“Gandmaws, gandmaws, gandmaws!” Peter shouted, running through the hallway like a miniature storm.
“Hold on, there.”
Gavin scooped up his son and carried him around the room, making noises like a carriage going down a busy street.
“Now, really,” Elizabeth groaned in mock frustration as she exchanged smiles with her sister.
Gavin quickly set Peter down in a chair.
“Right. Tea first.”
Elizabeth and Anne exchanged sisterly news about London society while Gavin offered an interested comment or two. George, who was now ten years old and naturally all grown up, had been fetched from Gavin’s study (where he had been building houses from books) and was now feeding jam to the baby. Peter watched George carefully and then copied him, but with a huge piece of gingerbread.
“Oh, no, Peter!”
Elizabeth sighed as she took away the biscuit and told him that gingerbread was only for grown people.
“Am I grown?” he asked with interest, licking the sweet and putting it back on his plate.
Anne and Gavin laughed as Elizabeth returned to her seat, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and shaking her head as though she was still surprised by the precocity of children.
“Tell me that I wasn’t this much work as a child,” she pleaded with her sister.
“Certainly not,” Anne chuckled. “You were much more.”
Anne, George, and the baby soon made their departure, Anne promising to give the couple’s well wishes to her husband, who was recovering from a bad ague at their townhouse, one street away. Ever since moving into Gavin’s London townhouse, Elizabeth and Gavin saw Anne and her husband almost every day. Their children had quickly become close friends, and Elizabeth was eternally grateful for the support her sister provided her with in the first years of marriage.
Of course, Elizabeth and Gavin inevitably had little misunderstandings and spats every now and then – marriage was no cure-all for human nature. But because communication had been so important in their conflicts before marriage, their conflicts after marriage were handled more easily; and with the help of wise married friends and relatives, they had not lost the flame of love to the ravages of disillusionment.
“Time to go to Grandmother’s house,” Gavin said cheerily, shooing Peter inside to get his summer coat and hat from the Nanny while Gavin turned to his wife and put his arms around her, kissing her lightly on her nose. Elizabeth smiled happily at him.
The trip to Blackstone Hall was filled with Peter’s exclamations about the things they passed on the way, and seemed to pass quickly as a result. Soon, they drew up before the huge old building – Elizabeth wondered how she had ever thought the place forbidding, for now, with the sun casting a golden tone to the stone of its walls, and the flowers growing in abundance in its gardens, all it looked was welcoming.
Gavin laughed out loud as his mother came hurrying out of the front door, her arms open.
“She was never like this with me, you know,” he told Elizabeth as Peter jumped out of the carriage, and straight into his grandmother’s arms. The precocious child knew that his ‘ganmaw’ would have a handful of sweets for him, as usual. The Dowager Duchess had, in private, admitted to Elizabeth that their visits had given her Cook a new enthusiasm for life – and resulted in far more adventurous baking than ever before.
“I suppose everyone changes when they have a grandchild,” Elizabeth mused, thinking of her own parents who, too, seemed to have become more happy and attentive around their handsome grandson.
“Gavin, Elizabeth,” the Dowager greeted them warmly – Peter, treats in hand, had run off after the cat. “I’m so glad that you’ve come, as I’ve wanted to show you something.”
She led the couple, who meandered arm in arm, to the library. An unfamiliar man stood at the window. When he turned around, Elizabeth gasped and clapped her hands, while Gavin grinned broadly.
“Milton? Is that really you?”
Gavin and Elizabeth had endeavoured to convince Milton to come to London as their butler but, in the end, Milton had decided that he couldn’t leave the Dowager Duchess or abandon his duties at Blackstone Hall. They had employed a butler for the townhouse, but Elizabeth knew that Gavin missed Milton, who had been so much more than a servant to him, in the dark days after his father’s death.
During their frequent visits to Blackstone Hall, whilst she spoke with the Duchess over tea, Gavin always caught up with Milton, who had become more a good friend.
Today, however, there was obviously something more going on than just the normal run of things.
Milton was attired in clothes more suited to a Lord of the Realm than a servant; but there was no denying that with his regal bearing, he could, indeed, have been a Lord.
“Mother, what is this all about?” Gavin asked his mother with a huge grin.
“I’ve decided to give Milton a change in status,” the Dowager said with a wave of her hand. “I have hired a young man to take on the duties of butler, and asked Milton to remain here, as a permanent guest of the house. Do you and Elizabeth approve?”
“I heartily approve.”
Gavin smiled, and Milton visibly relaxed a little.
“You look handsome, Milton,” Elizabeth said with an effort to control her huge smile. “What a wonderful idea.”
“I thought that this way, Milton can come and go as he pleases, and explore life without being always at my beck and call. But I would not wish to lose his company – not after so many years.”
