Dukes are expected to command armies, influence parliaments, and maintain an air of impenetrable dignity. Richard Croft, Duke of Ashborne, could do all three.
Yet he was currently hiding behind a heavy mahogany desk, terrorized by three little girls in frilled pinafores. He didn't need a wife. He didn't need a mistress. He needed a miracle. What he got, however, was a woman with mud on her hem, a sharp tongue, and absolutely zero respect for his title.
Porcelain shattered against the hallway wall, followed immediately by a sharp, piercing shriek that rattled the glass in the library doors. Richard rubbed the bridge of his nose. He kept his elbows firmly planted on the leather-bound estate ledger he had been staring at for 3 hours. Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of gray morning light filtering through the tall windows. It was barely 10:00 in the morning, and already his household sounded like a frontline skirmish in the Peninsular War.
He didn't flinch when the heavy oak doors swung open. Bates, a butler who possessed the weary countenance of a man carrying the weight of the entire peerage on his shoulders, stood in the doorway. In Bates's hand rested a crumpled piece of parchment. Standing slightly behind the butler was Miss Finch. She was trembling. Her bonnet was knocked askew, and a dark, suspiciously viscous stain ruined the front of her gray muslin traveling gown.
Richard closed the ledger with a soft thud. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the familiar hollow ache of exhaustion settle into his bones. "Let me guess," Richard said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. "Harriet?"
"Actually, Your Grace, it was Lady Clara," Bates replied, stepping aside to allow the weeping woman a clear path to the desk. "Lady Harriet merely provided the ammunition. I believe it was a mixture of treacle and pond water. Lady Abigail coordinated the trajectory from the upper landing."
Miss Finch let out a strangled sob, pressing a lace handkerchief to her trembling mouth. "I cannot, Your Grace, I simply cannot stay another hour! They are not children; they are feral creatures sent from the very depths of hell to punish me for my sins!"
Richard reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a small velvet pouch of coins. It was the third time this month he had performed this exact ritual. He slid the heavy purse across the polished wood. It came to a stop inches from Miss Finch's trembling hand.
"Severance, Miss Finch," Richard said quietly. He wasn't angry with her; he was just tired—so incredibly tired. "Plus extra for the ruined gown. A carriage is waiting to take you back to London. I apologize for the behavior of my daughters."
The woman snatched the pouch with a speed that belied her fragile demeanor. She offered a hasty, uncoordinated curtsy and fled the room, leaving a faint scent of lavender and swamp water in her wake.
When the door clicked shut, Richard stared at the empty space she had occupied. Three governesses in four weeks. Before that, a tutor who had locked himself in the pantry and a chaperone who had developed a sudden, severe case of nervous exhaustion.
"We are running out of educated women in the British Isles, Bates," Richard murmured, reaching for the crystal decanter of brandy sitting on the side table. He didn't care about the early hour; surviving his offspring required chemical assistance.
"There is one more applicant from the agency, Your Grace," Bates offered. He stepped forward to collect the discarded, damp resignation letter from the floor. "A Miss Josephine Miller. The agency sent her dossier this morning. However, there is a caveat."
Richard poured a generous measure of amber liquid into his glass. "Does she have a pulse and a spine? Because at this point, those are my only requirements. I do not care if she has a criminal record, provided her crimes involved strict discipline."
"She is unconventional, Your Grace." Bates hesitated—a rare break in his stoic facade. "She has no references from aristocratic houses. Her previous employment was at a parish orphanage in Cheapside, and before that she managed a workhouse school. The agency only sent her because you explicitly demanded someone who would not cry."
Richard took a slow sip of the brandy. It burned going down, a welcome sensation that anchored him to the present moment. He thought of his daughters: Abigail, 14 years old, armed with a chillingly logical mind and a complete lack of empathy for authority figures; Clara, 11, whose obsession with romantic tragedy made her prone to staging elaborate, destructive theatricals; and Harriet, 8 years old, feral, mostly covered in dirt.
His late wife, Eleanora, had kept them polished and quiet. When the fever took her 2 years ago, Richard had returned from his military commission to find he had inherited a dukedom he never wanted and three strangers who happened to share his blood. He had tried military discipline. He had tried ignoring them. He had tried bribery.
Nothing worked.
The grief in the house had simply mutated into a violent, chaotic rebellion.
"An orphanage," Richard mused, swirling the liquor in his glass. "She's accustomed to riots, then. Good. When is she expected to arrive?"
"She is already here, Your Grace."
Richard raised an eyebrow. "Already? I didn't hear a carriage."
"She didn't take one, sir," Bates replied, his tone perfectly neutral. "She walked from the village station in the rain. She is currently dripping on the foyer rug."
Richard felt a strange, foreign tug at the corner of his mouth. It might have been amusement, though it had been so long since he felt it, he couldn't be entirely sure. A woman who walked three miles in a downpour rather than wait for a duke's carriage.
"Send her in, Bates. Let's see how long this one lasts."
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. They were not the light, hesitant taps of a woman terrified of her prospective employer; they were rhythmic, heavy, and purposeful. The library door opened.
Josephine Miller stepped into the room. She did not curtsy. She did not lower her eyes. Instead, she stood squarely on the expensive Persian rug, a worn leather satchel gripped in one hand. She wore a dark, unremarkable navy dress that had seen better days, and a completely sensible, incredibly ugly wool pelisse. Water dripped steadily from the brim of her plain bonnet, pooling on the floorboards.
Richard stared at her. She was not a conventionally pretty woman: her jaw was too sharp, her mouth too wide, and her dark hair was plastered against her cheeks by the rain. But it was her eyes that caught him off guard. They were a vivid, stormy gray, entirely devoid of deference. She looked at the towering bookshelves, the mahogany desk, and finally at him, with the detached assessment of a general surveying a rather disappointing battlefield.
"You're dripping on a rug older than your grandmother," Richard said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He projected his most intimidating glare—the one that usually sent junior officers scurrying for cover.
"It's a rug, Your Grace. Its sole purpose is to be walked upon," Josephine replied. Her voice was remarkably steady, possessing a rich, warm timbre that completely contrasted with her stern appearance. "If you wanted it kept pristine, you should have hung it on the wall. May I take off this wet coat, or do you prefer your employees to catch pneumonia during the interview?"
Richard blinked. He let the silence stretch, waiting for her to realize whom she was speaking to and back down. She simply stared back, a faint look of impatience crossing her features.