The Duke's Heartbreaking Secret: Historical Regency Romance

by Kate Carteret

  “I beg your pardon?” Anabelle said and felt her heart plummet to her knees.

  “It really is a tragic tale, my dear, most upsetting. But sometime after the last Duke died, barely a year in fact, His Grace had decided to accept an invitation to a garden party. He had decided to take his little sisters with him. After all, he was the Duke, and nobody would have minded, even though they were only just turned six years. But they had suffered so much, and he wanted them to have something of excitement to build their little spirits. Oh, if only he had never taken them.” She paused for a moment and Anabelle wondered what on earth was coming. “The girls had been enjoying themselves, by all accounts, and His Grace had been comfortable to let them go about their business and play. He had never imagined for a moment that they could come to any harm.”

  “But they did.” Anabelle said solemnly.

  “Jennifer had managed to climb into a water barrel. You know the sort of thing that gardeners use to collect rainwater.”

  “Like old beer barrels? Like an oak barrel?”

  “The very same. Anyway, the poor thing had gone in head-first and she was so little she could not get herself out. The dreadful part is that the barrel was full of water and dear Jenny drowned. To this day, we do not know how much of the horrible incident Lucy saw. It terrified her and she was so withdrawn, so devastated by the loss of her sister. And so young that she could hardly understand why it was that Jenny was never coming back.” Once again, Mrs Arklow dabbed at her eyes.

  “Forgive me, Mrs Arklow, for putting you through all of this. I would not ask if I did not think it might sometime help me to understand what is happening to Lucy now.”

  “You must not trouble yourself about things like that. My tears come often, you have not caused them.” Mrs Arklow gave her a weak smile. “And I would cry all day every day, feel every whipstitch of pain, if I thought it would do something to help Lucy.”

  “I will keep trying, Mrs Arklow, I promise. I will not give up on Lucy until I have discovered what she is so frightened of. I truly believe that if we can get her to say it out loud it might go some way to curing her.”

  “It really was a good day when you came here, Miss Brock. I would not wish to pressure you by laying all the expectations of this household on your shoulders, but I will say that you have at least given us all a little hope.”

  Anabelle, feeling a little emotional herself, silently prayed that she would one day be able to offer this saddened household something more than simple hope.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ordinarily, Giles hated wearing a top hat. But he was glad he had chosen to wear one that afternoon, for it was ridiculously cold for anybody to be holding a garden party. Even if he did not have so much on his mind and so many reasons to want to be back in the warmth of his own home, still he would have found this little county tradition tedious.

  But he was the Duke and he had a responsibility to show his face now and again. At least it was a simple garden party. It could have been worse, it could have been a ball. He smiled to himself, holding back a little snort of laughter as he realised that he had never been particularly suited to the role that life had handed him.

  A privilege that it was, it was also an encumbrance for a man who did not entirely enjoy society events and the company that he saw as being largely without any variety.

  “Ah, Your Grace.” Lord Newfield said in a tone of voice which tried hard to suggest that he had happened upon the Duke by chance.

  The Duke, of course, knew that the truth was a very different thing altogether.

  “Lord Newfield, a chilly afternoon, is it not?” He said disparagingly, knowing that it was not Lord Watford’s fault that the day was cold, but unwilling yet to forgive him for holding a garden party in the first place.

  “Indeed, it is.” Lord Newfield agreed sycophantically. “And I am bound to say that I was truly sorry not to be able to attend afternoon tea at Westward Hall last week. Although I do believe that Constance thoroughly enjoyed herself.”

  “Yes, indeed she seemed to. And how clever of you to send her with a chaperone when you could not make it yourself.” Giles said and tried to hide the sarcasm.

  The man ought not to have accepted the invitation in the first place knowing that he would not make it. But climbers were climbers, and he had likely seen an opportunity for his daughter with the simple addition of a brow-beaten chaperone.

  “Well, one has to do these things right.” The Baron said, not recognizing the slight at all.

  Like father like daughter. It seemed likely that Constance Newfield’s talent for hearing only what she wanted to hear was something that she had inherited.

  “Indeed.” Giles forced himself to smile.

  Lord Newfield, like so many of his type, would suffer any indignity to elevate his own status through marriage. Such a man would give his daughter away to anybody if it suited him, if it did something to increase his ego.

  Giles could never imagine marrying Lucy away so thoughtlessly. If any man was to have Lucy at all, it would be one who loved her truly. And Lucy would never, ever be forced to marry a man that she did not love. He thought it little wonder that he held so many in society in such low regard. To them, appearance was everything. They would sell their daughters, throw away their sisters, and scorned those they had once looked upon with love just to satisfy their own need for the approval of all around them.

  But it was, essentially, the approval of strangers. For surely most of the people who spent so much of their time in one another’s company trying to impress were, undoubtedly, strangers. They did not bother to discover one another’s personalities, their likes nor dislikes, their amusements or annoyances. There was not time for them to listen and learn, only time to boast and crow and impress.

