Her fears returned, despite her delight in watching the countryside slide past at a quick pace. What if the Duke of Breckenridge proved to be a harsh or wicked man? What would his children be like? Would they be hellions, out to make her life miserable? She knew nothing of the Duke’s reputation, his family, or his nature. Mrs. Marsh told her only that he owned a townhouse in London for his frequent trips to the Prince Regent’s court and his duties in the House of Lords.
Of course, growing up in an orphanage, Lucretia had listened to dark tales of evil masters murdering their servants in the night, of horrible beasts that roamed the moors after nightfall, howling under a full moon. She’d heard wild stories of man-sized bats that fed on the unwary traveler, of highwaymen and robbers who robbed the rich and the poor alike and left their bodies to rot on the ground.
Shivering as she gazed at the green, rolling hills, she wondered what roamed out there when the good people of the land slept. Feeling very glad she would not be traveling after the sun set, she resisted the urge to ask the wheel boy about huge bats and highwaymen.
No doubt, he would think me a fool and laugh.
The hours passed as quickly as the miles, and just before supper, the chaise halted at another inn in the village of Cheltenham. Once again, she found a hearty, hot meal and a clean bed awaiting her, paid for by His Grace. In the morning, fresh horses and boys would continue conveying her to her new home. The next stop the following day, after a short journey, would place her at the door of the Duke.
“Have you met His Grace, the Duke of Breckenridge?” she asked as the new wheel boy assisted her into the chaise.
“Nay, mum,” he answered with a gap-toothed smile. “I’ve not the honor.”
Swallowing her trepidation that within a few hours, she would meet him face to face, she settled back into the seat as the carriage rocked forward. She clenched her trembling fingers into her lap, vowing that neither he nor his children would make her cry. No matter what they did.
Watching the sun sink toward Wales and distant Ireland, Lucretia’s nerves strung tight as the carriage left the road and headed north on a narrow lane. Sheep and cattle grazed the green hills behind low walls made of moss-weathered stone. Smoke curled up from the chimneys of crofters’ huts, and she listened to the chirk-chirk of a hunting hawk. As the chaise rounded a sharp bend in the lane, she sucked in her breath, not realizing she held it.
Passing under a wrought iron sign held up by two tall stone pillars, she read the words Breckenridge and Quantum Fidelis. Her Latin being a tad rusty, she thought it translated to, as faithful. Finding it a hopeful sign, hoping that the owner of the magnificent house straight ahead was as honorable as his family motto, she stared in wonder.
I have never seen anything as stunningly beautiful as this place.
Sprawling green lawns hemmed in by neat hedgerows spanned the front. Tall white pillars graced the wide veranda. The manor house stood four stories tall, and nearly as wide as a London street was long, and a dozen stone chimneys poked up from the roof in her view. Outbuildings and sheds sat well back from the house as to not mar its singular magnificence. Stars danced in front of Lucretia’s eyes, reminding her she had not drawn breath since sighting the place.
As the chaise entered the wide circular drive in front of the house, she noticed several people standing between the pillars, awaiting her. Several liveried footmen in powdered wigs, and two female servants in white caps and aprons, stood behind a tall man and a young girl. Reminding herself to breathe, she felt her heart fluttering in her breast as the team drew her closer to her fate. Fear returned with a vengeance, and she fought to keep it from showing on her face.
Halting, the team snorted and stamped as the post boys stared straight ahead. The tall, dark-haired man walked down the steps, dressed in casual breeches and blue waistcoat, a silk cravat encircling his neck. He wore no coat nor hat.
He approached her, his face devoid of emotion. No smile of greeting, nor a scowl of annoyance, he seemed cold and aloof. Exactly what she imagined a Duke to express on his face.
Only then, through her fear, did she notice he was strikingly handsome. And far younger than she had expected. Brilliant green eyes flashed in his dark face, his strong jaw held long, clean lines. His full lips twitched as though he wanted to smile and then stifled the impulse. Thick, black hair fell untidily to his collar, yet the hand he extended to her to assist her down felt warm in hers.
Her body suddenly felt hot, as though she had walked too close to a fire.
Those eyes.
She could not look away, despite the fact she stared rudely at a Duke.
“Miss Lucretia Brent?”
His voice, deep with a fascinating timbre, entranced her, and broke the spell. Some of her fears melted away. The instant her feet touched the gravel of the drive, she spread her skirts and sank into a low curtsey.
“Your Grace.”
“Welcome to Breckenridge,” he said, putting his hand in hers to raise her up. “Come. I wish you to meet my sister.”
His hand in hers made her heart beat faster. Walking beside him, she felt his masculine power, and discovered herself slightly breathless. Forcing herself to pay attention, she remembered his words.
His sister?
All this time, Lucretia assumed she would be caring for his offspring. Walking with him, his hand still holding hers, she climbed the steps to the veranda. The girl, about ten years old, regarded her coldly through hazel-green eyes. Quite pretty, with silken blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, she wore a white gown trimmed in lace, a small necklace of pearls gracing her throat. She offered Lucretia a small, stony curtsey as the Duke formally introduced them.
