The Duke's Heartbreaking Secret: Historical Regency Romance

by Kate Carteret

  And Elliot had always been most determined to find his own bride; someone he would truly love. He had seen how well a poorly done deal had worked for his mother. The Duchess had been pushed towards the brash, arrogant young Duke by her father when she was still a girl and she had spent her short life regretting it. Elliot, knowing he had a good deal more power and say over his future than his poor mother had enjoyed, always stood firm against his father’s irrational bullying on the matter.

  “I shall marry when I am ready.” Elliot said, wanting to draw a line over which he would never allow his father to cross.

  “I know, I know.” His father growled. “I have heard it before. But when you do choose to marry, remember that young ladies prefer a man to be a man.” The insult was clear.

  Elliot had long since stopped taking his father’s opinion of him to heart. For one thing, he knew his father did not really think Elliot lacking in masculinity. It was, after all, ridiculous, given that Elliot was a foot taller than his father and a good deal broader, albeit his own frame was muscular and taut, not run to fat and miserably soft like the Duke’s.

  Elliot had an altogether stronger appearance and his manners, the very manners his mother had taught him, had made more of a man of him than any of his father’s haphazard attempts at training. He knew well that his father confused boorishness and arrogance with true masculinity. And if the number of young ladies Elliot attracted at every social occasion was anything to go by, the women of Derbyshire considered the heir to the Duchy to be masculine enough for them.

  “Yes, Father, they most certainly do.” Elliot smiled, thinking his father more like an old pig snuffling for truffles than a fine man sitting at the table for breakfast.

  The Duke scowled at him, knowing he had been gently insulted but unable to work it out. Elliot, for his part, was not inclined to explain, he simply lifted the cup of cold tea and took a sip.

  “Perhaps I ought to marry again.” The Duke mused as he took a mouthful of bacon. “Show you how it’s done!” He laughed callously, displaying his yellowing, uneven teeth.

  Elliot simply stared at his father, fighting the urge to wish the unsavory old Duke the best of luck in finding a woman who would have him.

  “Yes, that is what I shall do!” The Duke went on and Elliot had the sudden feeling that he was watching something which had already been rehearsed; surely his father did not have some poor woman in mind?

  “Very good.” Elliot said in a determinedly disinterested manner.

  “I shall marry some young slip of a thing and sire another heir. What do you say to that? Replace you and your excellent manners in a heartbeat and raise a son my own way, instead of raising a milk-sop with too much of his mother’s influence.” He laughed heartily, all the while studying Elliot for his reaction.

  “A new heir to the Duchy? Are you planning to have me removed, Father? When will you be going to Parliament to make your case for that? Before or after this new child of yours is born?” Elliot knew his father was not only trying to vex him but also sensible of the fact he would stand little chance of having his heir disinherited on a spiteful whim.

  “Well, I am in jest, of course.” The Duke laughed without mirth. “But it is good to keep you on your toes, is it not?”

  “Indeed.” Elliot said flatly.

  “But perhaps I am not in jest about finding myself a nice little bride. Somebody quiet this time.” He mused as if the whole thing really was a possibility.

  Of course, Elliot realized it was not entirely impossible. His father, although not a fine specimen of health and efficiency, was still only in his middle fifties. Perhaps he would find some jaded lady out in the world who would put up with his boorish excesses for a fine roof and nicer gowns. But young? Elliot doubted that very much.

  Regardless of his status as a Duke, Bartholomew was several years, not to mention several pounds, beyond being a catch. And then there was the fact that he rarely took advantage of the hot water conveyed to his chamber in a fine porcelain jug every morning.

  The man, despite his wealth and grand home, would certainly take some clever advertising to raise an eyebrow of interest anywhere in Derbyshire, Elliot was sure.

  “And it is not a bad idea to have a spare, is it?” The Duke went on, and Elliot immediately realized he really was talking about fathering another son. “I mean, anything could happen to you, boy, and then where would I be? A Duke with no heir and the awful prospect of knowing the Duchy could land in any hands at all; unsuitable hands!”

