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“With your mama? How sweet,” the duchess murmured as she checked the number of tricks she had taken.
If that was what the duchess preferred to believe, Hester did not correct her. It was better than admitting she found it difficult to watch as her lovely sisters received all the attention, while she was treated as little more than a piece of furniture.
The duchess smiled with satisfaction. “I win again! You know, Elliot is quite a clever fellow at cards. He can even defeat me on occasion.”
“Really, Your Grace?”
“Indeed. He is quite in demand at card parties, and when he can be persuaded to take a moment from dancing at balls. La, that is not often, I assure you.”
Hester merely nodded.
“But you shall see his qualities for yourself when he arrives.” The duchess opened her fan and frowned as she began to wave it. “Let us hope the duke is far away by then.”
It was on the tip of Hester’s tongue to ask the duchess why she didn’t send the duke away, if she found his presence so odious, but she knew the woman would not enjoy being questioned. Therefore, she was forced to merely wonder about that, and about the duke himself.
In one way, he more than lived up to his reputation. She had had more than ample time to observe people at the social functions she did attend, and she had never seen a more handsome man.
On the other hand, she had found his patience with his waspish stepmother quite astonishing and completely unexpected. She would have thought a man who had done all the things he was said to have done would be rather hot tempered and quick to take offense. Maybe the fact that the duchess was a relation explained it.
Hester glanced at the door again, to see the duchess’s maid waiting. “I believe it’s time to retire, Your Grace,” she said softly, nodding toward Maria.
“Ah, so it is.” The duchess rose majestically, moving her beaded black skirt around the delicate chair with a graceful gesture before she glanced at Hester. “Aren’t you coming?”
“In a moment. I believe I left my book in the library. I would like to read a little before I sleep.”
The duchess frowned with disapproval. “You will ruin your eyesight,” she admonished. “Or fall asleep with the candle lit and burn the house down.”
“I shall be very careful, Your Grace,” Hester said, trying to ignore being chided like a recalcitrant child. Again.
“Oh, all right,” the duchess said ungraciously. “Mind you do not sleep too late.” With that, she turned and left, preceded by the dark-haired Maria.
As if I ever do! Hester thought, taking a candle and heading for the library. She had never seen the duchess so much as pick up a book or newspaper, let alone read one, so it was no surprise the woman had no respect for reading.
It was a fair way along the corridor to the darkly paneled library, a room the duchess never ventured into, and where Hester went when she wanted a few moments alone. It was quiet and a little solemn, like an empty church, but Hester liked it all the more for its aura of benign neglect
Barroughby Hall itself was an immense building, the work of several generations and several architects, each seemingly trying to outdo each other in the spending of the Fitzwalters’ money. Fortunately, the estate was a large one, too, and more than one of the dukes had been a wise investor in art and sculpture, as well as business ventures, so there was little fear of putting the family into bankruptcy.
By this time the house and grounds were magnificent. Built in a square, with an open courtyard in the middle reached through the imposing main entrance, the hall boasted a corridor nearly a mile long around the inside, filled with paintings and statues purchased in Europe. The ceilings of the main rooms on the lower level were all painted by master artists; even the hearths of the fireplaces were works of art. The large dining room would easily seat one hundred at an immense mahogany table. There were over fifty bedrooms, not counting those in the attic used by the small army of servants.
Other rooms in the house included the large drawing room, the small drawing room, the library, the duke’s study, two smoking rooms, a billiard room, the Tudor hall that formed the main entrance, the servants’ hall and the kitchen, at an unfortunate distance from the large dining room. Outside, there were the formal gardens, a large shrubbery, the carriage house and the stables, as well as kennels for the duke’s hunting dogs.
It was not a cozy place to live, yet it did have its compensations, not all of them architectural. Here Hester was not always being compared to her more attractive sisters, or made to wait upon her mother, who, believing herself sickly, was always in need of assistance and accepted Hester’s help as her due. The duchess also pleaded a weak constitution, but not nearly as often, and she seemed to appreciate Hester’s efforts a vast deal more.
In addition to that, Hester realized, there was now the exciting presence of the Dark Duke himself to make her stay here something out of the ordinary.