“Miss Brent, this is my sister, Lady Henrietta Claridge. Lady Henrietta, please say hello to your new governess, Miss Lucretia Brent.”
However, Lady Henrietta remained silent, her face frozen as though afraid to release any emotion.
“My Lady.” Lucretia offered the child a proper curtsey, wondering why the little girl appeared so antagonistic. Hoping that speaking to her directly would break some of the tension, she said, “I am happy to meet you at last, Lady Henrietta. I am looking forward to being your governess.”
Instantly, the small pale face scrunched up into the visage of an evil imp. “I hate you,” she screeched. “You will never be my governess. Never.”
Chapter 4
Embarrassed by Henrietta’s behavior, Sampson watched as she stormed into the house, weeping and slamming the doors behind her. He glanced at the new governess, observing the quick biting of her lip, and rapid there and gone flash of fear, before the same mild neutrality of before shut down her expression.
“I must apologize, Miss Brent,” he said, gesturing toward the door in invitation. “My sister recently lost her mother, the Duchess of Breckenridge. She keenly feels that loss, and fears you will take her mother’s place.”
“I understand, Your Grace.”
“Do you?” He stopped short of the doors, gazing down at her. “Lady Henrietta is, by nature, a normally a happy and well-mannered child. But watching her mother, our mother, fall into hopelessness and despair has turned her inward, her usually sunny disposition closed off. I hope you can help her overcome that.”
“I will do my best, Your Grace.”
“I expect nothing less.”
Permitting her to precede him into the house, Sampson watched her expression as the girl took in her new home. Awe and wonder spread over the mask of neutrality.
He glanced at one of the serving women, then back to her. “Edwina will show you to your quarters,” he said, “then, after you have refreshed yourself, I would have you join me in my study. While I realize you have had a long journey and are no doubt weary, I do wish to converse with you for a time.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
She swept low in a curtsey, her skirts spread, her face lowered. Turning, he left her to walk to his study. The post boys took her boxes of possessions down
from the chaise and put them into the care of a servant, who then took them upstairs to the governess’ new room. Recalling her expression, a mixture of delight, amazement, and awe when she entered his home, Sampson wondered at her history. He knew she was an orphan, but little else.
Smiling inwardly, he wondered what Oliver and George would make of her. They had yet to meet her, as they had returned to their estates for a few days, but planned to join him when he rode to meet the Earl of Eckert to complete a sale of two prize stallions and eight mares, the following day. Sampson had not truly wanted to part with them, but the earl convinced him otherwise and would pay handsomely for them.
Walking down the corridor toward Henrietta’s apartments, he considered speaking to her about her behavior. Instead, he continued on past and walked down the stairs to his study. His butler, Thomas, stood ready to serve him, but Sampson dismissed him after Thomas poured his brandy. Bowing low, the butler shut the doors behind him as he departed on silent feet.
Lord have mercy, that woman is stunningly beautiful. Hair of flame. Never before have I seenits like.
Sitting in his comfortable armchair, sipping the brandy, Sampson had no idea his sister’s new governess would be so strikingly beautiful. He hadn’t expected someone like her. Slender, yet full-breasted, her smile was warm with pleasant white teeth; a wealth of reddish-gold hair and, of course, those fascinating and unique eyes. Her courtesies and speech could have come from the Prince Regent himself. Knowing Oliver and George as he did, he knew they would gape at Miss Brent’s beauty like schoolboys. The thought made him smile.
Knowing she came highly recommended by the Foundling Hospital, he had little doubt of her skills as a governess. But whether Henrietta would or could grow to accept her became his new problem. Sampson sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands; he knew that overcoming that obstacle might be more difficult than he had envisioned.
A discreet knock at the door heralded his new employee. “Come.”
His butler, Thomas, opened the door and bowed low, ushering in Miss Brent. She stepped across the threshold, then dipped into another low curtsey. “Your Grace.”
Thomas closed the door behind her as he raised his fingers and beckoned her in. “Please sit, Miss Brent. May I offer you something? Wine? Brandy?”
Miss Brent sat, folding her skirts under her, smiling. “A little wine would be nice. Thank you, Your Grace.”
Rising, he poured thick red wine from a decanter into a cut crystal glass, then handed it to her. “I must apologize again for my sister’s behavior.”
“Please, Your Grace,” she began, holding her glass of wine, yet not drinking it. “I have much experience with children. Many came to the Hospital with anger and resentment, yet learned to overcome their stronger, base emotions, if given enough love and patience.”
Sampson allowed himself a tiny smile. “I believe that is exactly what Lady Henrietta needs.”
“I assure you, Your Grace,” she went on. “Lady Henrietta is seeking the love and attention the late Duchess gave her in full. Lacking that, she withdrew into her own world, and naturally resents anyone coming in from the outside. While I cannot guarantee that I will bring her from her shell, I can guarantee I will do my best.”
“I do believe you will, Miss Brent. On both of those counts.”
