The Duke of Paris (Tales from the Grand Tour Book 1) Read online

  The Duke of Paris

  Merry Farmer

  THE DUKE OF PARIS

  Copyright ©2020 by Merry Farmer

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)

  ASIN: B0812B7X1S

  Paperback ISBN: 9781674489339

  Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.

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  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to every one

  of my dear author friends

  who have been victims of the venomous wrath of

  WENDY SUE

  Trolls suck, but I’ve got your back

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Paris, France – Spring, 1890

  It was doubtful that the Seine River had ever seen as much noise, fashion, and fuss as when the boat carrying the McGovern cousins sailed through the center of Paris. People passing on the riverwalk stopped to stare at them as they sailed past, gaping in astonishment at the bobbing collection of parasols and feathers as the ladies dashed up and down the length of the upper deck, giggling with each other and pointing out the sights, like the newly-completed Tour Eiffel, the stretching palace-turned-museum that was the Louvre, and the majestic cathedral of Notre Dame. Parisian women paused to admire the fine forms of the English noblemen, standing tall and proud in the sunlight. Any of them who kept track of the English nobility would have known that the tall, broad-shouldered man standing near the prow of the pleasure craft was the newly-minted Duke of Addlebury, and that among his siblings and cousins with him there was a marquess, three earls, four viscounts, and a handful of barons.

  There were also, as it happened, a scattering of lesser cousins without titles or fortunes.

  “I’m beginning to think this was a foolish idea,” Dorothy McGovern whispered to her brother and twin, Damien, as they observed the rest of their cousins from the back of the boat. “Asher was kindness itself offering to finance our tour, but even though we are closely related to everyone here, I feel like we stick out like sore thumbs.”

  She glanced up the length of the boat to where Asher, the new duke and head of their family, stood laughing with his brother Andrew as they watched their loud and irreverent clan. Asher wore a broad smile, and the way the breeze from the river tousled his hair, Dorothy was certain every single lady for miles around would be drawn to him like a beacon. He was devilishly handsome, kind, jovial, and, since inheriting the title six months earlier, one of the most eligible men on the continent. But what outsiders couldn’t know, what half of their family probably didn’t know either, was that Asher was in mourning for his dearly-loved father. Dorothy suspected he’d organized the extensive grand tour of Europe and beyond and invited the writhing mass of their clan as a way to avoid his grief and have fun before returning to England to take on the mantel of responsibility. She knew how he felt, in a way. She had responsibilities of her own that she wasn’t looking forward to.

  “We don’t stick out as much as we could,” Damien told her, resting a hand on the small of her back and standing close enough to borrow the shade thrown by her parasol. “Something tells me we aren’t the only McGoverns who have secretly fallen on hard times.”

  He nodded to the side, where the quieter cluster of their cousins sat, watching the others. Damien had a point. Dorothy had been beside herself with worry that her day dress was three years out of fashion and worn to the point of appearing shabby. She practically looked like a guttersnipe compared to her far more glamorous cousin Evangeline or her widowed cousin Roselyn, who had inherited a small fortune from her late husband. There were over a dozen McGovern ladies alone, and Dorothy was distressed to admit that most of them looked a thousand times richer than she and Damien were. One or two of their cousins, Miss Heather Winslow and her twin, Sage, were dressed modestly, but Dorothy couldn’t tell if that was a fashion choice or a necessity. It certainly wasn’t a choice for her and Damien. In fact, they blended in a little too well with the servants and companions who had drifted to the back of the boat for the length of the journey.

  “If only Papa had more of a share in the inheritance,” Dorothy sighed, leaning against the back rail of the upper deck. She instantly felt guilty for her complaint. “Not that he wasn’t the very best of men, of course,” she rushed on. “But we wouldn’t be in this predicament if he’d been able to earn or inherit just a bit more.”

  Damien hummed in agreement, then shrugged, taking a turn at holding the parasol. “Such is the lot of the eighth, and final, child,” he said, then turned to Dorothy with a wry grin. “At least he didn’t follow the path of Heather and Sage’s father to become a man of the cloth.”

  “Perish the thought,” Dorothy said with mock solemnity that quickly dissolved into laughter.

  Unfortunately for them, Heather and Sage glanced their way at the outburst, their beautiful faces pinching into question. Dorothy’s cheeks heated, and she hoped they hadn’t heard her. When they turned back to their own conversation, she was fairly certain her snide comment hadn’t done any damage.

  At least until the woman standing nearest to them, Cousin Roselyn’s companion, Miss Solange Lafarge, said, “There is nothing wrong with a life in the church,” in her impeccable French accent.

  “No, no, of course not,” Dorothy rushed to cover her blunder. She admired Solange to bits, in spite of the fact that she was simply a lady’s companion. By all accounts, Solange had been born and raised in Côte d'Ivoire and had come to England to make a better life for herself. “Please forgive me for being catty.”