  Not realizing that a sneer was growing on his face, Giles silently declared that most people in society likely despised each other. There was so much clamoring and jealousy and falsehood. He looked over Lord Newfield’s shoulder at the smiling, mingling crowd of people and thought that there was not one amongst them who liked another. What a dreadful class of people they were, how foolishly they wasted the time that God had given them.

  He despaired of ever finding a man in amongst them all who would be good enough for his sensitive, beautiful sister. And then came the pain in his heart as he wondered if such normality as marriage, family, and home, was ever going to be a part of Lucy’s life.

  “I believe your sister is still unwell, Your Grace.” Lord Newfield said when silence had opened up between them.

  Giles straightened up, his eyes widening. For a ridiculous moment he thought he had made his concerns out loud.

  But no, it was a simple coincidence that the Baron was asking after his sister.

  “Yes, she still unwell. But I have hopes of an improvement sometime soon.” Giles said somewhat mechanically.

  “I believe you have taken on a companion for her.” The Baron continued, and Giles wished that he would simply keep quiet.

  “Yes, rather than have her bored and fractious when I am out of the house or receiving guests.”

  “A young woman, I believe.” The Baron went on, clearly wheedling.

  “Yes, my sister’s companion is a young woman. But then so is my sister. Companions ought to be relatively close in age.” Giles could feel his annoyance rising.

  He could almost hear the annoying conversation in his head now, picturing Constance Newfield’s petulant face as she described the beautiful young woman who had moved into Westward Hall. He had known, of course, throughout their afternoon tea the week before that Constance was fully aggrieved by the whole thing.

  But she was a vain young woman and in the style of vain young women everywhere, she did not like the idea of another’s beauty.

  Giles peered down into the glass of fruit punch he had been holding for more than an hour. He did not like to think of Anabelle Brock as beautiful. She was at Westward Hall to do a job and nothing more. She was n
ot a servant, but she was his employee nonetheless, and her beauty, as extraordinary as he found it, was neither here nor there. Or at least it ought to be.

  But even as he fought his own imagination, a clear picture of her sprang to mind. She was always so simply dressed, although it was clear that her gowns had been well made. But they had been well made some time ago and he imagined Anabelle, prudent and intelligent, realizing that her father’s funds were dwindling year on year. Such a clever, practical young woman would have had her gowns made simply, not paying any homage to the latest fashions. He imagined her quietly telling the seamstress she wanted something simple that would not date. Something that would last her a good many years.

  Something about the quiet dignity of Anabelle Brock had touched him from the very moment he met her. She had told him of her own misfortunes, but only when he had pressed her. And even then, she had told him everything quite simply, no hint of emotional self-pity at all.

  The only hint of disquiet he had seen in her was near the end of her tale when her eyes had darted sideways so briefly that he had almost missed it. And then he had regretted asking her such questions in front of the obsequious Ridley-Smythe.

  More than once he had wanted to apologize for such a dreadful oversight in respect of his manners but knew there was no way to do it which would not embarrass her further. And she had so quickly recovered, on the outside at any rate, sitting straight and tall in her chair and showing no hint of shame.

  And why should she? The shame of her circumstances had belonged squarely with the men in her life, the family who ought to have done better by her. Although it was true that he could understand her father’s pain and grief, and it was easy to see that the loving daughter had forgiven him with ease.

  But still, none of it had been fair and just and such a talented young woman ought never to have suffered such deprivations. And even though he could not fully apologize to her now after so many weeks, he had made some enquiries which he hoped, when they came to fruition, would at least go some way to making reparation.

  He had instructed his attorney to instruct another further south in the county of Hertfordshire to make enquiries as to the whereabouts of Miss Brock’s sixty pounds a year. The money was neither here nor there to Giles, but he felt he owed her that much. She had suffered enough injustices, and this was the only one of them that he could do anything to solve.

  The new attorney in South Hertfordshire had not been given details of Miss Brock’s current whereabouts, nor any details of the client who was paying for his services. He was simply to answer to Giles’ own attorney, providing enough separation that Anabelle’s cousin could not cause her any problems in the future.

  Let him try.

  Giles shook himself a little as if to shake loose thoughts of protecting Miss Brock. She was an employee, a member of his staff, not a damsel in distress who needed his protection. It was a simple matter of justice and that was all. At least that was what he continually told himself.

  “Of course, you may always rely upon Constance at any time for such things, Your Grace. She is only just one-and-twenty herself and I do believe that your sister got along well with her when they met.”

  “Indeed, she did.” Giles said, not really remembering anything of the sort himself.

  They had met, that much was true, but not for long enough for either one to get a good impression of the other. It was at the garden party before Lucy had fallen ill and Giles had then been barely acquainted with Constance Newfield at all.

  And Lucy being Lucy, she had shyly mumbled her way through a few sentences and nothing more.

  He could hardly imagine a brash and confident young woman like Constance Newfield being any comfort at all to his sister, even if she had not been in such a delicate frame of mind as she was now. And of course, he could not yet let Constance have any details.

  Although he had almost determined that he would, in the end, marry Constance Newfield and put an end to his own concerns for a need for an heir, he was not yet entirely decided. He knew he could not give a woman like Constance any hold over him at all. And for her to know that the Duke’s sister was suffering from mental infirmity would most certainly be a bargaining chip for a woman like that.

