The Duke’s Twin Lust by Lorena Owen

Chapter One

Abrawl had broken out in the inn—again.

As Amelia stared at the stoic faces of the contenders, she sighed in dismay. She could guarantee that she would be saddled with another hour of cleaning tonight because of them.

The fancy lords who lived in manors that touched the sky were often dignified. Often. They ruled over their estates and lands with an iron fist, exerting their power without a care on the less fortunate masses—people like Amelia. They treated their wives with dignity, and if they did not, their wives hid their bruises well. They were supreme, untouchable.

Except for when they came to the inn.

At the inn, the fancy lords let loose of their inhibitions and became basic, basal men, obsessed with exerting their physical prowess over each other. Amelia had seen lords smashing tankards of ale over other men’s heads, had seen gentlemen rid other lords of their teeth, and once, seen a man walk out of the inn with a fractured skull. All of this culminated in extra hours of work for Amelia.

And now, it seemed another brawl was about to start.

Amelia knew one of the contenders: Baronet Payne. He often came to the inn, boasting loudly about his many victories at the racetracks. Amelia had to admit he was handsome, with jet-black hair and green eyes that reflected all shades of colours. But Sir Payne was also the most self-absorbed man Amelia had ever come across in her life. She was certain of it.

Now it seemed he wanted a fight with another gentleman, someone with a scar across one cheek that Amelia had never seen before.

“Are you questioning me, sir? Did you just imply that I am a liar?” Sir Payne said, his loud voice rattling off the walls of the inn.

“He means no disrespect, sir,” the innkeeper said, bustling forward.

Amelia bit back a smile. When the fancy gentlemen fought, the common people had to suffer for it. The last time a fight had broken out at the inn, the lords had walked out with nothing but bruised egos, while the innkeeper had had to pay for the damages out of his own pocket.

Sir Payne raised up a hand to stop the innkeeper. The innkeeper halted respectfully, looking around for help. However, all the men in the inn seemed to be static, their gazes fixed on the two men in the middle of the room.

“I have no wish to quarrel, Sir Payne,” the man with the scar across his cheek said. A smile was twitching at the corner of his lips. “Word has reached me of your prowess in the boxing ring. Why, a famed pugilist like you could cut me in two while trimming his nails.”

There was a bark of laughter from the rest of the men at the inn. Amelia, looking around, understood why. Everyone knew Sir Payne’s stories were more fiction than fact.

Amelia saw Sir Payne’s fingers inching towards the walking stick that everyone knew would have a blade in it as his face reddened. Amelia felt her chest fill with foreboding. This was not going to end well.

“What are you implying, sir?” Sir Payne asked, a vein pulsing in his head.

“Why, that your stories are bilge,” the man with the scar said bluntly.

Amelia’s heart missed a beat. Now it begins.

Sir Payne’s hand closed around a tankard of ale. He grabbed the tankard and smashed it down on the table with such force the container shattered. Rivulets of ale trickled down the table, spilling on the floor. “Sir, I will not have you question my honour.”

“I’m not questioning your honour as a man,” his antagoniser said. “I’m saying you have no honour.”

Sir Payne’s face reddened even more. There was total silence in the inn, broken only by the fragile whimpering of the innkeeper.

Suddenly, Sir Payne let out a hollow laugh. Amelia turned to him, certain she had misheard.

“You make cruel jokes, sir,” he said.

The man raised his brows. Apparently he was confused by Sir Payne’s sudden about-face. Amelia hoped he would see Sir Payne’s subtle acquiescence and take the hint. The fight was sure to break more than a few bones, if it went on.

Thankfully, the man took the hint.

“Those are the jokes that hit,” the man said.

Sir Payne let out a bark of laughter. He reached across the table and enclosed the other man in a brief, one-armed hug. “You, my friend, are a rascal.”

The man gave a tight-lipped smile.

Amelia sighed in relief. She wasn’t going to spend the night on all fours cleaning up after two crazy lords who wanted a brawl.

“Girl, clean this up,” Sir Payne said, gesturing to the mess made by the tankard he’d smashed.

