The Duke I Once Knew

by Olivia Drake

  Except for Abby. If it was up to her, Maxwell Bryce, the Duke of Rothwell, need never again sully the neighborhood with his beastly presence.

  Rosalind plopped back down in her chair. “I don’t understand. Why would His Grace’s sister live there without him?”

  “She’s made her home at the Court for the past few years,” Lucille said, moving around the room to refresh everyone’s teacup. “I believe His Grace’s aunt, Lady Hester, has a particular fondness for the gardens.”

  “Then let Lady Hester see to the girl,” Clifford burst out in irritation. “There is no reason why Abby should seek employment there!”

  The baby in James’s lap let out a whimper. “Do keep your voices down,” James hissed. “You needn’t shout.”

  “Doesn’t Lady Gwendolyn already have a governess?” Daphne asked in a loud whisper. “Miss Herrington, I believe is her name. The two of them sometimes attend church on Sundays.”

  Abby had found Miss Herrington to be remarkably young and pretty, though they’d never exchanged more than an occasional greeting. “Lizzie Pentwater told me that Miss Herrington departed suddenly due to a family illness. And I intend to apply for the vacant post.”

  Lucille set down the teapot. “But why, darling? Have we made you feel unwelcome here? Oh, I know it must be difficult when a woman is unattached. But I assure you, we want you to make your home with us.”

  “And here is where she must stay,” Clifford insisted. “No sister of mine will be employed. People will say that I’m impoverished, sending her out to earn her own keep.”

  “There will indeed be a great deal of unpleasant gossip,” Mary added, casting a shrewd glance at Abby. “It won’t do for the Linton name to be tainted by rumors and innuendos. The chinwags will whisper that our family is on the brink of disaster.”

  Rosalind’s eyes widened. “Why, I hadn’t considered that. The scandal is bound to harm Valerie’s chance to make a brilliant match. Many gentlemen will disdain to wed a girl with a host of penniless relations!”

  “More importantly, Abby, you’re our dear sister,” James said as he awkwardly attempted to jiggle his fussing son back to sleep. “We need you to remain right here with us.”

  They all gazed at Abby as if her departure would cause them desperate sorrow and grave ruination. The infant echoed the sentiment with a series of peevish cries.

  For a moment, her resolve wavered. She felt horribly selfish for abandoning her family in order to venture out on her own. It would be so easy to say that she was wrong and to bow to their wishes. To subdue her longing to experience something more of life beyond these familiar walls.

  Yet Abby knew she was being maneuvered.

  Their arguments were flimsy. They had to realize that any gossip about a minor family of the gentry wouldn’t cause much of a stir as far away as London, and it likely wouldn’t hurt her niece’s marital prospects, either. No, her siblings wanted her to stay in order to serve their own purposes.

  “I’m sorry,” Abby said firmly. “I love all of you, but I have made up my mind. I’m walking over to Rothwell Court at once to speak with Lady Hester.”

  Turning on her heel, she departed the drawing room.

  The squalling of the baby followed Abby down the corridor and into the entry hall with its ticking casement clock and the ancient umbrella stand in the corner. She half expected one or another of her siblings to come scurrying to stop her. But no one did. They likely were banking on the hope that she would be turned down for the post.

  And she might well be. But a lack of experience wasn’t what worried her.

  Rather, she feared that Lady Hester would seek the duke’s permission before hiring a new governess for his sister. Somehow, she would have to convince his aunt not to contact him, for he undoubtedly would deny her application. In truth, had she known of any suitable employment other than at the Court, she would have vastly preferred it.

  Lifting her straw bonnet from a hook on the wall, Abby tied the blue ribbons beneath her chin. Never in her life had she taken such a bold step. Never had she abandoned her role of caregiver to the family. Never had she indulged her desire to earn a wage of her own. The prospect of leaving the confines of her childhood home felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

  But her family could have no inkling of her true misgivings. They didn’t know that fifteen years ago, she and Maxwell Bryce had shared a clandestine romance. Or that he had abandoned her for the pleasures of London.

