“Arriving momentarily, m’lord,” the carriage driver advised the duke, who collected his breath and his manners and tried to still the pound of his heart, throbbing wildly in his chest. The fear ever lingered in his stomach, quite spoiling his appetite - that he would throw open those heavy, wooden doors to the Roxborough estate, and find himself face-to-face with her again, grasping with slipping fingers for an explanation of why he had come, and a thousand apologies to offer her for the manner with which he had conducted himself in their earlier meetings. As he saw the manse come into view he removed his hat, fretting on the manner of his appearance - he had not thought on what would be expected of his look. Was the hat too formal? For Anne, certainly, but what of her father? Did he expect Lawrence to be the gentleman that is so common of life in these parts? Perhaps he had worn the improper jacket. He had not shaved this morn - and a faint coat of hair dusted his chin. He fell into a state of miserable stupor in fear he would not live up to the standards a true gentlewoman required of a husband - whether he be a husband of convenience or otherwise.
“We’ve arrived, m’lord,” the carriage driver warned, breaking Lawrence from his fretting; with a deep swallow, he nodded in a gruff show of thanks to the chauffeur, stepping out into the blaze of the midday sun. Clouds cluttered along the edges of the sky, casting shade along swaying trees; a breeze whipped along the grasses and the bold, flattened face of the Roxborough estate, tossing the lord’s coattails about in its furor. He could feel a chill up his spine and the lord withered within it, fearing that it spoke in prophetic terms on the reception he may face should be come to find himself face-to-face with the Lady Roxborough.
With a deep breath, he knocked upon the door. Time passed; another wind blew threw his hair, his gray-eyed gaze narrowing as he looked away; looked to the moors, to the streets running towards the rest of the estate, along the stables and the small servant’s quarters. He looked anywhere but the door, where he expected to see her face waiting for him. Instead the doors parted, and the duke nearly leapt from his shoes, but anxiety settled when he peered upon the visage of the same gaunt man he had met with last time - the Roxborough butler and majordomo, no doubt, grinning a shallow grin.
“Once again, you’re pleasantly expected - Lawrence Strauss, Duke of Amhurst,” the man announced. Lawrence hoped that he would not announce it far too loudly, should it alert the manor’s inhabitants of his presence there. He scanned the couches and the stairwells with a faint hope that she shouldn’t see him - and thankfully, he saw no sign of her face.
“Yes, thank you,” Lawrence murmured quietly.
“Shall I take your coat? The viscount awaits you once more in the dining hall, though this time perhaps you’ve brought an appetite, as he’s had the kitchen quite alive all day, preparing for your arrival,” the skeletal servant-man announced. His manner had been quite dry and purely utilitarian in their first meeting, but the man’s rather favorable disposition unsettled Lawrence. In his paranoia, he feared if perhaps word of his attempted courtship of Anne had already reached into the whispered corners of the estate - if, perhaps, she had heard of a conspiracy to marry her off, and would bear upon him a grudge for his presumptuousness once again.
“I’ll keep it on-hand, good man, it’s quite a chilly day today,” Lawrence responded defensively. The butler nodded and bowed, showing the duke once more with an extended arm where he would find the dining hall. Lawrence followed the suggestion, with a new tension built in his chest with each step he took; he saw her face everywhere, a face he had desperately tried to chase away from his memories since their meeting - a futile gesture, given how much he had silently been taken by her manner. As he stood before the grand pair of doors to the dining hall, he breathed deep, placing his hands on the cold handles. He saw her once more - the last expression they had shared, her face cross with righteous anger, and his dour with regret.
Perhaps he could forge a new memory - one, at least, of peace. He pulled the door open.
The dining hall glowed a fair bit differently than it had only days past - heavy curtains drawn away from the windows, sunlight showered in brightly, reflected in silver serving platters, bone-white dishware and gold-painted wooden paneling lining the walls. Maroon wallpaper bearing ornate flower designs seemed to temper the glow of a cloud-streaked afternoon, and at the end of the tapered chamber, behind wafting waves of steam and the warm scent of the fresh feast laid out in dozens of different dishes, sat a familiar face, its expression sunken and glazed with an opium-heavy stupor. Nonetheless, the ailing viscount recognized the duke, and forced a weak smile.
