An Heiress for All Seasons by Sophie Jordan

position.
    Unfortunately, there was no position to be had for Rosalie. She had remained the last two years merely due to the goodwill of Mrs. Heathstone. She’d tried to make herself useful in that time. However, her situation was always awkward. Not a pupil and not an instructor. She merely took up space.
    And yet her meager room back at Harwich felt more familiar——more like home——than these lavish surroundings.
    She wasn’t certain the Duke of Banbury would welcome her any more than her mother would, but Mrs. Heathstone was confidant this was the right course of action, and Rosalie acknowledged that something had to change. She could not live on the charity of others. She should have left two years ago.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Heathstone.” She nodded jerkily, emotion clogging her throat. In many ways, this woman was the closest thing she ever had to a mother. “For everything.”
    Smiling, the headmistress brushed her cheek with gloved fingertips. “Dear girl. Take care of yourself.”
    And then she was gone. Rosalie watched as she swept out the door, her chest tight and achy. She rubbed gloved fingers against her breastbone, willing herself to be brave. To embrace this next phase of her life.
    The butler sputtered anew, and Rosalie sent him a halfhearted smile as she smoothed her hands down the front of her damp cloak.
    “Good evening,” she greeted him, her voice a fraction too squeaky.
    “You cannot be here.” The butler looked her up and down with the faintest curl of his lip. “His Grace is not at home at the moment to receive—”
    “I shall wait for him.” She lifted her chin, attempting to emulate Mrs. Heathstone’s haughtiness.
    “That is not possible, Miss . . .”
    “Hughes,” she supplied. “Rosalie Hughes.” At the butler’s blank stare, she elaborated. “The duke’s stepsister.”
    Her announcement was met with a moment of stunned silence. Deciding not to give him too long to consider this revelation——and why the duke’s stepsister had been relatively absent for the last seven years——she brushed past him and moved toward what she hoped was the drawing room. Her memory could not recall.
    She walked up the stairs, her gloved hand skimming the ornate stone balustrade as though she knew where she was going. “I’ll wait in the drawing room,” she called over her shoulder as she reached the second floor. Hoping she chose the correct room, she pushed open the double doors to the first room on her right. She breathed in relief. Her guess was accurate.
    The butler followed her inside, hovering close but saying nothing even though he looked mightily tempted. It was a masculine room, full of rich colors and dark wood furniture. A fire crackled in the massive hearth, drawing her forward, her boots sinking deep into the plush Aubusson rug. Rosalie sank down on a blue oversized settee on the far side of the room that was angled toward the fireplace. She dropped her valise at her feet and held out her hands, greedy for the warmth.
    She stared solemnly at the butler, hoping to convey an air of . . . belonging. “I’ll wait His Grace’s audience in here.” Somehow, miraculously, her words rang with confidence.
    His shoulders slumped slightly and she knew, in that moment, he had capitulated.
    “Very well. Can I fetch you any refreshments as you wait, Miss Hughes?”
    Her stomach rumbled at the offer. She had not eaten since their last stop several hours ago. “Yes, that would be lovely.” She was grateful her voice did not quiver with her eagerness.
    With a nod, he departed, slow to take his gaze off her, slow to turn and present her with his very ramrod back. As though he could not quite reconcile a female of her humble appearance in the duke’s vaunted drawing room. She could understand that. She could scarcely reconcile it herself.
    As soon as the door clicked behind him, she relaxed and fell back on the settee. It felt as though she had just succeeded in some grand