  Chapter 2

  No one observing His Grace, the Duke of Rothwell, would have noticed the slightest hint of tension in him—or seen the unease that increased in him with each passing mile. Rather, he was the image of aristocratic indolence.

  Like an invitation to sin, Max lounged against the plush blue squabs of his traveling coach. His eyes were half closed as he watched the rain spatter the window. He wore a claret cutaway coat with a burnished gold waistcoat, and buckskins with a pair of polished black Hessians. A pearl stickpin glinted in the starched folds of his cravat. The dark hair that brushed his collar was artfully disheveled in such a manner as to stir in a woman the hope of waking up in bed to find him eyeing her from the adjacent pillow.

  At present, however, the woman beside him appeared more disgruntled than lusty.

  “Must you take up so much space?” Elise, Lady Desmond, inquired crossly of the third occupant of the ducal coach. “Your monstrous shoes are crushing my hem.”

  On the opposite seat sat a hulking man clad in a garish imitation of the gentry. His garb included a checkered coat in a hideous combination of orange and brown, a lime-green stock tied beneath his square jaw, and matching green trousers specially tailored to accommodate his gigantic proportions. A porkpie hat perched at a jaunty angle atop his massive shaved skull. His rough countenance featured a jagged scar across one cheek, squinty blue eyes, and a misshapen nose.

  Goliath peeled back his lips in a grin that revealed a gap where his front teeth had been knocked out in a brawl the previous year. He shifted his feet closer to the door and away from Lady Desmond’s fine muslin gown. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady. Me mum always grumbled about these clodhoppers, too.”

  “Well, see to it that it doesn’t happen again.” She twitched her cream skirt away from his offending presence. “I still contend you should have ridden in the baggage cart with the other servants.”

  “Now, see ’ere! Oi ain’t the ’ired ’elp! Oi’m England’s champ, that Oi am!”

  Disliking to see his pugilist insulted, Max bestirred himself from his contemplation of the drenched scenery. “Quite so, which is why I won’t have you catching a chill in this rain. You must be in prime form for the mill with Wolfman.”

  “I’ll thrash ’im,” Goliath vowed, brandishing a pair of ham fists. “Ye can stake all yer riches on it, Yer Grace.”

  “I trust so. Wagering is the point, after all.”

  “Why, the prizefight is not until the end of the week,” Elise said. “I very much doubt a little summer drizzle would harm the man.”

  “Nevertheless, he will remain right here. Should you find him offensive, perhaps you’d prefer to ride with the others in Pettibone’s carriage.” Max reached for his ebony cane as if to rap on the upper panel and signal the coachman to stop.

  Elise’s expression underwent a miraculous transformation from disdainful glare to winsome smile. “Certainly not! You know that I vastly prefer your company to anyone else’s.”

  Max tucked the cane beneath his booted feet. He was not a man to abide having his decisions challenged. Nor did he do the bidding of any woman. He had been too long his own master. In fact, had he not been determined to seduce Elise, he would never have allowed her in his coach at all.

  He valued his prizefighter more than any female, no matter how lush a figure she possessed.

  She placed her dainty gloved hand on his arm. “Pray don’t be angry with me, Your Grace,” she murmured. “It’s just that I find it rather maddening we cannot engage in
… a more private conversation.”

  Her suggestive manner stirred his blood. She was a truly ravishing morsel from her pouty pink lips and green-gold eyes framed by soft flaxen curls, to her hourglass form with its extravagant bosom and slender waist. Her charms, he judged, outweighed a tendency toward petulance. One expected a bit of sulkiness in one’s mistress, after all. He was well acquainted with the way women wheedled jewelry and other favors from a man.

  No, the fly in the ointment was that Lady Desmond desired more from him than covert visits to her bedchamber. For the past month, she had teased and tempted, only to deny him the ultimate prize. Instead of lifting her skirts, she had played the coy maiden. The former actress had been plucked from the stage by an ancient baronet who had promptly expired of a heart seizure on their honeymoon.

  Now she sought to become a duchess.