Gavin met Elizabeth’s eyes. Perhaps, what his mother was not saying was as important as what she had said. Perhaps there was far more to this than simply providing Milton with a ‘retirement’ worthy of his service to the family. If there was affection there, between them, then removing the ‘employer and employee’ status would grant them a freedom to explore it. If the Dowager was easing the loneliness of widowhood with an unusual friendship, it was none of anyone’s business but her own.
Elizabeth smiled broadly at the thought – everyone should have the company of someone they cared for, who cared for them equally.
Peter ran through the room, chased by the cat, and everyone joined in a round of laughter, which Milton joined, his rather uncertain and stiff demeanour beginning to relax.
Elizabeth looked at the happy scene around her contentedly.
“I believe this will be a wonderful summer.”
The End
I hope that you enjoyed ‘Her Determined Duke’
You’ll find a preview of another of my books, ‘Her Absent Duke’ just after the ‘About the Author’ section of this book.
About the Author
Arietta Richmond has been a compulsive reader and writer all her life. Whilst her reading has covered an enormous range of topics, history has always fascinated her, and historical novels have been amongst her favourite reading.
She has written a wide range of work, from business articles and other non-fiction works (published under a pen name) but fiction has always been a major part of her life. Now, her Regency Historical Romance books are finally being released. The Derbyshire Set is comprised of 10 novels (9 released so far). The ‘His Majesty’s Hounds’ series is comprised of 17 novels, with the last having just been released.
She also has a standalone longer novel shortly to be released, and four other series of novels in development. She lives in Australia, and when not reading or writing, likes to travel, and to see in person the places where history happened.
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Here is your preview of
Her Absent Duke
Clean Regency Romance
Arietta Richmond
Prologue
1822
Lord Marcus Northam stood at the rail of the ship, watching England recede behind him. His throat felt tight, and bitter sadness filled him.
Had he made the right choice?
He did not know. Only time would tell.
It had been an impossible choice to make, yet he had been forced to make it. He prayed that what he had done was right – but he suspected that, whatever he had chosen, the price which it exacted from him would have been high.
Duty had pulled him in two opposing directions.
Well, he had made a choice, and here he was, doing as he had agreed to do. When, and if, he might ever see England again, he could not know.
Best to turn his eyes forward, instead of back, and accept that, now, his life lay ahead of him, in France or beyond, for the war had left France in disarray, even now, some years later.
Despite his intention to look forward, his mind drifted back, reviewing the life that had brought him to this point. Could he have done anything differently? Could he have avoided this moment?
Perhaps. But he had not – he had allowed himself to be distracted by studying, to bury his doubts in that, rather than paying attention to what was happening in the lives of those he truly cared for. And now it was too late – he could not go back and change any of those things.
She was lost to him.
Until his father’s death – and, God willing, that would be many years from now – he could not go back – at that point, it would be different, for his responsibility to the title would take precedence then. But if that was many years away, then it was almost certain that anything he had hoped for would be irreparably changed.
If only life could be simpler, if only he could go back to that idyllic childhood, to the weeks and months he had spent with her, with no thought of anything but a happy future together. If only he could…
But he couldn’t.
The wind blew his hair into disarray, and the salt scent of the sea surrounded him, as he relived all of those bittersweet memories. He recalled everything, from the first moment that he had seen her…
***
Lady Kathryn Harrington woke slowly, and for a moment, all seemed well – until her memory of the previous day came rushing back.
She turned her face into the pillow and the tears came again.
In one day, she had lost everything that she had hoped for, and lost her faith in love and destiny.
He was gone – how could he have done this? She did not understand – nothing in her life had prepared her for such a betrayal, and for its terrible but unintended consequences. All she knew was that it hurt beyond bearing, and that she would never… never!... allow herself to risk such pain again.
But she wished, so very much wished, that it might have been different.
Had she done something, to cause him to act so? Was it all her fault? She did not know, but if there had been a way to go back and make it different, she would have, in a heartbeat.
She should accept her fate, should look forward, not back, yet, despite that intent, her mind kept wandering, remembering, trying desperately to reconcile the boy of her memories with the man who had done this terrible thing.
She could not.
All she could do was to remember, helplessly, hopelessly, the days when a bright future had seemed possible.
She remembered those days well, from the very first time that he had played with her, when she was barely two years old, through every enchanted summer, and every challenging, delightful moment, until the point where he had gone away to school.
She should cast those memories away.
Should accept that they were all false, borne of the unrealistic perceptions of a child.
Should accept that he had never been the man she had thought – for that man could never have done something so terrible.
But somehow, she could not so easily cast him aside. The memories replayed in her thoughts, an endless litany of reminders of joy lost.