“Yes, sir,” Amelia said with a curtsy. Going up to the table, she started to pick up the pieces of the tankard. The silence in the inn gradually faded as conversation broke out once more, Sir Payne’s voice prominent amongst the rest.

Amelia resumed sweeping the inn floors, half-listening to the conversations around her. She was listening to Sir Payne’s story of his altercation with another gentleman when the innkeeper’s wife materialised in front of her.

“Amelia,” the woman said. She was holding on to a covered tray.

Amelia smiled at her. She had been working at this inn for several years, and Sarah, the innkeeper’s wife, was the woman who made the job almost bearable. Having taken Amelia under her wing, the woman treated her like a daughter. Amelia loved her for it.

“The lady in room two says there was a long black hair in her pudding,” the innkeeper said, rolling her eyes.

Amelia laughed. “Ladies and their complaints,” she muttered under her breath. Even if gentlemen were wont to break anything they saw, the highborn ladies that frequented the inn were always the worst customers. Fussy and easily irritable, they would complain about the colour of the walls if they had the chance. The inn was located a safe distance from London, and many nobles took their rest there before heading north. So, Amelia dealt with the ladies often.

“I’ve made a fresh plate of pudding for her. I’m sending you up there with it,” the innkeeper said.

Amelia sighed. She would rather clean up the inn after a fight than apologise to some fancy rich lady who was fussy about dinner.

“Do this for me,” the innkeeper’s wife said with a slight wink.

Amelia nodded. She would do anything for Sarah, and Sarah knew it.

Amelia abandoned her broom and held out her hands for the tray. She carried the tray gingerly up the stairs. When she got to the room, she knocked once, as silently as she could.

“Enter,” said a flowery voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

Amelia entered the room, her head bowed. “I apologise for the inconvenience, my lady,” she said, her eyes on her feet. Once, a highborn lady had flung a plate of food at her when she dared to look the woman in the face, and her eyes had smarted for weeks. Amelia had learned the hard way to not look up at highborn ladies while they spoke to her.

Someone approached Amelia and took the tray from her. Amelia chanced a glance at the person. The woman was older, matronly, and looked to be wearing the clothes of a servant.

“Do you still want supper, Your Grace?” the maid said. Amelia felt her eyebrows raise at the realisation that this woman was a duchess.

“Not at all, Mary,” the flowery-voiced woman said. “I’ve rather lost my appetite. Eat it, if you wish. I shudder to think what I would do if I found another strand of hair in my pudding.”

“I apologise, Your Grace lady,” Amelia said, correcting herself and curtsying. The woman sounded frightful. Amelia had grown up on food scavenged from bins. If she had gotten a daily supply of food with hairs in them, she would have been eternally grateful.

“Do you work here?” the flowery voice asked with a light cough. The cough went on for a while, and Amelia, through the corner of her eyes, saw the maid reach for a glass of water.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Amelia said, her eyes never leaving the floor.

“There is absolutely no need to look that petrified. Look at me, girl,” the flowery voice said.

Amelia looked up at the woman, one quick glance.

And then she did a double take.

Because the woman on the armchair, whose face was extremely pale and who was coughing into her napkin, looked exactly like Amelia.

Amelia stared at the woman in confusion. “Your Grace, you are…”

There was no need to complete the statement. The woman looked every bit as stupefied as Amelia felt.

How was it that they looked exactly alike?

Well, not exactly, Amelia corrected herself. The woman was dressed in a carefully embroidered blue gown that Amelia was certain had taken someone years to make. Her blond curls were done up in the most fantastic of hairstyles, with loose curls framing her oval face. Her blue eyes were rather paler than Amelia’s, and Amelia was certain the woman had more freckles than she did.

In addition, the woman’s every movement spoke of sophistication and elegance, with hands that had never seen the harsh realities of scrubbing a floor or emptying a chamber pot. But Amelia was certain that they were almost exact mirror images of each other. If the woman were to stand up, they would even be of the same height. And if Amelia were to be in a fancy dress, with her hair in a fancy hairstyle, Amelia was sure they would look exactly the same.