  “Constance herself has told me that she would be more than glad to help. She is much like any other young woman these days, so little to do and so much time on her hands. It would probably do her good, Your Grace.” Lord Newfield said without any idea that the Duke could see through him so clearly it was as if he had been made of glass.

  “I should not like to part with Miss Brock, Lord Newfield.” Giles said, enjoying the little flash of consternation on the Baron’s face. “For the simple fact that my sister is so very taken with her. Even when she is well, I am certain that my sister would not be pleased if I released her.” He added, and the Baron relaxed visibly.

  Let him think that I have designs on Anabelle Brock. Let him worry that his daughter would be sharing her husband before they had even begun a life together.

  Giles took in a deep breath; such spiteful thoughts would not serve him well, they would only give him indigestion. And even if such tawdry circumstances existed, Lord Newfield would still marry his daughter away. And Constance, however much she did not like the idea, would put up with it willingly.

  In the end, such young women had crawled out of the very same mold.

  And once again he was thinking of Anabelle Brock, imagining her suddenly to be his lover. Why was it that she had affected him so? He had seen beautiful women before, had he not? Fathers and mothers had been figuratively throwing their daughters at him since he had achieved manhood.

  But there was something about Anabelle Brock. Her hair was the color of wheat, a pale and rather dull blonde. Certainly not bright and gleaming in perfect ringlets like Constance Newfield’s hair. And yet it was Anabelle Brock’s thick, strong waves that he imagined reaching out to touch, not Constance’s. And it was Anabelle’s bright blue eyes, often narrowed and always shrewd, that he had truly looked into.

  And how he had looked into those eyes. When he had searched for confirmation of trustworthiness on that very first day, he had held her gaze almost cruelly, daring her to look away from him. And that young woman, so desperate for a position in the world that would keep her safe, had held her ground most determinedly and never looked away once.

  But now he wanted to look into those eyes for a very different reason. He wanted to look into her eyes without that same cruelty; a cruelty born of fear for his sister. And while he looked into those blue eyes, so intelligent and knowing, he wanted to reach out and loosen that wheat-colored hair, to have it cascade in soft waves down her back.

  Perhaps Constance Newfield had good reason to be twisted like a hawthorn twig in jealousy.

  “Ah, here she comes now.” Lord Newfield said as if the arrival of his daughter was something of a treat for the Duke.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Newfield.” Giles said a little formally.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Constance said and inclined her head, dipping her shoulders in a pretty and practiced fashion.

  “Are you enjoying the garden party?” He said, finding already that his conversation had run a little dry before Constance had even arrived.

  “Very much, Your Grace, although I am a little cold.” She said and shivered as if to provide a visible cue.

  “I am bound to say that I will not linger long myself.” Giles said, keen to be back at Westward Hall to check on Lucy.

  “What a great shame.” Constance said coquettishly as her pale blue eyes disappeared under heavy lids to give the impression of girlish sadness.

  The truth of it was that Constance Newfield was a beautiful woman. If she had behaved quite simply, without the wiles, the wheedling, and the general air of having been spoiled, he was sure that her beauty would have affected him quite dramatically. But everything else about her seemed to give her beauty a certain insincerity, as if it was all just
an illusion.

  And if she had behaved any differently, if she had a simple nature, there was the risk that he would have cared for her. As complicated as it all was, as tedious as he might find life married to a little peacock like Constance Newfield, he knew that he could not risk marrying a woman that he would love.

  He longed for love at times, real love, the sort of love that crept into a man’s very bones. But whenever he imagined such a thing, he imagined it being taken away. Giles had already lost three people he loved dearly, and he had lost them prematurely. As harsh as it seemed, if he lost Constance Newfield when they were finally man and wife, it would not devastate him.

  And whilst he still had Lucy to worry about and the idea that Mrs Arklow was getting older, Giles knew he did not need another person in his life to love. He could not risk it.

  He knew also that he could not keep entertaining thoughts of his sister’s companion who was not only beautiful, but fine in every imaginable way. However much she unwittingly tempted him, drawing his thoughts and his imagination night after night, he could not give into it. For if he turned his attention wholeheartedly upon Miss Anabelle Brock, he was certain that he would fall in love with her. And that he could never do.

  “But before I do go, perhaps I might make you both a little invitation for next week?” Giles said, determinedly sweeping Anabelle from his mind. “For dinner on Wednesday night, if you have time for it?” He spoke brightly and with some force.

  “Oh yes, of course, Your Grace.” Lord Newfield said, straightening so much with pride that Giles was certain the man had gained a further three inches in height. “Wednesday suits us very well indeed.”

  “Oh yes, how wonderful.” Constance said and smiled slowly, her eyes narrowing to self-satisfied slits.

  Oh, how she reminded him of the cook’s cat with a saucer of milk suddenly placed before her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Autumn had most definitely arrived, and Anabelle had almost not gone out for a walk at all. There were wonderfully warm fires lit in both her chamber and Lucy’s and the whole area felt so warm and cozy. But Mrs Arklow had appeared as she did every afternoon and Anabelle knew that the walk would, after all, do her good.