Chapter One
1806
Little Lord Marcus Northam looked down at the tiny pink baby swaddled in white muslin, sleeping peacefully in the big ornate cot. He gazed at the sleeping form, watching as its chest rose and fell, and wondered if that’s what he’d looked like when he was a baby. His hand bunched as he reached into the cot, and stroked the soft, warm skin. This creature fascinated him and he wanted to feel it.
“Lord Marcus!” the nursemaid hissed, her voice low, as she bustled around him. “Whatever are you doing in here? You are not supposed to be in this room. You’ll waken the baby!”
Marcus jumped back, startled, protesting.
“I only wanted to see what it looked like, Bessie!”
Bessie knelt down to look him in the eye, taking hold of his shoulder.
“She’s a girl, not an it, Lord Marcus. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Marcus shrugged and turned his head to look at the still sleeping form.
“It’s just a baby, Bessie. Nothing much beautiful about that. And she’s just a girl.”
Bessie tutted and ruffled his hair.
“Go on Lord Marcus. Go back down the stairs and see your father. You know you’re not supposed to be up here on your own.”
Marcus sighed and, turning on his heel, ran down the stairs, stopping at the bottom step as he heard his father and His Grace of Scarpdale talking in the parlour. He tiptoed to the slightly ajar door and listened.
Inside the beautifully appointed room, the Duke of Scarpdale, George Harrington, was celebrating the birth of his daughter. Sitting around the room, on elegant silk backed chairs, were his beloved wife, Charlotte, Duchess of Scarpdale, his younger brother, Harold Harrington, the Marquess of Hawthorne, and their closest friends, Julian Northam, the Duke of Weatherly and his wife, Elisabeth, Duchess of Weatherly, who were Lord Marcus’ mother and father. Weatherly lifted his glass.
“Well dear friends, we ought to raise our glasses in joyful celebration.” He smiled at his close friend, Scarpdale. “What a wonderful occasion this is - the birth of a beautiful baby girl.”
Scarpdale smiled graciously and raised his glass.
“To my beautiful wife, Charlotte, for bringing me the most wonderful treasure of all, and to my baby girl. May she have everything she ever wishes for.”
They all raised their glasses, then sipped delicately at the fine French champagne. Setting down her glass, Charlotte turned to Elisabeth, smiling.
“Shall we retire to the nursery Elisabeth?”
The Duchess of Weatherly clasped her hands together and beamed
“Why yes! That would be wonderful. I so wish to see your daughter!”
The ladies made their excuses and stood to leave the room. Gasping, Marcus ran and hid behind a pillar, so as not to be discovered listening at the door. The ladies passed him, and he listened to them as they went. The Duchess of Scarpdale was smiling as she spoke.
“I am so glad that we chose to live here, at Harrington Hall, rather than at Scarpdale Chase. This house is so much warmer, so much more welcoming in all ways. It will be a lovely place for a child to grow up. And George has already said that he will have the paperwork done to ensure that this property goes to Kat
e when we are gone. It’s not entailed, so that is not difficult to arrange.”
“She’s a lucky child then – most girl children do not have such thought given to their future.”
They moved up the stairs, and Marcus waited until they had disappeared at the top of the staircase before returning to spy on his father.
He was an inquisitive boy - at only four years old, he was naturally very interested in everything which was going on around him. He loved to watch what was happening, even if he didn’t understand much of what was being said at times.
He was standing behind the door, peeking through, when he heard a familiar sniff, then a violent sneeze. He turned to see Henry Harrington, who was the son of the Marquess of Hawthorne, wiping his nose on a voluminous white handkerchief.
“Whatever are you doing out here, Marcus?” Henry’s voice had a nasal tone to it, and an edge of nastiness as well. Marcus studied the boy. Although Henry was two years older than him, he didn’t look older. He was a scrawny little boy, prone to illnesses, and always had a deathly pale pallor to his face, in stark comparison to Marcus’ glowingly healthy countenance. “Are you spying?” Henry spat the words out.
For some reason, Henry didn’t seem to like Marcus very much, which was fine by Marcus, because he was not altogether sure that he liked Henry either. Marcus put his hands on his hips and tilted his chin up.
“What does it have to do with you if I am spying, Henry?”
Henry raised his eyebrows in surprise then threw back his head with a triumphant laugh. He grabbed Marcus and dragged him through the door of the parlour.
The men inside stopped their conversation and turned as Henry marched little Marcus to the centre of the room.
“Look who I found lurking outside, Papa!” he exclaimed. “He was spying on you, the naughty little boy.”
Henry stood proudly, obviously expecting to be praised for his actions, holding Marcus up by the back of his collar, the effect slightly diminished by the fact that Henry sniffled every few seconds. The men laughed a little as Marcus struggled against Henry, finally breaking free and running to his father. The Duke of Weatherly scooped Marcus into his arms.
Her Determined Duke: Clean Regency Romance Page 9