The Duke's Heartbreaking Secret: Historical Regency Romance

by Kate Carteret

  Wearing a cloak over a long-sleeved gown, both in dark blue, Anabelle tightly tied the ribbons of her bonnet before heading for the stairs.

  She came down the stairs rather quickly, trying to convince herself that she would keep warm if she kept moving.

  “Ah, Miss Brock.” She looked up sharply when she reached the bottom to find the Duke had suddenly appeared from one of the long corridors, presumably from his study. “Taking your afternoon walk?” He smiled as he stood in that grand entrance hall, pale sunshine pouring in from so many windows and across his handsome features.

  He was wearing black breeches and a black tail coat with a fawn colored waistcoat. The elaborate neckline of his shirt was high again, giving him a such a regal appearance.

  His dark hair was so thick that Anabelle wanted to reach out and touch it. She closed her eyes for a moment, doing what she could to dispel such a ridiculous thought.

  And yet he was so handsome, so tall and fine, such thoughts were likely more natural than ridiculous.

  “Yes, although I am not sure I am looking forward to it, Your Grace. I have been a little spoiled upstairs by the fire, you see.” She looked doubtfully out through one of the windows.

  “Yes, the temperature has definitely dropped in the last few days.” He seemed to be a little stuck for conversation, yet he did not simply continue on his way but seemed intent to stay.

  Anabelle nursed the silly fantasy that he had waited in the quiet of the corridor for her to come down for her afternoon walk so that he might spend a few moments in her company. What a wonderful idea; what possibilities if he were only as attracted to her as she was to him.

  And now Anabelle knew that she was being ridiculous. But he was standing just a few feet in front of her and so tall and impressive that she could almost feel him.

  Anabelle held her breath for a moment as a diversion. He was a Duke and she was a young woman who would have been homeless had he not given her employment on that first day. It was impossible enough as it was, and then she thought of the pretty, haughty young woman with the bright blonde ringlets, the porcelain doll’s face, and began to feel a little silly.

  “I daresay by the time I have walked to the lake and back I shall be warm enough.” Anabelle went on.

  “That is a fair walk, Miss Brock. But it is a fine spot to spend a few minutes.”

  “When Lucy is a little stronger, I shall take her down there.”

  “Oh, no.” He said, his face clouding over.

  “I would not take her on a sunny day like this, Your Grace. Perhaps in a few weeks’ time we will have enough grey skies that we need not worry about the sun coming out so suddenly as it did before.”

  “It is not that, Miss Brock.” He looked over his shoulder and back at her and she realised that he did not want to continue his conversation there in the hallway.

  “Will you come with me, please?” He said and turned, already walking away from her.

  Anabelle could do nothing but follow with a heavy heart, wondering what it was she had done wrong. His countenance had changed entirely, and she was absolutely certain that she was in trouble of some kind.

  She followed him all the way to his study and walked in ahead of him when he opened the door for her. The room seemed a little different than it had done the last time she had seen it, the day she had sat at Mr Ridley-Smythe’s side as the Duke interviewed her for the position.

  It was somehow less imposing now and a little more comfortable. It was less tidy too, with a few books scattered about the rug in front of the fire, almost as if the Duke had sat on the floor like a child might.

  She noticed, for the first time, the armchairs covered in a deep cerise velvet, a violent slash of color in a room that was almost entirely brown.

  There was a fire in the grate and the room was warm and cozy.

  “Please, take a seat by the fire, Miss Brock.” He said, foregoing the formality of having them sit either side of his desk.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Anabelle said nervously.

  “You need not look like a frightened rabbit.” The Duke said and laughed.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace. I suppose I am just at a disadvantage.”

  “Then do not be.” He said and pulled the bell rope at the side of the fireplace before settling himself down in the armchair opposite her.

  Every so often, when he spoke in short sentences, the depth and reverberation of his voice in her chest affected her greatly. That tone seemed to contain so much; it was commanding, protective, amused, and deeply attractive.

  “I have spoiled your walk for the afternoon, so I will make reparations with tea.” He spoke again when she remained silent. “I would first like to say what a very fine job you are doing with my sister’s health. It is clear to me that she is eating a little more and saying a little more, even if what she says still does not make a great deal of sense.”

  “I do believe she is getting a little stronger, Your Grace.” Anabelle said, silently accepting the compliment as she thought of the struggle that she had on her hands every day to keep Lucy chewing and swallowing.

  She wondered if it was perhaps not that Lucy was getting better, exactly, but rather because Anabelle tried every trick in the book to divert the young woman’s attention away from the demon in her head for long enough to see that she ate at least half of every meal.

  “I can see a little weight returning to her. She is still not what she once was, you understand, but there is a roundness to her face now. Her eyes are not quite so sunken in her head.”

  “But they are still dark, Your Grace. I cannot be sure that she sleeps well.”

  “No, I do not think she does. But some progress is being made, I am sure of it.” He said and looked so hopeful that she thought it rather heartbreaking.