  “Then presumably the prospect of losing the Duchy is far more awful to you than the loss of your only son?” Elliot need not really have asked the question, but his patience was wearing very thin.

  “Ah, there is your mother’s influence again! That damned foolish woman making a wet blanket of you.”

  “Have it your own way.” Elliot shrugged, not keen to have his annoyance further excited by yet more abuse aimed posthumously at his mother.

  The woman had suffered enough in life, she need not have the same old insults hurled at her in death. Still, at least she was beyond the reach of her husband’s true cruelty. If nothing else, that was a blessing to Elliot.

  “But just think of it.” The Duke had returned to his musings, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands.

  His face was round and shiny, the skin taut over the ever-growing mass of flesh beneath. His father was certainly eating more and doing less of late, and it showed. And his color was always high, sometimes through the emotions of the outrage he seemed to suffer daily, but predominantly a manifestation of the copious amounts of liquor he had always imbibed.

  “Think of what, Father?” Elliot decided to humor him.

  “A brand-new son to teach, to mold in my own way. Someone to make a man of, to teach the skills of hunting and riding and everything else a man needs to know.” The Duke was staring off into the middle distance as if he could somehow see into the future and was, even as they spoke, looking at his second-born son sitting perfectly in his saddle ready to chase whatever creature took his fancy.

  As it was, Elliot could not remember a time when his father had been a particularly proficient horseman, certainly not to the degree that Elliot was. Still, Elliot knew his father’s musings, like his manners, could be anything he wished them to be. Fact or fiction, it mattered not. Bartholomew Spencer was the Duke of Darrington and he would do as he pleased, even in his own imagination.

  “And I would certainly make sure that the next one knows what to do with a woman!” He roared with laughter.

  “I daresay you will need an extraordinarily young bride to have even the vaguest hope of fathering a child now.” Elliot said in retaliation when his father’s laughing had subsided.

  “I need no such assistance!” The Duke said with ridiculous pride. “I would sire a son with any filly at all, young or old.”

  “Is that so?” Elliot knew he was goading him but he had heard enough.

  He wanted breakfast to be over so that he could keep himself away from the vile old Duke for the rest of the day.

  “That is so, boy.” He leered over the immense dining table in what would have seemed to anybody else a terrifying manner.

  For Elliot, who had seen the expression used weekly since his own childhood, it was nothing more than an act to which he had become desensitized many years before.

  “Well, I wish you luck in finding a bride.” Elliot said with the sort of smile that added just enough ambiguity to have the Duke wondering once again if he had been insulted.

  “I shall not need luck.” The Duke spoke almost as if to himself and reached for his knife and fork to carry on with the bacon and kidneys.

  Elliot wondered again if his father had some poor woman in mind, he seemed so very sure of himself. Of course, the Duke always seemed sure of himself, but Elliot had the strongest suspicion that there was more to it than just an aging man’s customary arrogance.

  The Duke continued his meal
in silence, not speaking to his son again before finishing and leaving the room. It was not uncommon for his father to be so determinedly rude, but still, it annoyed him.

  Elliot stared through the large windows and out across the immense estate of Darrington. The sky was as blue as he had seen it this year, and he knew it would most certainly feel like a fine Spring day if he did but strike out and leave the hall behind.

  Deciding to do just that, Elliot left the dining room and made his way down to the boot room. He wanted an older pair of knee boots for walking. Clean, but worn and comfortable.

  When the footman handed him just what he needed, Elliot pulled them on and strode out of the hall via the servants’ area, not bothering to go above stairs again and risk having his day further tainted by any more of his father’s appalling company.

  Chapter Three

  Rowena had walked out further than she had ever done before. She was a keen walker and she thought she would easily be able to walk for another hour before she would have to turn around and head back towards Frinton Manor.