She reached the library, found her volume and headed toward the back stairs, which would be the fastest route up to her room. As she did so, she heard the servants still at work in the kitchen, talking and laughing among themselves as they completed their daily tasks.
Once upstairs, she paused in the corridor, realizing that one of the bedroom doors between where she was standing and her room, a door that had always been shut tight, was standing slightly open. Perhaps that was the duke’s room, and she would have to pass it by.
This notion filled her with a curious mixture of excitement and dread, until Hester told herself she was being ridiculous. Surely she didn’t expect the duke to lunge out of the room, grab her and drag her inside. The image was so…so romantically gothic that Hester had to stifle a laugh. As if she could ever be a heroine! Besides, with an injured leg, he could hardly be skulking about!
Emboldened, she confidently walked down the hall.
Nevertheless, her steps slowed as she came even with the open door. A low moan caught her attention. No one else was near, so she cautiously stepped inside.
The room was dark, for no moonlight penetrated the drawn drapes. She lifted her candle a little higher, noting the fine proportions of the large room and splendid furnishings.
Including the canopied bed, with the curtains open and the duke slumbering upon it, lying on his side, and turned toward the door. He certainly wasn’t a person to fear at the moment, she thought, smiling at her previous imaginings. At present he didn’t look like the cold, sardonic man of this morning, or the villain rumor and gossip painted him. With his hair tousled and his eyes shut, he looked like nothing so much as a mischievous little boy—although there was a sensuality to his lips that had nothing of the child about it.
As she watched, he moved restlessly, rolling onto his back and throwing one muscular arm over his face. One naked, muscular arm. At the sudden realization that he might be nude beneath the bedclothes, Hester backed away, ready to depart.
The duke moaned again.
Perhaps he needed help. Maybe she should fetch someone—but then she would have to explain her presence in the duke’s bedroom. She recalled hearing his valet’s voice in the servants’ hall downstairs. She could ring the bell for assistance and leave before the valet appeared. The servant might believe that the duke had summoned him.
Deciding that would be the best course, Hester moved farther inside the room, for the bell rope dangled near the head of the bed.
What if someone passed by? They would certainly see her light.
Hester blew out the candle, so that the room was in complete darkness. She waited for her eyes to get used to the change, then slowly began to make out the shape of the duke, and the bellpull.
She went slowly toward the bed and reached for the pull, hesitating for a moment as she looked down at the slumbering duke.
He shifted again, rolling toward her and exposing his powerful shoulder.
With a gulp, she yanked on the bellpull, then hurried from the room as quickly and quietly as she could.
When she was gone, Adrian Fitzwalter opened his eyes and smiled.
The next morning, Adrian sank onto the stone garden bench that was as cold and hard as his stepmother’s heart and stretched out his left leg. His limb was very sore, and although he believed Mapleton when he said that the wound was not dangerous, Adrian couldn’t help wondering when the devil he would be recovered enough to leave here, or at least go riding.
Still, he might as well take some time to enjoy the garden, seen far too little of late, and bask in the warmth of an unseasonably mild autumn day.
He slowly surveyed the flower beds, walks and shrubbery. His stepmother had been busy here, or busy giving orders at any rate. Very little of his mother’s garden remained. All was now formal and, to his mind, lacking any sense of natural beauty. He wondered what his father would have made of the change, and then decided that thought was a foolish one. His father would have said nothing, no matter what he felt. He had always been reserved.
Far too reserved, except on that one memorable occasion.
As for the “improvements” Adrian did not like, his stepmother could not live forever. When she died, he would put it all as it had been before his mother had passed away when he was ten years old, and his life had changed forever.
Perhaps it had not been wise to come to Bar-roughby, with all its memories. He should have remained in London, at least until Christmas, and braved this latest scandal, too.
Adrian forced himself to concentrate on the scent of the roses, and tried not to remember Elizabeth Howell’s tear-streaked face or the little body of her infant, robbed of life after a few short gasps, lying in the wooden cradle beside the narrow, filthy bed.
He leaned forward and rubbed his temples, as if he could rub out the memories. He had done all he could, knowing full well he could never make up for the loss of her honor, her happiness or her child.
“My dear duchess! How distressed you must be!”