  He wanted his sister to recover, to be happy and at peace, so much so that he was almost willing it to happen. And perhaps that was no bad thing; if he truly believed that his sister could be healed, perhaps she could.

  “I will keep trying, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Miss Brock. But you must never take her down to the lake.” He said, returning to the theme which had brought them to his study.

  “Yes, all right.” Anabelle said, offering no argument.

  “It is not the lake exactly that she is afraid of, but she has never liked water. Well, not for many years, at any rate.” He said and Anabelle immediately realised why.

  She had very likely seen her sister drowning in that barrel so many years ago, just as Mrs Arklow had told her. But she knew she must give no sign of that knowledge now, for she would do nothing to get Mrs Arklow in trouble and she did not know if the Duke had authorized that dear woman to let her have so much information.

  “I see.” Anabelle said, keeping her tone neutral.

  “As you know, my sister Jennifer died in an accident some years ago. What I have not told you is that she drowned.”

  “I really am so very sorry.” Anabelle said and meant it from the bottom of her heart.

  Even after almost a decade, it was clear that the Duke’s pain was as sharp as it had likely been at the time. Anabelle wished that there was something she could do or say to soothe him, but she knew there was not.

  They certainly had more contact than any Duke and member of his staff might ordinarily have, but they were not close. They were not of the same station in life and they were not friends. There was nothing that she could do to help him. Nothing except do everything in her power to make his remaining sister well again.

  “Thank you, Miss Brock. Jennifer had climbed into a water barrel at a garden party. I should not have left the girls unattended, but I foolishly assumed that they were safe. To this day I do not know if Lucy saw her sister drowning or if she was simply playing elsewhere and discovered the tragedy after the fact. But either way, it was the greatest and worst shock of her life and she has never been the same. She has always functioned normally, if a little quiet and withdrawn, but she wa
s never that bright, happy little girl again.”

  “I am glad you have told me, Your Grace. I would not want to do anything that would upset Lucy and I most certainly will not take her to stand by any water.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your Grace, there is something which has occurred to me more than once in the last weeks and I wonder if you might permit me to tell you about it.” Anabelle said, thinking that it might help to tell him a little of the young man who had lived on his father’s farm on the edge of Forton.

  “Yes, of course.” He said and then looked to the door as one of the maids came in with a very simple tray of tea and bread-and-butter.

  “Thank you.” The Duke said and smiled gratefully at the young woman before she curtsied and disappeared.

  Anabelle felt strangely nervous; it seemed an unusual thing for her to be sitting there with a Duke in his private study taking afternoon tea. For a few moments, she felt utterly out of place. It was an almost surreal situation, one she would never have imagined herself being in before.

  And yet she knew at the same time that the circumstances warranted it. It was quite natural that the Duke should work closely with her in such an unusual case as his sister’s.

  But when the Duke reached out and lifted the teapot to pour their drinks, Anabelle felt more awkward still. As his employee, ought she not to have moved a little quicker and poured the tea for him?

  “You were saying, Miss Brock?” He said, seeming not at all concerned about the propriety of who poured whom tea.

  “Yes.” Anabelle said, grateful to be back on track. “Just a few short years ago when I still lived in my father’s house, there was a young man who lived on the edge of town. He lived on his father’s farm and he had been a soldier fighting Napoleon’s men in Portugal. He returned to Forton a year after the war had been won. It was five years ago, and I was but sixteen years myself, Your Grace, but certainly old enough to have some understanding of the situation.”

  “The young man was changed?” The Duke said, almost as if he already had an idea what was coming.

  “He was very changed, Your Grace. His symptoms, I am bound to say, were very much more extreme than Lucy’s. But it strikes me now that the mechanism was rather similar.”

  “How so?”

  “The young man quite often would utter sentences that did not seem to fit at all with the conversation or the setting. He would quite suddenly make mention of something that, when I think of it now, likely related to his experiences in Europe.”

  “You were acquainted with the young man?”

  “Hardly, Your Grace, but Forton is a very small place and I am afraid that much of what I learned came through pernicious gossip. But even when people gossip, they often base their gossip on the underlying facts. There was no need for them to create sentences he had not said, for his sentences were so bizarre that they delighted in repeating them verbatim.” Anabelle felt the familiar distaste at the cruelty of others. “But the point I am trying to make, Your Grace, is that he finally came out of it. He was not the same as he had been, in fact I do believe that he was so damaged that there was truly no repairing him, but he had become somebody who could function in the world again.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Again, the source of the information was not entirely reliable, being my own father.” She said and looked down at her hands on her lap for a moment. “He often played cards with a group of men which included this poor soul’s own father. And when he told me what he had heard, he was not entirely in the best frame of mind himself.” She did not want to say out loud that her father had been somewhat drunk, but she gathered from the look of understanding on the Duke’s face that he had perceived her meaning very clearly.

  “And what did your father tell you?” He went on quite simply.

