of licentious bachelors. Given the reserve of this gentleman, one could hardly imagine anyone less disposed to such purposeless behavior, but then, as is often observed, still waters do run deep.

      One might more easily believe such a rumor of her second son, Marlowe Drake, the 3rd Duke of Thornstock, who, it is said, has never danced with a lightskirt he didn’t like. His twin sister, Lady Gwyn, newly arrived in London, promises to make such behavior more difficult by forcing him to ride herd on her own suitors. Her first Season should prove most interesting, and yours truly will be observing such with rapt attention.

      Finally we come to Sheridan Wolfe, the 4th Duke of Armitage, who has spent most of his life in Prussia, where his late father was ambassador. He’s the dark horse of the family, unfamiliar to many in society, though he will probably have no trouble finding an heiress willing to exchange her dowry for the rarified title of duchess. If she does, she’d best bear him an heir and a spare forthwith, since his younger brother Colonel Lord Heywood Wolfe is waiting in the wings for his chance at the title!

      Indeed, all the progeny of the dowager duchess Lydia had best bear heirs as soon as they can, given—and one can only shudder to say it—the family propensity to have their dukes perish before their time.

      The funeral will take place at Armitage Hall in Lincolnshire.

      Chapter One

      London, September 1808

      One fine autumn afternoon, Fletcher Pryde, 5th Duke of Greycourt, strode up the steps of his Mayfair town house, caught up in thinking through his business affairs. Which was probably why he missed the speaking look on his butler’s face as he stalked through the doorway.

      “Your Grace, I feel it is my duty to make you aware that—”

      “Not now, Johnston. I’ve got a dinner at eight, and I hope to catch old Brierly at his club before then. He’s unloading property near my Devon estate that I must have if I’m to continue my improvements. And I have reports I have to peruse before I can even talk to him.”

      “More land, Grey?” said a decidedly young, female voice. “Sometimes I think you shop for properties as eagerly as women shop for gowns. Judging from your reputation for shrewd dealing, you probably pay less for them, too.”

      Grey whirled toward the sound. “Vanessa!” He scowled over at Johnston. “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?”

      His butler lifted his eyes a fraction, as close as the man ever came to rolling them. “I did try, sir.”

      “Ah. Right. I suppose you did.”

      Grey smiled indulgently at Vanessa Pryde. At twenty-four, she was ten years his junior and more like a little sister than a first cousin.

      He removed his hat, driving gloves, and greatcoat before handing them to the footman. Grey didn’t recognize the servant, who was gawking at Vanessa like a pauper at a princess. The footman’s fascination was understandable, given her heart-shaped face, perfect proportions, and wealth of jet-black curls, but it was also most inappropriate.

      Grey cast the fellow one of the quelling glances at which he excelled.

      When the footman colored and hurried off, Johnston stepped up to murmur, “Sorry, Your Grace. He’s new. I will be sure to speak to him.”

      “See that you do.” Then he turned his attention to Vanessa, who didn’t even seem to have noticed the exchange. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

      “You ought to have been, Cousin.” With an elaborate curtsey, Vanessa flashed him a mischievous smile. “Or should I say, ‘prospective fiancé’?”

      “Don’t even joke about that,” he grumbled. Every time he tried to think of himself married to Vanessa, he remembered her as a babe in swaddling, being held by her father, his uncle Eustace Pryde, and he knew he couldn’t do it. He’d seen her grow up—he couldn’t imagine her as his wife.

      Fortunately, she had no desire to marry him, either. Which was why whenever her ambitious mother sent her over here with instructions to get him into a compromising position so they could be forced into marriage, they spent most of the time drumming up a plausible reason for why Vanessa had “just missed him.”

      “Don’t worry.” Vanessa gave a little laugh. “My maid is with me. As usual, she will swear to whatever excuse we concoct for Mama. So come join us for tea and cakes in the drawing room.”

      Leave it to Vanessa to take charge of his household. As they strolled down the hall, he said, “You look well.”

      Preening a bit, she danced ahead and whirled to face him, forcing him to halt as she swished her skirts about her legs. “So you like my new gown? I won’t tell Mama. She picked it out herself to tempt you. I told her yellow was your favorite color.”

      “I hate yellow.”

      Her blue eyes twinkled at him. “Precisely.”

      A helpless laugh escaped him. “You, my dear, are a hoyden. If you would put a tenth of the energy you expend in provoking your mother into hunting down a husband, you’d have twenty men begging to marry you.”

      Her spirits seemed to droop. “I already have that. But you know how Mama is. Until you are off the table, she won’t allow me to accept a lesser man’s suit.” She wagged her finger at him. “So will you please get married? To anyone other than me? Or I shall surely die an old maid.”

      “That will never happen to you, and we both know it.” He narrowed his gaze on her. “Wait a minute—is there someone in particular you have your eye on?”

      Her blush alarmed him. Vanessa had terrible taste in men.

      “Who is he?” he demanded.

      She tipped up her chin. “I’m not going to tell you.”

      “Because you know I’d disapprove, which means he’s entirely wrong for you.”

      “He is not. He’s a poet.”

      Damn. Vanessa needed to marry a poet about like he needed to learn to cook. Then again . . . “A famous poet?” he asked hopefully. If the fellow had money, it could work. Anyone who married Vanessa would need pots of money, if only to keep up with her gown purchases.

      She turned and marched on to the drawing room. “He will be. With my support and encouragement.”

      “God help us all.” He almost felt sorry for this poet, whoever he was. “I suppose your mother disapproves.”

      “As if I would ever tell her,” she scoffed as she entered the drawing room.

      Vanessa’s lady’s maid sat erect on the settee, her expression bland. No doubt she was used to being the foil to her volatile employer.

      “Then things have not progressed to a serious interest,” Grey said, relieved not to have to deal with that, too. He was still hoping to get to Brierly’s club before the man left.

      “How could things progress at all?” Vanessa picked up a teacake and devoured it with her usual gusto. “Mama is so focused on my marrying you that I cannot get her to bring me to events my . . . friend might attend.” She shot him a dire look. “And thanks to the latest on-dit about you, she’s on