An Improper Duchess

Melisande, Duchess of Gifford, has enjoyed running wild since surviving her unhappy marriage—but she knows it’s only a matter of time before her brother forces her to settle down and be respectable. Determined to make herself free, Melisande decides to escape into ruined exile with an absolutely scandalous affair and leave London forever. But her heart may have other plans when she meets intriguing Lord Grayson Sanbourne…

An Improper Duchess

Amanda McCabe

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Copyright

Chapter One

“Blast it all, Melisande! Why will you never listen to me? When will you start to have a care for your family and not just yourself?”

Melisande, the Dowager Duchess of Gifford (though at thirty-three years of age, she felt a bit ridiculous to be a dowager), sat back in her chair and watched as her brother Charles, Lord Litton, furiously paced the length of her drawing room. A wide, angry gesture of his arm almost sent a tall Chinese vase toppling, and he shoved a delicate gilded French chair out of his way. As he was a tall, strongly muscled man who rode and hunted whenever he could, the chair went crashing to the Aubusson rug.

Melisande sighed. She was quite fond of that chair. She knew she should have moved all the daintier pieces when her brother sent word he was coming, but she hadn’t been able to summon the needed energy. She’d been out late last night, to the theater and then a ball, and a sharp headache still lingered behind her eyes.

And Charlie was not making her feel any better. His constant pacing, his angry words, which she’d heard so many times before, made her feel quite dizzy.

“How lovely to see you, too, Charlie,” she said. “And what brings you to my house so bright and early? Aren’t you and Louise and the children usually out taking a brisk walk at this hour?”

Charlie whirled around and stalked back toward her. “It is hardly early at all, as you would know if you had returned home at a decent hour last night.”

“I returned home when most of London does.” Right before the sun came up. “How would you know when I came in? It’s been many years since we lived in the same household, after all.”

Since she was eighteen and married the duke—a man much older than herself with nearly grown children. For the good of her family.

“I know because word is already spreading of what you did at the Trate ball last night!” Charlie shouted. Melisande winced and closed her eyes. “That you and Lady Trate and Mrs. Whitely danced barefoot on the grass, despite the terrible cold weather, because you were pretending to be the Three Graces or some such nonsense.”

Melisande laughed at the somewhat blurry memory. It had indeed been terribly cold in Lady Trate’s garden, but no one seemed to mind. “Oh, yes. And Freddy Mountbank insisted he would act as Paris, but he was too foxed to remember most of the myth, and he fell into the Trates’ fountain. Luckily it was mostly frozen through. So amusing.”

“It was not amusing! It was embarrassing in the extreme. Lord Milton himself asked me about it when I saw him in the park this morning. And Louise is supposed to have tea with his wife this afternoon. He is in a position to do me a great deal of good if I do not offend him.”

Melisande bit her lip to keep from laughing again. She watched as her brother dropped down heavily in the chair across from her. “Your face is quite alarmingly red, Charlie. Are you sure you feel quite all right? Do you want some wine?”

“No, I do not want any wine!” Charlie shouted. Then he gave a sudden groan and rubbed his hand wearily over his jaw. “Melisande, do you not see what you do? I am trying to build a political career, and must be seen as respectable.”

Melisande had heard all that before. “And who gave you the necessary connections to begin such a career? Who saved our faded family fortunes? My husband, that is who. I married the duke for the sake of us all. That is why our sisters are so well-married and you can follow your political aims.”

And she shuddered still, months after his death, to remember the touch of his hands on her body. Only distraction, parties and friends took that away. And even parties didn’t work so well any longer.

“I know, Melisande, and I am ever grateful,” Charles said. “But things are different now. You are a widow and my career is on its way. Our sisters have their own homes and families in the country. Louise and I would be most happy if you made your home with us for a time.”

“So you have said before,” Melisande said, suddenly feeling as weary as Charles looked. She knew exactly how she would feel in his house—like an unwelcome, barely tolerated guest whose every movement was scrutinized. Just as she had until she was widowed and at last had her own house. But she still wasn’t free to make her own decisions. Be herself. “But I can’t get in your way. You need room for your children.”