  Max had no intention of being enticed to the altar. Duty did not oblige him to sire an heir, for he had a sober-minded cousin who sufficed in that role. He had no elderly relations, either, to bedevil him into a leg shackle. At one-and-thirty, he was quite comfortable in his bachelorhood. He had seen in his own father’s case that having a wife only made a man weak and wretched.

  He had always known he would never marry.

  Well, perhaps not always. There had been that one brief interlude in his callow youth. Thankfully, he had escaped to London where he’d soothed his bruised heart with a boundless array of pretty damsels and lusty opera singers. He’d learned quite a lot about women since his salad days. In particular, that two could play Elise’s cat-and-mouse game.

  He rubbed his thumb across the palm of her kid glove. “Patience, my lady. We shall have ample privacy quite soon.”

  She leaned closer, her bosom pressed to his upper arm. With a glance at Goliath, she whispered, “That does sound enticing, my lord duke. What did you have in mind?”

  “You’re well aware of what I want.” He kissed her fingers while gazing deeply into her eyes. “And pray know that my patience has its limits.”

  “Oh, la!” she said rather breathlessly. “We shall have an entire week at Rothwell Court in which to enjoy ourselves. I am looking very much forward to it. Are you not delighted by the change in our plans?”

  The reminder of their destination dampened his ardor, and he released her hand. “Traveling an additional twenty-five miles is hardly delightful.”

  “Nevertheless, I should think it very comfortable to stay in a house so well appointed as Rothwell Court is reputed to be. And you must allow, it is closer to the site of the match.”

  Max tightened his jaw. That was a point he could not argue.

  “Besides,” Elise rattled on, “it was impossible to stay at Pettibone’s estate when his entire staff has taken ill with the measles. Why, they were bound to be horribly infectious! How dreadful to imagine coming down with spots from head to toe!”

  “Yes. The fever and itching might have felled my champion.”

  “Oi ain’t never missed a match,” Goliath bragged. “Nor lost one, neither.”

  Elise frowned at the giant as if to discourage his interjection into their conversation. Then her soulful gaze returned to Max. “Don’t tease, Your Grace, you know I was referring to myself. Should I be confined to bed, it must not be due to dreadful blotches, but to … other pursuits.”

  Under different circumstances, Max would have found her innuendo arousing. He appreciated sexual byplay as much as the next man. Just not now. Today, his temper had an edge.

  “We will speak of this later,” he said tersely.

  Her fingers toyed with the narrow ruffle that edged his cuff. “Do tell me about Rothwell Court, then. I understand you seldom entertain there.”

  “I prefer the amusements of London to rusticating in the country.”

  “But you grew up at the estate, did you not? You surely must have fond memories. The house is said to be the most magnificent edifice in all of England. If it is indeed so fine, why do you never invite your friends to visit?”

  “My underage sister makes her home there with my aunt.”

  “Why, surely our paths need seldom cross in so large a house. There must be numerous wings and apartments. Is that not so?”

  “You may form your own opinion of the place when we arrive in half an hour. That is enough chatter for now.”

  He fixed Elise with a hard stare. It was a look he used to silence underlings—or those who dared to probe too deeply into his private life.

  Elise dropped her hand back into her lap. Her lips formed a little moue, but she said no more, apparently realizing the risk of overstepping her bounds.

  Max shifted his gaze to the rain-wet window of the coach. As the vehicle swayed to avoid a pothole, his earlier tension returned, though he hid it behind a relaxed posture. There had been no time to prepare himself for this unexpected detour. Upon their arrival at Pettibone’s estate earlier, Max and a small party of his friends had discovered the entire staff to be contagious with measles. Alternative accommodations had been needed on short notice, and there were no local inns large enough to hold all of them in comfort for the coming week.

  Besides, Max wanted private space for Goliath to practice in an area that was shielded from prying eyes. He must take no chance of the opposition spying on the bruiser’s training sessions in the hopes of spotting a weakness to exploit.

  Rothwell Court had been the only feasible location. Lord Pettibone had proposed it, Lord Ambrose Hood had seconded the motion, while Elise and Mrs. Chalmers had been ecstatic at the chance to view the estate. It would have been illogical for him to refuse.