“A pleasure to see you again,” the viscount said, trying to sound inviting, though the sickened tremble of his tone inspired a mild sense of revulsion. Lawrence ignored his instincts and stepped in with a put-upon smile of his own. “Did Wentley not offer to take your coat? Forgetful old man,” the viscount lamented in jest.
“He did, m’lord, but I thought it providential to keep hold of it, should the breeze and chill from outside continue to afflict me,” Lawrence announced.
“I’ve not felt the fresh air for some time,” the viscount lamented. “Autumn approaches. I’ve seen the trees from my window. How I miss feeling the cool breezes that come with the end of summer. However, we’ve more business to attend to than simple memories from a sick and silly old man,” he added with a hoarse laugh. “And food to eat! Certainly, plenty of it,” he announced proudly. “I’ve had the kitchen buzzing all day. I hope you’ve a taste for game, and a chilled leek soup.” The memory of leeks and pepper-weighted broth brought a twinge of guilt and pain to Lawrence’s memory - once more he questioned whether some divine power had derived endless and enthusiastic amusement from the predicaments the Duke of Amhurst had found himself embroiled in, and the painful memories each experience continued to conjure.
“I do enjoy wild hog, and I can do with some venison, as well,” Lawrence admitted tersely, taking a seat at the end of the table, opposite the viscount. Even then the ambiance and muted size of the place made the setting far more intimate than he had expected. A host of serving-girls in snow-white gowns appeared from the swinging door at the rear of the dining chamber, bustling quietly towards the table; in a dizzying flurry of color and smell and motion they cut and carved and worked with clattering plates and jangling glasses. A symphony of politely-muted sounds, nods and movement saw the arrival of plate after plate of food - stewed meats, glazed hocks, boiled vegetables, and of course, peppered leek soup - upon the table before the duke. The viscount thanked and smiled at the serving girls, each of whom offered him a curtsy or a bow of adoration in response before vanishing once more behind the swinging, creaky kitchen door. Overwhelmed, Lawrence looked at the feast laid before him, quite unsure of where to start.
“I’m certain a man of your status has no interest in such frivolities, of course, but courting my daughter and inheriting my estate comes with a few appreciable benefits,” the viscount said in a gurgle that Lawrence could only interpret as his vain attempt at a whispered joke. “Exceptional food stores, and the finest domestic staff you’ll find in all of England. And, of course, the hand of a beautiful woman!” he concluded with a laugh that, from the wince upon his elderly face, painfully rattled his stressed bones.
“Certainly a pleasant addition to the benefits,” Lawrence responded politely, though his nerves burned too anxiously for him to revel in the joke. He sat, and watched the steam lift from his dishes. From the array of dishes laid before him he guessed that perhaps he had been meant to enjoy the soup first, as the maids had placed it in front of him - but he recoiled at the burn of pepper in his nostrils, and seemed content only to look upon the feast, as his stomach turned over and over again.
“I’d recommend the kitchen’s basted ribs, they’re a curious connection of the sweet and the savory that I’d never tasted before I hired this particular chef,” the viscount offered. Lawrence watched the old man bury himself in the food as if he’d never eaten before,
and it only made Lawrence feel more out of place. He glanced along the windows - the clouds had begun to drift further inward, and the sun pulsed weaker as cottony-white drew across its blazing orange.
“M’lord, I certainly appreciate the fabulous dinner, and your overflowing hospitality,” Lawrence commented with tension in his tone, “but I had hoped to discuss with you the terms of this… situation, with your daughter, and myself.”
“Lord Strauss, come, let’s enjoy first,” the viscount insisted.
“I’m afraid my appetite is rather muted at the moment, for the situation with your daughter and yourself has weighed heavily on my mind,” Lawrence responded.
“It won’t be quite so muted should you take a taste of this soup!” the viscount exclaimed weakly, taking a spoonful of it himself.
“I apologize deeply for distracting from the festivities, m’lord, but I wished to ask you - have you spoken to the lady about your intentions? About me? Our past exchange was… well, it was perhaps not the best manner in which to part ways,” Lawrence admitted, feeling foolish. “I think it would be best to involve her.”
