What Would a Duke Do?

by Collette Cameron

And I need to put distance between myself and the Duke of Pennington. Because even though she knew the truth, a tiny part of her heart yet ached for him, and she loathed herself for that weakness.

  Two hours later shivering and briskly rubbing her arms, Gabriella bent forward to peer out the coach window again.

  Tentatively probing her head, she winced. The knot from smacking her noggin on the side of the vehicle when the axle snapped hadn’t grown any larger. Neither did it bleed. Nonetheless, the walnut-sized lump ached with the ferocity of a newly trapped tiger. A superbly large, sharp-toothed, and foul-tempered beast.

  “Really,” she muttered, exasperated and uncharacteristically cross from hunger, cold, and the painful bump. “Whatever can be taking Jackson so long to return? Hartsfordshire Court isn’t so very blasted far.”

  Less than two miles she estimated after another glance at the familiar green meadow sloping to the winding river beyond. The recent rains caused the brown-tinged water to run high and spill over its banks, as it did nearly every spring. In the summer, the lush grasslands fed Grandpapa’s famed South Devon cattle on one side, and their neighbor, the Duke of Pennington’s fluffy black-faced sheep on the other.

  An uncharitable thought about the distinction between the keen intelligence of cows and sheep’s lack of acumen tried to form, but she squelched it. It wasn’t the poor sheep’s fault she couldn’t abide their owner.

  After repeatedly assuring her hesitant coachman she would be perfectly fine until he returned with the seldom-used phaeton, Jackson had swiftly stridden away. Not, however, without turning to work his worried gaze over her, the team, and the disabled coach’s crippled wheel thrice. Each time, she donned a smile wide enough to crack her cheeks and made a shooing motion for him to continue on.

  For pity’s sake. She wasn’t one of those silly, simpering misses afraid the hem of her skirt might become dusty or who shrieked hysterically upon a cobweb brushing her gloves or cheek. So long as the resident eight-fuzzy-legged spider had long since removed itself to a new home.

  If it weren’t for her impractical footwear, Gabriella would’ve walked as well. But, she’d no wish for bruised feet or the lecture certain to follow from dear Grandpapa about the cost of replacing ruined slippers. And that would probably produce another discourse about unnecessary trips to Colechester for what he deemed nonsensical fripperies.

  Perhaps they were absurd to a man given to wearing the same staid suit and shoes for the past five years as Grandpapa had been. But Ophelia’s birthday present wasn’t a silly frippery. Neither were Grandmama’s medicine nor the chemises for Gabriella and her sister frivolous expenses. It had been three years since anyone had purchased new undergarments.

  With her leftover pin money—one half a crown every month—Gabriella had purchased the beloved hunch-shouldered curmudgeon his favorite blend of pipe tobacco. Oh, he’d grumble and grouse over the wasteful spending, but she hadn’t a doubt she’d earn a kiss upon her forehead before he shuffled off to enjoy a pipe and a tot in his fusty study amongst his even fustier tomes.

  A wry smile quirked her mouth.

  Did Grandpapa use the same tobacco five times as he insisted Grandmama do with tea leaves? Anything to save a penny or two. The Breckensoles didn’t enjoy neat lumps of white sugar in their tea either, but rather the golden-brown nubs chiseled from a cheaper hard-as-a-blasted-boulder loaf. Since they never—truly never—had guests for tea or for any other occasion for that matter, there was no need to feel a trifle embarrassed at the economy.

  She ran a gloved finger over the lumpy parcel containing the umber-brown bottles for her grandmother. A month ago, a nasty cough had settled in Grandmama’s lungs, and she couldn’t shake the ailment.

  Gabriella’s current discomfort tugged her meandering musings back to her immediate situation. For all of two seconds—fine, mayhap three—she’d considered riding one of the horses still harnessed to the coach home. But that would’ve required hiking her gown knee-high and riding astride. Even she daren’t that degree of boldness.

  Nonetheless, on days she yearned to toss aside society’s and her strict grandparents’ constraints, she might’ve been known to sneak a horse from the stables and ride along the river: bonnet-free and skirts rucked most inappropriately high. Oh, the freedom was wondrous, though the tell-tale freckles that were wont to sprout upon her nose usually gave her recklessness away.