  Max prided himself on his rationality. He did not allow sentiment to color his judgment. Only a man with the spine of a jellyfish made decisions based on emotion.

  Nevertheless, he had to subdue a craven urge to order the coachman to turn and beat a swift retreat. Except for a brief overnight trip to bury his father in the private chapel a decade ago, it had been fifteen years since he’d last stayed at his ducal seat. Fifteen years of avoiding the site of so many unpleasant childhood memories.

  In the interim, he had immersed himself in the myriad pleasures of the city. If ever he felt a hankering for rural pursuits, he owned three other estates from which to choose, his favorite being The Ridings near Oxford, where Aunt Hester and Gwen always joined him for the holidays.

  His irritability eased somewhat as he thought of his sister. Though they’d exchanged letters, it had been months since they’d last met at Easter. He wanted to know how she was faring, particularly in light of the abrupt departure of her governess the previous week. Max had decided not to conduct interviews for a replacement until he returned to London after the prizefight. His sister had earned a few weeks of freedom from her studies.

  As the coach descended a hill, the village of Rothcommon spread out like a jeweled necklace alongside the river. His heart lurched in spite of his outward discipline. He recognized every thicket of trees, every knoll and every vale, every bend in the road. He had roamed these woods as a boy. If truth be told, he had to restrain the impulse to throw open the door, plunge into the forest, and head straight to …

  No. The secret glade was the last place he wished to revisit. The very thought of it made his gut churn with memories best left buried.

  The coach swayed around a curve to reveal several familiar landmarks: the steeple of St. John the Baptist Church poking through the trees, a string of thatch-roofed cottages, the arch of the stone bridge across the river. Within moments, the vehicle slowed to a more sedate pace along the high street, passing the apothecary, the blacksmith, the butcher. It was the same as he remembered, as if time here had stopped.

  Pedestrians stopped to stare. Shopkeepers stepped into their doorways to watch the black coach with the gold strawberry-leaf crest embellishing the door. Several urchins ran alongside the vehicle, their excited chatter blending with the rattle of the wheels over the cobblestones.

  It struck Max that they were his people,
his responsibility. But that was absurd. These were modern times, not a medieval fiefdom.

  “How quaint,” Elise remarked, peering out her window. “Look at that tiny draper’s shop and the haberdashery next door. It never fails to astonish me that provincials can be content with so little.”

  Her words hardly registered, so intense was his concentration. Something keen and sharp filled his chest. He felt a curious sense of homecoming. As if he belonged here.

  He irritably rejected the sentiment. This Hampshire backwater was no longer his home. He had gone away from here long ago, when he was a youth on the cusp of manhood. His bailiff handled the day-to-day operations of the farms and pasturelands. The estate meant nothing to him anymore except as a source of revenue to fund his life in the city. In fact, given the prosperity of his other holdings, he didn’t even need the income. Had the property not been entailed, Max would have sold it.

  Nevertheless, as the coach left the village and approached the stone gatehouse that marked the entry to Rothwell land, he felt hard-pressed to maintain his devil-may-care pose.

  Chapter 3

  “The rain has nearly stopped, Miss Linton. Are you “quite certain I cannot go riding today?”

  Lady Gwendolyn stood at the window with her dainty nose pressed to the glass. The mint-green paneled walls of the morning room were decorated with white rococo plasterwork of delicate flowers and birds. White fluted silk draperies had been drawn back with tasseled gold cord to reveal the dismal gray sky.

  Against the elegant backdrop, the duke’s sister looked like the subject in a painting of the ideal young lady. Slim and willowy, she wore a gown of pale blue muslin with cap sleeves. A Brussels-lace ribbon secured her wavy chestnut tresses at the nape of her neck.

  Over the course of the past week, Abby had found her new charge to be quiet and biddable and diligent at her studies. In truth, the girl was so well behaved that Abby felt almost guilty for accepting a wage as governess. If Lady Gwendolyn had any slight fault at all, it was that she was mad about horses. All of her free time was spent either sketching them, reading equine journals, or visiting the stables. Every afternoon, after completing her lessons, she went for a long ride, accompanied by one of the grooms.