“Is this a trick, girl?” the woman said, her voice sounding like a lash. She waved her hand for Amelia to come closer, and Amelia saw a large ring sparkling on one of her fingers. It was the largest ring Amelia had ever seen.

Amelia started. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. Please forgive me.” She was not sure what she was apologising for. Was it abominable for a commoner to look like a duchess?

Amelia looked to the maid for help. The maid seemed to be frozen with shock, as her eyes roamed between the two of them.

“Leave us, now,” the woman said.

Amelia hurried to the door and slammed it shut. Outside, she took deep breaths to calm herself. Behind that door was a woman, a highborn woman, who looked exactly like her, and she had no idea why.

Amelia stumbled down to the dining room in a daze.

“Did the lady give you a fright?”

Amelia stared at Sarah, unable to form words. Waves of shock were still radiating through her body. Somewhere up there was a woman who was the spitting image of her.

“Did she give you grief about the meal?” Sarah asked.

Amelia nodded. She did not know how to tell Sarah what had happened.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said.

Amelia nodded again, backing away from the innkeeper’s wife and heading for her quarters. Her head was filled with fuzzy images, images she did not want to examine too closely.

Her chamber was a small room that hosted a narrow bed and a chamber pot. Amelia sat on the bed, wondering about the woman. Who was she? She had to be a new visitor at the inn, or Amelia would have met her before. Was there any possibility that they could be related?

Amelia shook her head to clear the thoughts away. There was absolutely no way she was highborn. She had grown up with poor parents, had slaved away for mere pennies when they’d died from consumption. Highborn women did not give their children up to be taken care of in a workhouse.

Amelia cast the thoughts out of her mind as she lay down on the bed. It did not matter why the woman looked like her. All that mattered was making sure they never crossed paths again. She’d enough to deal with and did not need to add rude noblewomen who bore a startling resemblance to her to the list.

* * *

It was morning, and Amelia was hard at work sweeping the floors of the inn, when she saw Mary, the maid from the night before, making her way over to her.

“Good morning, girl. Her Grace would like to see you now,” Mary said.

Amelia swallowed. “I am rather busy. If…”

Mary cut in with a sardonic smile. “Her Grace is not someone who appreciates being kept waiting. She has a short temper, you see.”

Amelia felt her heart contract with something close to fear. She cast her broom away and walked with Mary up the stairs. Mary knocked on the door to room two before she entered.

The woman who looked like Amelia was propped up on the pillows. She was coughing into an embroidered napkin as she ushered Amelia and Mary in.

“Your Grace,” Amelia said, curtsying.

“Here, take a seat,” the woman said, gesturing to the stool beside the bed.

Amelia’s eyes widened with shock. She had never—never—been asked to sit down by a highborn lady.

She took the stool, her gaze on the floor.

“I am Lady Christiana Gillingham, the Duchess of Roxburghe,” the woman said. “And who are you?”

“I’m Amelia.”

“Where did you grow up, Amelia?”

“In a cottage about three miles from here. My parents were farmers. They died before I turned sixteen. Afterward, I lived on my own before I started working at this inn.”

“It is amusing how much we look alike, would you not say?” Lady Gillingham said musingly. “I reckon you could look exactly like me if we dressed you up in one of my gowns and did your hair in a more appealing hairstyle.”

Amelia looked up at the woman. Did Lady Gillingham want to pass her off as a long lost twin?

“I have a proposition for you,” Lady Gillingham said.

“A-a proposition?” Amelia croaked.

“No need to look so scared, girl. I’m not asking you to go on a murdering rampage for me.”

Amelia swallowed. “Of course not, Your Grace,” she said. Lady Gillingham might be rude and condescending, but she did not come across as a murderer.

“I assure you that you will be quite pleased with my plan,” Lady Gillingham said.

“Plan?” Amelia asked. Lady Gillingham had a plan? Amelia felt a thrill of foreboding.

Whatever Lady Gillingham was planning would not be good news for Amelia, she was sure. She would bet anything on that. Ladies never did anything except for their own gain.

“What’s your plan, Your Grace?” Amelia asked, holding her breath.

“It’s quite simple, really. I would like you to become me.”