  Her grandparents never lectured, but their silent disapproval was sufficient to quell her hoydenish ways. For a week or two.

  The carriage made an eerie noise; the way a vehicle sounded in the throes of death. If a vehicle were capable of such a thing. Another juddering crack followed as the damaged side wedged deeper into the dirt.

  She let loose a softly-sworn oath no respectable woman ought to know, let alone utter aloud as she grabbed the seat to keep from tumbling onto the floor. A labored groan and a piercing creak followed on the heels of her crude vulgarity, and a five-inch-long jagged crack split the near window.

  “Blast and damn.”

  A new chill skidded down her spine as she mentally braced herself for Grandpapa’s intense displeasure. He’d be aggravated about the damage to the coach, but more so about the cost to repair it. A frugal, self-made man, he was as reluctant to part with a coin as he was to leave Hartfordshire Court. Others who didn’t know him well called him stingy and miserly.

  In the fifteen years since coming to live at Hartfordshire, Gabriella could count on two hands the number of times either grandparent had left the estate. She would shrivel up and die if forced to stay there months on end.

  Yet, her hermit-like grandparents had been diligent to assure she and her sister never lacked for company or social interactions. They’d even conceded to send the twins to finishing school. At no little cost either. What a juxtaposition. Her grandparents eschewed all things social, but she and her sister craved the routs, soirees, balls, picnics, musical parties, and all else that guaranteed a superior assemblage.

  One troublesome, unignorable fact remained unaddressed, however. Grandpapa had never spoken of a dowry for either of them. They’d never wanted for necessities, but Gabriella suspected his pockets weren’t as flush as he’d have his family believe.

  Her heart gave a queer pang. It wasn’t exactly worry or distress. But neither was the peculiar feeling frustration or disappointment. Nevertheless, it left her unsettled. Discontent and restless. Disconcerted about what her future might entail. Ophelia’s too.

  As improbable as it was, except for splurging on the matched team and phaeton, her grandfather had been noticeably less inclined to spend money after the twins returned home two years ago. Now, almost one and twenty, their aging grandparents’ health beginning to fail, and their neighbor, the mercenary Duke of Pennington, bent on stealing Hartsfordshire Court from them, Gabriella fretted about what would happen to her sister if neither one of them married and soon.

  There weren’t exactly men—noble or otherwise—scurrying to form a queue to court either of them. Or to dance with them at assemblies or request romantic strolls through opulent gardens. No posies, sweets, or poems found their way to the house’s front door on a regular basis either. On any basis, for that matter.

  Oh, the country gentlemen were kind and polite enough. Indeed, some aristocrats and gentry—even a rogue or two—had been downright charming and flirtatious. More than one had hinted they’d very much like to pursue an immoral liaison. But the simple truth was as obvious as a giraffe’s purple tongue sampling pea soup in the dining room. Dowerless, Gabriella’s and Ophelia’s prospects were few.

  Nonexistent, truth to tell.

  For one horrid, ugly fact couldn’t be overlooked: a woman without a dowry, no matter how refined, immaculately fitted out, or proficient in French, Latin, Spanish, painting, playing the pianoforte—or the violin in Gabriella’s case—and managing a household she might be, without the lure of a marriage settlement to entice a respectable suitor, such an unfortunate lady was labele
d an undesirable.

  And much like other hapless women in the same ill-fated predicament, spinsterhood, dark and foreboding, loomed on the horizon, a slightly terrifying fate for any young woman.

  Which made the duke’s interest in her all the more questionable. He couldn’t possibly have honorable intentions.

  She pursed her mouth, drawing her eyebrows into a taut line. Barbaric, this business of bribing a man with money, land, and the good Lord only knew what else to take a woman to wife. Why couldn’t love be enough?

  Like Theadosia and Sutcliffe? Or her maternal cousin Everleigh and the Duke of Sheffield? Or even Jemmah and Jules, the Duke and Duchess of Dandridge? Once not so long ago, Gabriella had yearned for that kind of love. Had dared to hope she might’ve found it, but the object of her affections had turned out to be a colossal rat.