Adrian turned his head so swiftly in the direction of the main drawing room that a pain shot through his neck.
It was the Reverend Canon Lyton Smeech, the vicar of the local church. He had held that living for several years at the discretion of the duchess, and apparently he still felt beholden enough to fawn over the woman.
Adrian heard another feminine voice murmur a greeting, and thought he recognized it as Hester Pimblett’s.
A rare smile crossed his face. A most surprising young woman, Hester. Outwardly so timid and demure, obedient and pliable. But only outwardly, for it took no small inner strength to ignore his stepmother, and no small courage to enter the Dark Duke’s bedchamber, even if he was ostensibly asleep, given his reputation as a lascivious libertine.
Well, perhaps not courage. Perhaps nothing more than feminine curiosity. Or a passionate nature beneath the self-effacing facade.
He rose slowly. He had met that type of woman before, the kind who used the trap of sweet modesty to get a jaded cad’s attention. Once he got her alone, she would say they were acting most improperly, all the while pressing her lithe, shapely body against his. It was hypocrisy at its finest, and he knew hypocrisy very well indeed.
Another voice responded, that of a younger man. He wasn’t aware of any visitors expected today, which was not surprising really, considering his hostile relationship with the duchess. Who could it be?
Maybe it was someone to be avoided, like the Reverend Canon Smeech. Or maybe it was a gentleman with some interest in the quiet Lady Hester. There was a fascinating course of speculation, and one worthy of further investigation, if for no other reason than to provide some necessary distraction.
Adrian smiled grimly as he limped into the house.
Chapter Three (#ulink_91145933-19a2-5fc4-9b20-96eb51dac0ce)
“A, um, most trying surprise for you, I’m sure, Your Grace, the Reverend Canon Sraeech intoned pityingly.
“Nobody knows how I suffer,” the duchess responded plaintively. “Hester,” she snapped in an aside to her companion, “I need my fan!”
Hester, seated in a small chair to the right and slightly behind the duchess’s sofa, reached forward with the necessary article. The canon strolled to the windows, and Hester smiled at the curate who had arrived with the august clergyman, Reverend Hamish McKenna, who was looking decidedly uncomfortable. Whether it was because he was overwhelmed by the magnificence of his surroundings or not sure how to respond to the robust duchess’s claims of illness, Hester wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, he managed to smile briefly in response.
“Yes, nobody knows how I suffer!” the duchess continued. “Another scandal! The name of Fitzwaiter—which my son also possesses!—dragged in the mud. What is a mother to do?”
“Perhaps if you spoke with the duke,” Reverend McKenna offered gently, his Scots accent giving his words a slight burr.
The duchess looked startled, and Reverend Canon Smeech gave his curate a censorious look.
“It was merely a suggestion,” the reverend said helplessly.
“An inappropriate one,” the canon replied. “The duchess has no wish or need to sully herself by contact with the duke.”
Hester couldn’t help feeling sorry for Reverend McKenna. It wouldn’t be easy working with Reverend Canon Smeech, who was the type of clergyman who clearly considered the few needs of the wealthy of his parish first and foremost, and left the bulk of the work to his assistant.
“Did I hear someone mention the duke?” the nobleman asked as he strolled into the room.
Reverend McKenna rose in greeting, the duchess frowned and the canon bowed. “Your Grace,” he said with a smile. “We were not expecting you.”
“So I gather,” the duke noted as he continued toward the sofa and seated himself beside his stepmother. “We meet again, Canon Smeech.”
The duchess inched away as if the duke had a disease, Hester noted.
She also noted that he looked quite rested, his leg apparently caused him no trouble, his hair was considerably more tidy than the last time she had seen him, his clothes fit to perfection, and he didn’t seem to notice she was there.
Which should not be surprising or cause for dismay.
“My -lord, allow me to present Reverend Hamish McKenna, my curate, “the older clergyman said with an obsequious bow, and Hester had to stifle a smile. Obviously the poor canon didn’t want to offend either the duke or the duchess. “Your stepmother was telling us of your, ah, wound.”
“Was she?” he asked lightly. “Must have been a short discourse, since I have told her so little about it. Please sit down, Smeech. You, too, Reverend McKenna.”