  Solange’s expression softened into a smile. “You are forgiven. I myself find it hard to be kind all of the time in the face of such….” She let her words fade, ending the sentence with a nod toward the front of the boat instead.

  At first, Dorothy thought she was singling out one of her particularly scintillating cousins, but, in fact, her gaze fell on the one member of their party who truly did stick out like a sore thumb, Miss Wendine Sewett.

  “Sit up straight,” Miss Sewett instructed a group of their female cousins with the highest rank and brightest prospects in society. “Ladies of your caliber do not behave like heathens.”

  “Yes, Wendine Sewett,” Evangeline told her.

  “Of course, Wendine Sewett,” their cousin Hattie echoed.

  “And why must you constantly refer to me that way. Miss Sewett will do,” Miss Sewett went on.

  “We are only trying to be proper, Wendine Sewett,” Evangel
ine said.

  “Quite right, Miss McGovern,” Hattie echoed.

  Miss Sewett huffed an irritated breath. “You cannot address the sister of the duke as ‘miss’,” she snapped.

  “Of course not, Lady Hattie,” Evangeline pretended to scold.

  “And it is entirely inappropriate to refer to the daughter of a viscount as ‘lady’,” Miss Sewett went on, seemingly close to an attack of the vapors. “She is the Honorable Miss Hattie McGovern, and you are Lady Evangeline McGovern. Honestly, if you cannot get it right, you shouldn’t be speaking at all.”

  “Of course not, Wendine Sewett,” Evangeline said with mock seriousness.

  “You are absolutely right, Wendine Sewett,” Hattie agreed. “You are always absolutely right, and we are mere fools for even attempting to speak when such a wise and august person might be in our midst.”

  “We will heretofore not say a word,” Evangeline said.

  She and Hattie nodded to each other, then pressed their mouths tightly shut.

  “Honestly,” Miss Sewett huffed, shaking her head. “I was hired as your chaperone and guide. This sort of behavior is beneath you. What would your late father think of your willful disobedience?”

  She glanced at Evangeline and Hattie as though looking for an answer. Evangeline and Hattie, in turn, kept their silence, pointing to their closed mouths.

  Miss Sewett screwed up her face, looking as sour as she usually did. “Ridiculous,” she hissed before moving on to torment other cousins.

  At the back of the boat, Dorothy and Damien burst into giggles.

  “I suppose we shouldn’t laugh,” Dorothy said, still feeling guilty from her earlier comments.

  “We very well should laugh,” Damien countered her. “Wendine Sewett is a pill. She never has anything nice to say about anyone, but she is convinced her opinion matters more than the queen’s. Belligerence like that deserves what it gets.”

  “Do you think she has any idea how much we talk about her behind the scenes, as it were?” Dorothy asked, her mouth quirking up in a smirk.

  “None at all,” Damien laughed. “Though I doubt she would change her behavior if she knew that the lot of us are well aware of her sour attitude and have made a joke of it.”

  “I don’t know why Asher hired her as our chaperone,” Dorothy sighed, taking the handle of her parasol from Damien to give his arm a rest.

  “We have to have a chaperone,” Damien said with a shrug. “If in name only. Otherwise, the lot of us would probably be daily fodder for every scandal sheet in Europe.”

  “Sometimes I think that is exactly what Asher had in mind for this trip,” Dorothy laughed.

  “It wouldn’t take much for me to end up in the scandal sheets, that’s for certain,” Damien said, his mirth dampening a bit. “One wayward look at a particularly well-formed gentleman and they’ll drag me to the pillory on charges of gross indecency.”

  Dorothy’s heart pinched for her brother and she scooted close enough to him to rest her head on his shoulder. “My darling,” she sighed, warmed with affection as he slipped his arm around her waist. “Surely, it cannot be as bad as all that.” She lifted her head to look him in the eye.

  Damien let out a humorless laugh. “Believe me, Doro. Society is always looking for ways to expose and punish anyone who doesn’t fit in. And I haven’t fit in since the day I realized my motivations for wanting to swim naked in the local pond with the other boys were not Christian.”

  Dorothy’s cheeks heated. She’d known about Damien’s differences almost as long as he had. A tiny part of her wondered if perhaps she should disapprove. But Damien was practically the only family she had, and whom he fancied was but a tiny fraction of the kind, gentle, courageous soul that he was.

  “I still think you should find a nice, understanding—and preferably ridiculously wealthy—woman to marry so that any suspicion is deflected,” she said.

  Damien shook his head. “Some men can do just that, but I don’t think I could. It wouldn’t be right for that hypothetical lady.” He squeezed her close for a moment, then went on with, “No, it is up to you to marry fabulously well so that both of our futures can be secure.”