  “That the young man’s father had managed to draw something out of him. To this day I do not know what the event was, for as unsteady as my father had been, he had still been conscious enough to recognise that it was a tale that ought not be told in its entirety to his young daughter.”

  “That is commendable.” He said and nodded, smiling encouragingly.

  “Something very dreadful had happened in Portugal. That young man had seen something that he could never entirely strike from his mind. But I believe that it was so shocking that his mind tried to protect him from it by pushing it down, hiding it, making him forget. And yet there was something in him which always tried to remember, just drawing up little bits and pieces that he used to regurgitate in the form of nonsensical sentences. I hardly know if my little theory here makes sense, Your Grace.” She said, starting to feel as if she were tying herself in knots.

  “No, do carry on. You are making sense, Miss Brock.” He lifted her cup and saucer and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She said and took a sip, the hot tea scalding and soothing her dry throat all at once. “Perhaps there is something which plagues Lucy in the same way. Something she can neither remember nor forget.”

  “But would it be something that happened all those years ago, or something which has happened recently?” The Duke said, his beautiful hazel eyes narrowed to slits as he gave the matter some thought. “Given that she has only been in this particular mode of distress for six months.”

  “I do not know, Your Grace. In truth, I do not know if the comparisons I draw are at all helpful. But perhaps it is something that ought to be attempted? A little gentle questioning, perhaps? I would not do so, of course, without your blessing.”

  “You have my blessing, Miss Brock.” He said slowly. “But perhaps it would be a good idea for you to report to me every day. I do not mean to check on you, you understand, and as I have already said I am extremely grateful for the progress you have made with my sister. But this seems rather a serious road to embark upon and I would like to be fully informed.”

  “You have my word, Your Grace.”

  “Then perhaps we could meet here in my study every evening to discuss it.” He said, peering at her intently.

  Anabelle felt her heartbeat quicken; she would like nothing better than to have his company guaranteed every day, it would be something to look forward to.

  “Yes, of course, Your Grace.” She said and hurriedly took another sip of tea.

  “Once you have my sister settled for the evening, I shall meet with you here for a few minutes. Shall we say eight o’clock every evening?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Of course, when I have other engagements, we shall have to work around it, but ordinarily that would be a suitable time.”

  “Then I shall begin immediately.” Anabelle nodded.

  “And I shall see you here tomorrow evening at eight.” He said and nodded firmly at a decision made.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Giles and Anabelle had met three evenings in a row to discuss Lucy’s progress. As much as Giles had wanted to be appraised of everything in his sister’s life, he could no longer hide from the fact that he had alighted upon the idea of meeting Anabelle Brock every evening for a very different motive.

  He had known, even as he spoke the words, that he was simply indulging himself and tormenting himself all at once. Although he swore again and again that he would stop thinking about her wheat-colored hair and blue eyes, her beautiful face and fine, curvaceous figure, he had never actually achieved such a thing.

  Giles had given into a temptation of his own making, for it was true that Miss Brock had never given any indication that she would seek to tempt him in any manner at all. She was not a young woman who would flutter her eyelashes, pout, or anything else to passively give him little signals.

  And the idea that he was now about to spend the evening in the company of a woman who did all those things did not make him feel any better.

  There was to be no meeting at eight o’clock that evening with Anabelle Brock to discuss his sister’s progress for he was already engaged. Lord Newfield and Constance were coming t
o dinner at his invitation, and he had to admit he felt a little soured by it.

  He had known the dinner invitation was necessary, he still knew that. But he would have given anything in that moment to be spending that simple half an hour in the company of Anabelle instead of an entire evening with Constance.

  However, he had a plan for his life and he knew that he could not deviate from it. And even now he could not be entirely sure that his growing feelings for his sister’s paid companion were not simply a mixture of relief and gratitude. She was beautiful, yes, but so was Constance Newfield.

  There was no way he could tell himself that and truly believe it.

  It was with some regret that he finally rose from his seat by the fire in his study, already dressed for dinner, to make his way into the drawing room to await the arrival of his guests.

  Perhaps he would have a brandy or two before they arrived to take the edge off his disappointment. Or perhaps he would use that brandy in an attempt to dissolve inappropriate thoughts of Anabelle.

  Either way, brandy was very much in order.

  Lucy had been unsettled all day and Anabelle was certain that it was on account of her own gentle questioning of her. And as necessary as she was certain it all was, she still felt a great deal of guilt at the idea of causing a young woman who was already in turmoil any further pain.

  On account of her upset, Lucy had hardly eaten anything all day. It was early evening and already she was in her nightgown and settled into bed. Miriam had brought her hot milk as she did every night and Lucy sat up against her feather pillows as she drank it.

  But when she had claimed, out of the blue, to be hungry, Anabelle was thrilled. She did not rest on her laurels nor bother to pull the bell rope by the fireplace to have Miriam return. There was not a moment to waste, as far as Anabelle was concerned, and so she declared that she would run down to the kitchen herself and bring a little tray back for Lucy.