  Ordinarily, she headed into the somewhat more rolling and gentle countryside, but today her mood was better suited to the steeper hills and the craggy rocks to the north. It did not usually seem so inviting and, being a little further away from her home, Rowena had never previously felt drawn in that direction.

  But today she did feel drawn. She wanted something different to look at, somewhere new which would take her mind off her mother and father and even her own life; the life which seemed to be wasting slowly, every day looking and feeling very much like the one before.

  Just as Rowena thought she would give her right arm for something different, she came up against a densely overgrown area. As she made her way around the edge, she realized that it was more than just a randomly growing hedgerow that had become thick and impenetrable. There was something about the lay of the land that gave her the impression that the foliage and thorns were encircling something; that there was something to be seen on the inside.

  The whole area was so different from her usual gentle countryside that Rowena wondered for a few minutes if she was simply mistaken. After all, there was not a flat bit of land anywhere and there were great clusters of rocks and a number of trees mixed in with the thorny foliage.

  But still she could not shake the impression that the greenery formed some sort of boundary and she was so keen to see inside it that she determined to find a way in.

  Walking around the edge took some minutes and gave her the idea that the area within must be large. Rowena peered in through the leaves and branches as she went, knowing that the hawthorns which intertwined would be largely impassable.

  Her determination, however, paid off when she found a softer patch of low growing laurel. She crouched down and pushed an arm though experimentally. Finding nothing dense or thorny to hold her back, Rowena began to work her way forward, hoping against all hope that she did not simply find herself wedged in the center of foliage from which she could not escape.

  After traveling slowly for several feet, Rowena finally emerged. She was breathing hard and a wave of pleasant relief swept over her. She had not realized how anxious she had been as she made her cautious way.

  The center of the foliage broke out into something she was not expecting at all. Where she had expected to see a patch of flat ground, a few trees, and not a great deal else, there was an old log cabin. It was not immediately obvious, for there were shrubs and bushes grown up around it, but still, it was there, solid and undeniable.

  Rowena tucked herself out of sight behind some thick rhododendrons and peered through the waxy green leaves at the cabin, making a fuller study. Her heart was beating a little faster as she wondered if she was about to be challenged by someone from inside. But the more she studied, the more she formed the opinion that the cabin was unoccupied; perhaps even uninhabited altogether.

  The cabin was small and looked to have stood on that spot for years. The wide timbers had aged, giving the wood a silvery-grey tone, and she could see a stone-built chimney running up through the side.

  The windows were small and dull looking, years of dirt making them sightless eyes onto the world. Rowena stared at them hard but could see nothing beyond. In the end, after straining to listen for any sound and hearing nothing, she crept out from her hiding place and slowly made her way closer to the cabin.

  To begin with, Rowena simply walked cautiously around the perimeter, peering at every part of it as she went. She could see that the surrounding wall of foliage was as thick on the other side and it gave her a feeling of security.

  Perhaps that was what it had also given the occupant, if somebody had ever truly lived there.

  With her confidence growing bit by bit, she finally stepped up onto the porch of the cabin and stood in front of one of the windows. Taking a handkerchief from the skirt pocket of the gown which was now a little grubby from her exploits, Rowena rubbed at the dirt on the thin glass and was finally able to see inside.

  It was no more than one room, the full size of the cabin and, although there was furniture inside, the place looked as if it had been deserted many years before.

  In the far corner, there was a wooden bed frame and mattress with an ancient patchwork quilt draped over it. The bed looked small but curiously cozy in the corner of the room and Rowena smiled as she imagined waking up in that little bed, no sound but the birdsong and the rustling of leaves on the breeze.

  The fireplace was at the other end of the room, its grey stonework neat and the hearth empty, albeit in need of a sweep. In front of the fire was an old wooden rocking chair with a flat-looking cushion on its seat and, next to that, a plain wooden chair that seemed to belong to the small, square wooden table against which three other chairs of similar design were placed.