  Unfortunately, such was the nature of the Marriage Mart. Without dowries, Gabriella and her twin could look forward to caring for their grandparents into their dotage rather than marry and have families. Their lack of suitors could be laid at Society’s silk-clad feet. Strictures, along with a goodly portion of greed and hunger for power, dictated most matches. That, regrettably, was an indisputable fact.

  Something uncomfortable and slightly terrifying, much like melancholy, turned over in her breast and swirled in her stomach. To distract herself from her somber reflections, she inspected the lonely road once more.

  The fading afternoon sun filtering through the towering evergreen treetops on the other side of the deserted track confirmed dusk’s dark cloak and chill would blanket the countryside soon. For at least the sixth time in the past hour, Gabriella examined the dainty timepiece pinned to her spencer.

  She frowned and gave it a little shake. Was the deuced thing working?

  Yes, the big hand shifted just then. She huffed out a small petulant sigh, for she recognized her own impatience.

  Where the devil was Jackson, for pity’s sake? Had something waylaid him? Obviously. Yes, but what? The unbidden thoughts agitated her already heightened nerves. Nerves that had been fraught since departing the village earlier.

  Angered anew at Pennington’s audacity, she pressed her lips into an irritated line and fisted her hands. Only he had the ability to make her so peeved. Bloody, greedy bounder. By Jove, didn’t he have enough? Why must he covet what we have too?

  Chartworth Hall was an immense estate boasting some two-thousand acres, a mansion—more castle than house—a hunting lodge, a dower house, embarrassingly massive and full stables, and numerous other outbuildings.

  Why the duke focused on Hartfordshire’s acres and seventeen-room residence, quite desperately in need of refurbishing and restoration, made no sense at all. She didn’t know the particulars of the sale. Neither did she understand how the unentailed property came to be adjacent to the entailed lands, but she didn’t give a fig.

  What she did care about was the duke’s callousness. His insensitivity and cold-heartedness. He hadn’t a thought for any of the Breckensoles, of displacing them from their home. Oh, no. His only concern was how to cheat Grandpapa out of his property and to expand the already enormous ducal holdings.

  By God, she wouldn’t permit it. She would not.

  Drumming her fingertips atop her thigh, Gabriella huffed out another frustrated breath. Ophelia was the patient twin. The sensible twin. The good-natured, genial twin. The one capable of tempering tart retorts and painting a benign mien upon her features.

  Far too frequently, Gabriella spoke her mind and responded with emotion rather than reason. Alternating tapping her toes on the sloping floor, one foot then the next, she put a hand to her hollow middle and moistened her lower lip. She was rather parched too.

  Memory of the meat pies and other savory foods’ aromas wafting from the lodging house and The Prince’s Coffee House caused her stomach to protest loudly. We’ve plenty of food and refreshment at Hartfordshire Court. No sense wasting good coin. Grandpapa’s admonishment replayed through her mind.

  She still hadn’t informed her grandparents of Pennington’s devious plan. She couldn’t fathom a legal way he could regain the estate, and therefore, rather than cause the elderly pair an upset, she kept the knowledge to herself.

  When the need arose—pray God it never would—she’d tell all. But until that time, the tall debonair duke with his shock of midnight hair and unusual eyes beneath slashing brows the same hue as his hair, wasted his time directing his attention toward her. She, alone, must protect her family from that craven’s cunning and scheming.

  In fact, she’d taken to carrying a small dagger in her boot or reticle. Just in case…Well, she didn’t know exactly what. But far better to be prepared than caught unawares. She also knew how to wield a fan, a hat pin, and even a parasol as an improvised weapon should the need arise. Nicolette firmly believed every woman should be able to defend herself, and Gabriella agreed wholeheartedly.

  Her ability to fend off an attacker was another reason she’d been comfortable sending Jackson for assistance. Besides, rarely did anyone travel this isolated length of road. Only Hartfordshire Court, Pennington’s palatial country seat, and a seldom used shortcut connecting the main route to London lay this far along the remote track.

  Flopping back against the pale blue velvet squabs, she folded her arms and wrinkled her nose.