“She shall learn soon enough who I’ve chosen - and I’m certain, of the men eligible and available here, she’d choose you more readily than any other, given the thoughts you spoke of in our last meeting,” the viscount explained.
“Do you think it wise not to involve her, or ask her feelings on the matter?” Lawrence retorted, guarded. This finally convinced the viscount to break from his forced excitement, and he exchanged a deep and emotional glance with the duke.
“Lord Strauss, my daughter is a wonderful woman, but she would sooner abandon title and wealth and live a pauper than she would submit to the judgment or accept in marriage the hand of a man,” the old man lamented, coughs rattling his chest. “I do not blame her - I blame myself, but such is her nature, and I would not love her more should she be any other way. But circumstance demands—” the doors creaked open as the viscount concluded his sentence and his expression shifted from one of lamentation to a weak and wobbly smile. “Ah, ladybug,” he announced with a pained sweetness. A weight dropped heavy in Lawrence’s stomach and he turned slowly to see her standing in the doorway, her pretty face vexed in that same righteous indignation he had seen upon her face weeks before, as they stood across from one another amid a sea of quieted carriages.
“What was that you were just discussing, father? And… with him?” her gaze fell upon Lawrence, whose piercing gray eyes remained focused; he couldn’t stop looking at her, even as his heart pounded a hard rhythm inside of his chest. He swallowed hard, watching her with the same examining gaze. Realizing all too late he had abrogated social expectations he rose to his feet, standing awkwardly between Anne and her father; she regarded him with skepticism. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? Lord Strauss, of Amhurst?” she recalled; he could feel conflict in her voice, just as the conflict burned inside of him.
“Yes, m’lady, Anne of Roxborough, if I recall correctly,” he said with a nod of his head. Of course, he recalled correctly. He had not been able to chase that name from the tip of his tongue, the top of his head or the damnable edge of his dreams since they had shared that moment of warmth, and the cold that followed.
“You do recall,” Anne said haughtily, remembering quite well the exchange they’d had - and the circumstances of his life, and his inheritance. “Father, might I ask why you’ve invited him, of all people, to have dinner with you?”
“Of all people? Come, Anne, a guest is certainly deserving of more kindness than that,” the viscount insisted in his rattle of a voice. “I taught you better than to be so rudely bold.”
“M’lady,” Lawrence tried to interject. “If—”
“I’ve seen carriages come, and go - and I know of your thoughts, father,” Anne interrupted. “You fear me unmarriageable, certainly. I have told you—”
“Ladybug, please - I wish only the best for you and for the future of our family,” the elder lord insisted in anguish. “This man, he’s a lovely man, and he understands you.”
“He understands me?” Anne spat back angrily. “Is that what you’ve told him, Lawrence Strauss, Duke of Amhurst?” she bit with venom at the title he carried; Lawrence stammered back in his own defense.
“M’lady, I simply shared with your father that we had met before, and—”
“Have you heard how he speaks of you, Anne? Have you?” The viscount insisted. “He is a man of prolific title, a man deserving of you. And you need marriage, Anne. You need—”
“And so, two men, men of wealth and stature, conspire beyond the reach of my ears, on who shall marry me, and who shall take my dignity, and who shall take my happiness and my soul,” Anne said, burning with irritated passion. “And you never thought to question me on the matter, father?”
“Anne, I have spoken with you at length, and I understand your feelings, but this man - he’s different, he understands—”
“He doesn’t understand anything, and neither do you father! Privilege in this world has warped you both,” she erupted, her skewering glare piercing through Lawrence. “Your sister knows that world quite well, doesn’t she?”
“My sister,” Lawrence said, his own ire building. “My sister—”
“I should have expected this from father,” she bristled. “I suppose I should’ve expected it from you, too, Duke of Amhurst,” she followed up harshly, before turning to storm away. A sigh fell from Lawrence’s lips; he had known himself unworthy of the hand of a beautiful woman, especially one as free and fiery as Anne, but he had hoped perhaps he could pull from the fire those few embers which he knew burned for him. Instead he had managed only to extinguish whatever small pleasure had risen between them both. The doors to the grand estate swung open, light creeping through the foyer, before they slammed shut with a resounding thud.