  Dorothy sighed loud enough to draw a sidelong glance from Solange—who she suspected had overheard far more of their conversation than she should have. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” she said in a quieter voice. “I’ve agreed to come along on this trip so that I can make a match that will save us both. The richer the man the better, but only as long as he accepts you as part of the deal for me.”

  Damien opened his mouth to reply, but a commotion from the front of the boat stopped him. Asher had broken away from his conversation to dodge his way through the crowd on the boat, heading for the side.

  “Hello,” he called out, taking off his hat and waving it to attract the attention of a similar boat to theirs approaching from ahead. “Hengrove, is that you?”

  Most of the nearby conversations were abandoned and so many of their cousins clamored to one side of the boat that for a moment, Dorothy thought the whole thing might capsize. She and Damien stood, drawn to the side of the boat to see what was going on themselves.

  As the other boat drew near, both crafts slowed. A gentleman on the second boat broke away from the conversation he was having with a party not unlike their own, but much smaller, to answer Asher’s hail.

  “McGovern, that is you,” he said.

  Dorothy caught her breath, both at the rich and luscious baritone of the man’s voice and his stunningly handsome appearance. He was as tall as Asher and had luxuriously thick, dark hair. His smile could have lit the darkest night and had a vaguely rakish slant to it. He was obviously fit under the layers of his fashionable suit. The mere sight of him made Dorothy’s insides twist in the most intriguing way.

  “Oh, hello,” Damien purred by her side as he, too, glanced across to the other boat.

  Before she could so much as giggle at her brother or still the stirring within her, Asher called to the gorgeous man, “It’s been ages, Hengrove.”

  “It’s Lord Reith now,” the man called back. The two boats slowed to a stop, bobbing beside each other.

  “That’s right,” Asher called over to him, his smile sympathetic. “I heard about your father.”

  “And I heard about yours,” Lord Reith said. He stood at the edge of the railing on his boat, which brought him to within a few yards of Asher, as close as if they had met in the street. “My condolences.”

  “And mine,” Asher said. He laughed, and added, “I don’t know how I’m going to get used to calling you ‘Reith’ now.”

  “Just call me Marshall,” Lord Reith laughed.

  In the middle of the boat, Miss Sewett squeaked as though having a fit and said, “It’s ‘your grace’. A duke should always be addressed as ‘your grace’.”

  Dorothy caught Evangeline and Hattie rolling their eyes before she turned back to the captivating Lord Reith. Leave it to Miss Sewett to know who everyone was and what rank they held at first sight.

  “What brings you to Paris?” Asher asked.

  Lord Reith shrugged. “Recreation. Enjoyment. Pleasure.” He glanced across the combined mass of the McGovern cousins with a smile. “Same as you lot, I assume.”

  Just before he turned back to Asher, his gaze fell on Dorothy and stopped. He took a second look, his smile broadening. Dorothy’s heart hitched in her chest at the look.

  “Oh my,” Damien murmured in her ear. “I do believe someone has caught the eye of the new Duke of Reith.”

  “Hush.” Dorothy swatted him. The duke was handsome, but he was miles above her.

  “We’ve all just arrived ourselves,” Asher continued the conversation.

  “That’s quite a party you’re traveling with,” Lord Reith laughed.

  “It’s the combined force of the McGovern clan,” Asher answered, gesturing proudly to the cousins. “I’m treating us all to this grand tour as a way to have one last adventure to
gether before duty and responsibility catches up with us.”

  Lord Reith grinned at them all, stealing another glance at Dorothy. “That’s quite a retinue you have. What unfortunate hotel has been inundated with you lot?”

  Asher shook his head. “There wasn’t one large enough, so we’re staying as guests of Monsieur Corbett at the Château de Saint-Sottises.”

  Lord Reith’s expression lit in surprise. “You don’t say. We’re staying there too.” He turned to gesture to a man who had come to stand right behind him, who bore a strong resemblance to the duke. “I’ve just relocated from my temporary Paris lodgings to the palace. Sebastian here insisted I take a tour via the river before settling in.”

  “Yes, I think I remember your brother, Lord Gregory,” Asher said, suddenly awkward as he nodded to the second man.

  “I certainly remember him,” Damien whispered in Dorothy’s ear. “You don’t forget a man like Sebastian.”

  Dorothy twisted to him, her brow shooting up. The name was vaguely familiar, but she didn’t remember why until Damien spoke. Lord Gregory had been chased out of England four years ago after being exposed and arrested, and all the things that Damien feared might happen to him.

  Her surprise at putting the pieces together had consequences, though. A breeze blew up at that moment, tugging her parasol right out of her hand. Before she could so much as gasp and turn her head, it sailed across the space between the two boats, landing firmly on the deck of Lord Reith’s boat and skidding straight for him.

  “Look out,” she called, leaning over the railing, as if she could catch it.