His Three-Day Duchess. Laurie Benson
know.
What she did know was that he had not returned to England for almost six months after Skeffington had died and the delay meant that for almost six months she was a woman without a home—until the will was read and she learned the remainder of her life would be lived out in the far north of England, away from everything that was familiar to her.
When she reached the armoury, she was relieved to discover it had remained unchanged. As she walked inside, she immediately recalled the sound of Juliet’s laughter the summer they decided to take fencing lessons with Monsieur LeBatt. Skeffington had decided to spend that summer at his ancestral home and there was no chance that he would be venturing down to Dorset in the heat. It felt like a form of rebellion to take the lessons and she found they helped to release some of the anger she felt towards her husband and towards her deceased parents who had arranged the marriage.
The four suits of armour that had belonged to Skeffington’s ancestors still stood sentry in the corners of the red room, gleaming in the late afternoon sun that was streaming in through the long windows. Ancient broadswords and ceremonial swords were hung on the great expanse of wall opposite the fireplace and the small swords that Monsieur LeBatt had used to teach her to fence were hung on the wall between the windows. There was no telling the last time a fire had burned in the hearth and when she took one of the small swords off the wall, the metal grip was cool in her hand through her silk glove.
The weight of the weapon felt familiar and, with a swish of the blade, Lizzy saluted the imaginary image of her old fencing master. He had taught her so much that summer and she tried to recall why she had not taken lessons with him the following year. She did remember Monsieur LeBatt telling her on one particular afternoon that she had quick instincts, which made her a formidable opponent. She liked to believe he was telling her the truth and not simply flattering her because she was paying him to teach her. False flattery was one of the things she liked least about possessing her prestigious title.
She lifted the blade straight out to her right side and lowered her knees a few inches. Placing her left hand up in the air at a ninety-degree angle from her body and turning her head towards the blade, she lunged to her right. The stretch of her thigh muscles felt heavenly after spending a good portion of the day in her carriage and she let out an unladylike groan.
The movement had somehow also relieved some of the tension in her shoulders that she hadn’t been aware was there and she tilted her neck from side to side to stretch it, as well. Rolling her shoulders, she adjusted her grip, then resumed her position and lunged again. This time she bounced off her soles as she lunged, taking a leap forward before retreating back to her original stance. The narrowness of the cut of this particular gown was somewhat restrictive and prevented her from lunging as far as she wanted. Needing a deep stretch of her legs, she picked up the skirt of her gown with her left hand so the hem was above her knees and once more she bounced off her soles and lunged towards the window.
A choking sound came from behind her and she spun around, sword in hand, and instinctively pointed the blade directly at the figure of the Duke standing in the doorway. His surprised expression must have matched her own because she felt her eyes widen and she immediately let go of her skirt. The downward swoop of the fine woollen fabric of her grey travelling gown pushed her cotton petticoat and chemise against her legs. For a moment, she feared she would trip if she took a step forward.
‘How long have you been standing there?’ she demanded, wanting to run out of the room from the embarrassment of knowing he had seen her legs.
‘Long enough to hear you utter an impressive grunt and appear to wish to attack the curtains.’
Thank God he hadn’t mentioned her legs. ‘I was not attacking the curtains.’
‘It wouldn’t bother me if you were.’ His gaze shifted to the red-velvet curtains behind her. ‘I don’t really care for them.’
‘These curtains were quite expensive and complement this room perfectly. The colour speaks of past battles and is a testament to the men who fought them. Your ancestors, I might add.’
‘I should have known the design of this room was your idea,’ he said, glancing around the room before striding towards her with his open banyan billowing out behind him, revealing an impressive chest, which was covered up by his blue waistcoat.
Once more that bare neck of his caught her eye and his commanding presence made the large room feel smaller. Lizzy shifted in her stance before she unconsciously tightened her grip on the handle of the sword and steadied her hand.
He walked right up to the tip of the blade so it was pointing at his heart, all the while looking into her eyes as if to challenge her. ‘This room is a bit too theatrical for my taste.’
She narrowed her gaze on him. ‘Are you insinuating I’m theatrical?’
‘I have seen curtains just like those in the opera houses in Italy,’ he replied offhandedly.
He had ignored her question. She hated it when people ignored her. She was the Duchess of Skeffington. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Are you calling me theatrical?’
‘That might be one word to describe you. I suppose dramatic is a more accurate word.’ With the tip of his finger he slowly guided the blade of the sword away from his chest.
‘And the other words you think describe me?’ she asked, lowering the small sword to her side, annoyed that he had the ability to fluster her so much that she had forgotten she had been aiming a weapon at him.
‘I don’t think you really want me to say what the other words are.’
‘If I didn’t want you to tell me, I wouldn’t have asked.’
He walked to the wall between the windows and selected a sword, testing the grip in his very masculine-looking hand. Without gloves, she could see he did not have the hands of a man who led a pampered life. They weren’t smooth and pale like many of the men of the ton whose hands resembled a larger version of those of a child. His hands were tanned, like the colour of the gardeners’ skins when they worked outside in the summer. The pronounced veins on the top of his hand seemed to pump while he adjusted his grip—and she took note of a narrow scar about two inches in length near his wrist. Lizzy didn’t think she had ever paid this much attention to a man’s hand before now.
He waved the blade in the air towards the window and the setting sun glinted off the metal. With his eye, he appeared to check the straightness of the blade. ‘I suppose another word I would use to describe you is wilful.’
Lizzy pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin. ‘That doesn’t sound like a compliment.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ he replied with his back to her as he selected another sword.
‘Are you ever civil, Mr Alexander?’
Calling him Skeffington just felt wrong. He was not her late husband—far from it. She could have referred to him as Duke, but at this moment she had no wish to remind him they shared their elevated status. At this moment, she wanted to remind him that she was a duchess and had been given the title long before he ever stepped foot into Mr Nesbit’s law office.
‘Mr Alexander, is it?’ A small smile tugged at his lips, as if he found her amusing.
Kittens were amusing. Small children were amusing. She was a duchess. She was not amusing!
‘That was the name you were given, is it not?’ she replied sharply.
‘It is and I had gone by that name for thirty-five years until people began to call me by my new one. It has been a while since anyone has called me Mr Alexander.’
If she thought it would have pleased him in some odd way to refer to him by his original name, she would have called him Skeffington instead. ‘Why do you consider me wilful?’
He turned back to her with a different sword in his hand. ‘You truly are asking me that question? You? The woman who wanted to switch houses with me and, when I refused, came to the house she wanted