“She is something,” the viscount commented after a long moment of silence, his voice laced with mild disappointment.
“I didn’t mean to offend, m’lord,” Lawrence said.
“She is something,” the viscount repeated, “but she’s something I wouldn’t give up. And, I don’t think you would, either,” the old man added slyly. “Would you?”
“I…” Lawrence breathed out heavily.
“There’s a cottage in the woods past the glare of the estate walls,” the old man said. “Once belonged to the hunters I employed to bring game back to the manor. Stuffed with bookshelves full of old stories, ones she would spirit away to read by cover of the night,” he mused. “She still likes to abscond to that place, in trying times. She often enjoyed riding out to that place, upon her horse, Midnight,” he added. “Perhaps you might catch her in the stables.”
Resolve had not left Lawrence. Though his worst anxieties had come to bear, he still felt it - that yearning, that elemental need to right what had gone so wrong between himself and this beautiful woman. She deserved it - and she deserved the freedom he knew she craved. And though he had fallen flat in trying to explain himself, he would give it one more chance - for the sake of that dying man. For the sake of his sister. For her own sake.
“Yes, m’lord,” he responded simply, taking a deep breath and pushing the doors to the dining hall open once more.
Chapter Seven
“M’lady!” Lawrence called as he left the manor, the heavy wooden doors crashing shut behind him. The sun had begun to retreat beneath an encroaching cloak of graying darkness, cottony-white giving way to churning storm clouds. He looked to find the stable, where she may have fled to - and instead found the lady Anne standing face-to-face with the Earl of Carteret, a shock rattling the duke’s spine. He cleared his throat, watching the two stare tensely at one another, before he stepped gingerly along the stairs.
“Ah, Lawrence! What an… unexpected sight, to see, here, as I came to visit my future bride,” the earl announced proudly. “Her father is inside, is he not? And Anne - so stunning,” he added, his cloying nature overbearing.
> “I’d sooner throw my rotting corpse upon the moors than find myself married to so impossible a man,” Anne spat. “What are you doing on my estate? Has my father sent for you, as well? Has his illness gripped him so thoroughly as to render him mad, mad enough to see you as a potential suitor for me?”
“Come now! We had quite a pleasurable evening at my dinner party only a fortnight or so past, did we not? I found your company quite ravishing, m’lady,” the earl said, his slimy countenance utterly repulsive to a woman of class. Lawrence stepped closer, though he kept his words to himself.
“I’d never seen a more ridiculous gathering of chattering ladies wooed so thoroughly by so odious a man as I did at your dinner party, m’lord,” Anne’s contemptuous nature roared. “If one were to evaluate the party by that standard, then yes, I most certainly enjoyed watching you trip over yourself as you boldly gallivanted off to dark corners of your estate to have your way with wanting and wanton maidens.”
“M’lady, I’ve heard the tales, even from your father himself, and you’ve no need of denying my allure any longer. You need a husband,” the earl announced, “and I need a wife. A goodly wife, a wife of firm stature in society, and a wife capable of bearing me many suitable heirs. On factors germane to my choice, I find none in as good of standing as you, Anne Hatley of Roxborough,” the earl said, his sarcasm dripping. “Or, perhaps more accurately, I promised your father I’d help you to find your proper place in life. You’re so angry! And so lost,” he said, his voice dropping to a salacious purr. “And I can help find you, m’lady.”
“H-how dare you!” Anne exclaimed, but before she could lift her palm to strike the impertinent and bold noble, Lawrence stepped forward, clearing his throat loudly.
“Martin, were you in fact invited to the manor today? I had thought myself the only contemptible fellow allowed on the grounds until sunset,” Lawrence joked self-deprecatingly, offering a disarming smile. His heart pulsed; he had never so boldly stood up to the earl, a young man with a profile rising quickly among the nobility, whose influence had quieted him that night he had shared at the dinner table with Anne. Instead, he now stood confident - on the outside, anyway.
Desiring The Duke (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 4) Page 5