Sampson spent an hour or so questioning her on her knowledge of various subjects, and he grew more and more impressed with her. She appeared well-versed in teaching children mathematics, grammar, history, needlecraft, proper ethics, dancing, oratory, and even spoke some French, Latin, and a smattering of Italian.
“May I ask, Miss Brent,” Sampson asked, leaning forward in his chair, “how did you come to learn foreign languages in the Foundling Hospital?”
Lucretia smiled, glancing down at her half-drunk wineglass. “The Hospital takes in many orphans, Your Grace. A child born of French parents came to us after her parents died from cholera aboard their ship. I had to learn her language in order to help her.”
“And Latin? Italian?”
“Latin is taught in the school among other subjects, Your Grace,” she answered. “The Italian I picked up from an Italian worker who rebuilt a section of broken wall at the Hospital.”
“I see. And I must say, I am altogether impressed.”
“Please do not be, Your Grace,” she said, smiling. “If I were to go to France or Italy, no doubt I’d be scorned for my lack of language ability.”
“And a self-deprecating sense of humor.” Sampson sipped from his glass. “I like that as well. But, forgive my lack of polite manners. I did not ask if you had eaten.”
“Do not concern yourself, Your Grace,” she said. “I had plenty to eat on the journey.”
“Tell me about it, if you will.”
He sat back, watching her face as she described her first journey out of London, her impression of the sights she’d witnessed. Unable to stop staring at her, despite the fact that his fascination was ill-mannered, he could not help himself.
He had had flings with mistresses in his past, yet none of them held a candle to Miss Brent’s incredible beauty. Against his will, he envisioned her hair spread upon a pillow, her pale eyes luminous in firelight. Embarrassed by his ill-timed and randy thought while she sat in front of him, Sampson cleared his throat and glanced away.
She cast her eyes demurely down, a faint flush of embarrassment tinting her pale cheeks pink. “If you do not mind, Your Grace,” she began, “are there truly man-killing monsters out on the moors?”
The question struck him unexpectedly, and Sampson almost choked on his mouthful of brandy. Covering his shock, he swallowed, and gave the question the weight it possibly merited. “Monsters, Miss Brent? No, those are tales to frighten children into behaving. Wolves are mostly gone from the moors these days, and nothing larger than wild lynx roam the nights.”
“What of highwaymen and robbers?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, there are those who prey upon travelers, I will admit. However, they are not as many as there used to be. Our England is quite safe from evil-doers.”
She smiled. “I am right glad to know my person is safe, Your Grace.”
“Miss Brent, I fear the streets of London are far more dangerous than the moors in Gloucestershire.”
“You may be quite right, Your Grace,” she said. “But I never roamed the streets of London.”
“Nor should you. Come, I can see you grow weary.”
Sampson rose, offering his hand to her. “My butler, Thomas, will escort you to your rooms where you may rest the night in safety and peace.”
Her gloved fingers light yet firm in his, he raised her up, then, for a brief moment, stood gazing down into her incredible eyes. Lost in them, his thoughts departed on swift wings, his wits stolen. She stared deep into his own, a half-smile on her beautiful features. A feeling of wonderment crept over him, something he had not felt for years.
Her softly spoken words broke the spell. “Your Grace?”
“Er, yes, quite,” he said, almost stuttering. “Come then. You may begin your duties tomorrow. As you are unfamiliar with this house, I will assign the housekeeper to assist you in finding your way.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand, and turned her over to Thomas’ care. In the corridor, a liveried servant rushed toward them, her white cap askew, her round face flushed. “Your Grace,” she called, her tone worried. Upon reaching them, she spread her black skirts in a quickcurtsey.
“Yes? What is it, Rosemary?”
“Your Grace,” she gasped, her head bowed. “It is Lady Henrietta.”
Sampson stiffened. “What is wrong? Speak, woman.”
“I cannot find her, Your Grace. She is not in her rooms, or anywhere.”
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Thank you very much!
Also by Emma Li
nfield
Thank you for reading The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady!
I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, may I ask you to please write a review HERE? It would mean very much to me. Reviews are very important and allow me to keep writing the books that you love to read!
Some other stories of mine:
The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess
The Perilous Quest of the Rejected Duchess
The Odd Riddle of the Lost Duchess
The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess
Dangerous Games of a Broken Lady
* * *
Also, if you liked this book, you can also check out my full Amazon Book Catalogue HERE.
Thank you for allowing me to keep doing what I love!
Emma Linfield
About the Author
Emma Linfield has always been passionate about historical romances. Ever fascinated with the world of Regency England and being utmost inspired by Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer’s work, she decided she wanted to write her own stories. Stories of love and tradition being mixed in the most appealing way for every hopeless romantic, much like herself.
Born and raised in Southern California, Emma Linfield has a degree in Creative Writing and English Literature, and she has been working as a freelance writer for the past 10 years. When she isn’t writing, Emma loves spending her time with her own prince charming and two beautiful children, all the while enjoying the famous Californian sun and ocean.
So, hop on to this exciting journey of Dukes, Earls and true love with Emma and find pleasure in the old fashioned world of Regency - an Era of pure romance, elegance and high fashion!
The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 30