Reverend Canon Smeech blushed at the duke’s lack of courtesy, and so did Hamish McKenna, from the roots of his red hair to the bottom of his freckled chin, as he sat on a chair opposite Hester, who gave him a warm and understanding smile. The duke’s overpowering presence was enough to cast a pall over the most mundane of conversations, a fact brought forcefully home when he glanced at her. He made her feel as if she had suddenly been put on display at the Crystal. Palace.
Adrian looked from Lady Hester, wearing the plainest of blue gowns and seated like some quiet little serving maid beside his stepmother, to the blushing young clergyman. Were they ordaining children these days? Surely this fellow was far too young to be in orders, Adrian thought, until Reverend McKenna smiled at Hester. Not so very young, after all. And what was he to make of her, so cool and composed? “I trust you slept well, Lady Hester?” Adrian asked.
“Quite well,” she replied with equanimity. “Did you?”
“Yes,” he replied, somewhat nonplussed. He began to wonder if he had imagined last night, when he thought she had come into his bedroom. Or maybe he had been dreaming, and he had pulled the bell rope to summon James, who had been dispatched to fetch his master a drink to soothe his restless sleep.
They all sat in awkward silence for several minutes, and Adrian did nothing to lessen the tension. He was well aware his stepmother was bursting to speak and complain about him. If his presence stopped her, he would sit here for the rest of the day, and they could all be silent. As for the others, including the confusing Lady Hester, he didn’t care if they were uncomfortable or not.
Then Lady Hester addressed Canon Smeech. “I understand the harvest was particularly good this year.”
“Ah, indeed, um, yes. Very fine, very fine.”
The canon rambled on for some time about the crops and livestock of the village of Barroughby, needing no further prompting to indulge in the sound of his own deep, sonorous tones, and Adrian realized something had gone amiss. It was not for this mousy young woman to direct the conversation, nor was it fitting for her to look slyly at McKenna, as if sharing some kind of secret with him.
Not when the Duke of Barroughby was present.
“I suppose you’ve already collected the tithes?” Adrian demanded, not particularly caring if he sounded rude or not.
The Reverend Canon Smeech cleared his plump and pompous throat. “Yes, my lord.”
“I did not think you would neglect that,” Adrian noted dryly.
Lady Hester frowned slightly, a peevish little downturn of her full lips. So, she did not approve of his remarks. He didn’t care. She had probably heard worse things about him than his lack of respect for a bombastic hypocrite like Smeech.
The duchess’s companion rose gracefully and faced the duchess. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I promised Reverend McKenna that I would show him the garden the next time he visited on a sunny day. This one would seem to be perfect.
Hamish McKenna got to his feet awkwardly and flushed deep red. “Indeed, yes, I would be delighted,” he said.
I’ll wager you would, Adrian thought. “Apparently Lady Hester prefers not to be in my presence—today”.
There! A flash of fire in her large blue eyes, just enough to tell him that she understood his reference, and that he had not imagined her in his room last night.
“Is it any wonder, when you are so abominably rude?” the duchess demanded.
“You wound me, Your Grace,” Adrian said with a mockingly injured air as he put his hand over his heart, while at the same time resolving to be more courteous to Lady Hester. “I give them leave to go.” Indeed, he was tempted to join them, but the idea that he would have to hide his limp or endure pitying remarks kept him in his chair.
Jenkins appeared in the doorway and bowed as far as his rheumatic back would permit. “Sir Douglas Sackcloth-and-Ashes and his daughter have arrived, Your Grace,” he announced.
“He means Sir Douglas Sackville-Cooper and his daughter, Damaris,” the duchess explained to the confused clergymen. “Poor Jenkins—his hearing is beginning to go.”
Adrian made no effort to hide a smirk. Beginning to go? Jenkins’s hearing had been going for fifteen years.
“Show them in,” the duchess said brusquely, and Adrian was glad that he hadn’t offered to walk in the garden, for this was surely going to be interesting.
He easily remembered Sir Douglas, a country squire with good manners, small intellect and vast ambition. As for Damaris, he had last seen her five years ago. She had been about twelve then, and a very pretty child, if rather dull.