  Beyond that, there was little else but an old writing desk which looked strangely out of place. It was battered but ornate, seeming as if it had come from a much finer establishment elsewhere.

  There were no warm coverings on the dusty wooden floor, not even a rug. Still, everywhere looked dry and it was clear that the roof and windows were doing a fine job of keeping the elements at bay.

  Rowena felt a little twinge of excitement. There was something so romantic and secret about the little cabin and she began to think she had found a new destination for her walks out.

  There would, of course, be nothing much to do there, but it was a quiet place in which she could not be observed. She could just sit and be herself. She could think her own thoughts and dream her own dreams about the little cabin and who the occupants might have been.

  At that moment, Rowena heard a rustling and the snapping of dry twigs underfoot. With a gasp, she realized she did not even have time to hide herself from view, never mind get back over to the place through which she had entered minutes before.

  She was rooted to the spot, her heart thundering fearfully as a man sprung out from the thick foliage just as she had done. Only he came in through a different place altogether and it looked as if his struggle to make his way in had been a little greater than her own.

  “Oh!” The man said as he began to straighten up.

  “Forgive me, Sir.” Rowena said and looked at him with wide eyes and a reddening complexion.

  “Forgive you? Whatever for?” The man smiled at her in such a friendly way that Rowena began to calm down immediately. “After all, I burst in upon your solitude, not the other way around. I daresay I should be the one to beg your forgiveness.” He bowed deeply, displaying wonderfully thick ashen brown hair that was sporting a thick leaf-covered twig.

  Rowena laughed and quickly covered her mouth to hold it back. The man looked at her quizzically and so Rowena pointed to his head.

  “Oh dear.” He laughed as he reached up and removed the twig, studying it for a moment before tossing it aside. “That is the only problem with coming here. It is so dreadfully difficult to get in and out unscathed, as it were.” He shrugged and smiled in suc
h a disarming way that Rowena could not help but like him.

  It did not hurt his cause, of course, that he was so very handsome. He was older than Rowena, perhaps by as much as ten years, but there was a freshness about him, a youthful exuberance to his broad smile.

  His hair was the sort of light brown that was made all the better for a touch of silver here and there, reminding her of dark cinders. He was a big man, tall and broad, but he was lean and muscular with it. Rowena thought that he must spend a good deal of time outdoors exercising in some way; walking and riding she had no doubt.

  His skin looked smooth, lightly tanned, and cleanly shaved, and his eyes, she was sure, were green. She could be surer if she got closer, but she did not think she ought to.

  For all that he had struggled to make his way into the little domain that had briefly been hers, he still looked neat and smart. He was wearing a brown tailcoat with a waistcoat to match with dark ivory breeches and brown boots which reached almost to his knee. The color suited him very well, as did the cut, although Rowena thought that a man as well-proportioned as he appeared to be would cause little trouble to his tailor.

  “Is this your cabin, Sir? Am I trespassing?” Rowena said in a quiet voice, feeling she ought to say something to explain her appearance in that place, or at least apologize for it.

  “No, it is not my cabin at all. Although I must admit, I have rather felt as if it were these last years.”

  “I am afraid I do not understand.” Rowena said truthfully.

  “Well, you are the first person I have ever encountered in this magical little place.”

  “So, nobody lives here?”

  “I have never seen anybody. But I have looked in through the windows and I am certain that nobody lives here at all. Nothing ever changes. That little pile of wood there, do you see?” He said and pointed over to a small collection of chopped logs which looked almost as aged as the timber of the cabin. “That has never changed in years. Nobody has removed a log from that pile to burn, and nobody has added to them. I think that is why I like this place so very much. It is almost like a moment trapped in time, a tiny space where nothing ever moves.” He laughed a little self-deprecatingly. “But then I am afraid I have something of a vivid imagination, young lady. Perhaps so much so that you ought not to listen to me at all.”