  How could she ever have thought the Duke of Pennington amusing or charming? Enthralling. Fascinating. Wholly extraordinary. His black-lashed eyes were quite extraordinary. Never before had she seen anyone with two different colored eyes. They enhanced the air of mystery surrounding him. As if he were privy to a secret no one else knew. She’d seen it in the way he observed her through his heavy-lidded, smoldering eyes.

  A little rush of exhilaration tingled in her blood.

  Heavy-lidded? Smoldering? My God.

  What in the world had come over her? Surely it must be hunger or the knock to her head. Either or perhaps both had made her dizzy and fanciful.

  What a good thing she discovered his true colors before she’d permitted her schoolgirl tendre to foolishly become something more. Now, however, she knew better than to trust his cheerful demeanor and too-alluring-for-her-good smile. All of his attention and murmured compliments had all been a calculated ruse to get near her and use her as a means to rob her grandparents of their home. Oh, how she longed to plant him a facer or challenge him to pistols or swords.

  She wasn’t such a refined lady that either choice wasn’t an option.

  Her grandparents would be horrified to know, but she and Ophelia had learned fencing, how to shoot pistols, and even how to deliver a precisely-aimed blow with their fists. All thanks to their many visits and overnight stays with her dear friend, Nicolette.

  Gabriella tapped her chin with her forefinger. Mayhap she should ask Nicolette how to discourage a gentleman’s attention. After being jilted a mere day before her wedding, her friend had perfected snubbing men to a fine art. To the point of cruelty at times. Nicolette also possessed an assortment of naughty romance novels, which she freely shared with her friends.

  Or perchance, Gabriella should enlist her cousin Everleigh or their mutual friend Theadosia for help. The duchesses could discretely question their husbands about what types of things were certain to put Pennington off the chase.

  What surely must be a crafty smile tipped her mouth.

  Why, yes. Why hadn’t she considered that sooner?

  Shifting uncomfortably, she eyed the wispy ferns and underbrush crowding the tree trunks. Nature called with ever-increasing urgency.

  Finally, when another impatient glare to her timepiece revealed ten more minutes had inched past, she could wait no longer. With some difficulty, and only by pressing her shoulder forcefully into the stubborn panel, she managed to shove the door open then hopped to the ground. In the looming twilight, a magnificent stag stood near the river. Ebony eyes wary and ears twitching, he observed her, the tips of his mighty antlers obscured in the gloaming light.


  If only she had her pencils and sketch pad, she might’ve drawn him, and she’d have had something to pass the time as well. She must remember to bring them next time, for one never knew when an opportunity might arise that she’d want to record on paper. Apparently deciding she posed him no threat, the stag lowered his head to the shimmering water.

  The horses, a striking matched pair of grays right down to their black manes and tails, flicked those impressive tails and shifted their feet. No doubt they longed for their warm stalls and a bucket of oats to happily munch upon.

  She yearned for a hot bath liberally sprinkled with jasmine, lavender, and lemongrass-scented oil—her own creation since perfume was an expense Grandpapa disallowed. A bowl of Mrs. McCandish’s sumptuous cock-a-leekie soup, and an equally hot toddy, generously laced with whisky wouldn’t go amiss either.

  “Brrr.”

  Shivering, Gabriella rubbed the dark green velvet covering her arms again as she carefully studied the narrow, rutted track first in one direction then the other. When she’d left the house this afternoon, the temperature had been quite warm for March. Since she traveled directly to Colechester and back, she hadn’t believed a cloak necessary.

  Neither was there a lap robe in the drafty coach. Grandpapa claimed the moths and vermin would feast upon it. One didn’t argue with him or point out that the robe might be stored inside the house until needed.

  Always the more practical sister, Ophelia’s advice from earlier today rang in Gabriella’s ears. “Gabby, you really ought to at least take a shawl or mantle. You know how quickly the weather can turn ugly this time of year. We don’t need you falling ill as well.”

  In her typical impetuous way, Gabriella had ignored her sister’s warning, more fool she. Especially, if night fell before, she was rescued. It surely appeared as if it would.

  That miserable thought coiled in her empty belly. It was one thing to think oneself daring and independent in daylight and another thing entirely when darkness blacker than a moonless night descended upon the countryside… This oh, so very isolated particular spot of countryside to be precise.