The Duke’s Hidden Desire

by Blackwood, Gemma

  For the first time in a long while, Anna felt that someone had taken the time to understand her. To see her hopes and dreams for what they were; to mourn her losses and celebrate her hollow success. “And all it will cost is the fair maiden’s hand,” he murmured. Anna was taken aback by his gentleness. “Yes, I see how it is.”

  “Gilbert is a good man.”

  “He had better be. His bride is worthy of nothing less – and faithful, to top it all off!” The man rose to his feet, dusting off his trousers absently. “Well, I see that I have come here on a fool’s errand. It has been a pleasure nonetheless, Miss Hawkins. I do hope we meet again – and I promise to surround myself with servants of every stripe in order to meet your expectations.” He nodded to Mrs Pierce. “Good day, good lady!”

  “Oh, Your Grace! Do let me see you out.”

  He seemed to sense that Mrs Pierce would have been mortified had her offer been refused, and waited patiently while she set aside her needlework and fussed with her skirts.

  Just before he left, his eyes were drawn to Anna’s again, as though he found the sight of her irresistible. He gave her a brisk nod which, she thought, showed more respect for her than at the start of their encounter.

  “Your Grace,” she found herself saying, almost breathlessly. Could it be true? Could this be the Duke of Beaumont, paying her a call and offering to make her his mistress?

  But there was no time to quench her sudden curiosity, for he was gone.

  “Well!” gasped Mrs Pierce, collapsing into a chair and fanning herself. “A real duke! I never in all my days thought I’d be wished good day by a duke! It’s quite gone to my head.”

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” said Anna, returning to her bandages with a touch of sadness she could not quite place. “I doubt he’ll be calling here again.”

  “Oh, Miss, do you think so? He didn’t even see your father.”

  “No,” said Anna, pushing all thoughts of dark eyes and gentle words to the back of her mind. “No, that’s the last I shall see of him.”

  6

  When Beaumont left Scarcliffe Hall that morning, it was as calm and peaceful as any country house ought to be. He now returned to find it in a state of uproar. There were men dismounting from horses in the courtyard, running this way and that in confusion. It seemed that every able-bodied man in Scarcliffe Hall had just returned from a disastrous hunt. In the centre of the confusion was the Marquess of Lilistone, leaning heavily on his valet and bellowing orders indiscriminately.

  “Insubordination! Calumny! They’ll pay for this – the boys will pay! Where is Hart? Where is that treacherous rascal?”

  “My lord,” stuttered a panicked footman, “your son is nowhere to be found –”

  “Hang it all!” Red-faced, the marquess pushed his valet aside and took a lurching step forward. “I’ll dig him out myself!”

  He managed three strides before toppling to the ground, clutching his gouty leg. “My knee! Curse it! My blasted knee!”

  “Help him up,” said Beaumont, deciding the situation required a little authority. “You there! Put your arm under his shoulders. Easy now. And you, go and prepare a draught for his lordship. You two look like stout fellows – fetch a chair to carry him to his rooms.”

  “I am very glad to see you, Your Grace,” wheezed the marquess. “I am sorely lacking a touch of sanity this morning. My own sons, you know! My own sons, turning against me!”

  “Calm yourself, my lord,” Beaumont advised him, as the footmen helped him into a chair and lifted it, taking great care not to jog him. “A glass of strong brandy for your nerves, I think.”

  “Nerves! My nerves are perfectly fine! It’s my blasted children who have been causing problems!”

  Beaumont let the marquess’s babble fade into the distance as the footmen carried him away. Beaumont saw no need to follow himself. If Robert and Hart had fallen out with their father, schoolboy loyalty dictated that he ought to take their part.

  Once the hubbub had died down, Beaumont’s attention was caught by a familiar low whistle. The face of the much-abused Hart appeared around the corner of the building.

  “Northmere and I have escaped to the stable yard,” he said, beckoning for Beaumont to follow him. “Best to keep out of the way for the moment, I should think.”

  “What on earth’s been going on?”

  Hart grimaced and ran a hand through his short black hair. “Robert’s been an awful fool, that’s what. He’s been seeing that girl – Lady Cecily Balfour – and father caught wind of it somehow. He tried to catch them meeting on the road between our land and Loxwell’s, and they had an awful argument. I had to lend Robert my horse so he could make his escape, then Northmere and I hopped in his carriage and hightailed it back here before my father decided to vent his rage on us.” Hart let out a heavy sigh. “He was not pleased.”

  “So that’s what Scarcliffe has been up to! I thought as much - though I didn’t realise it had gone that far!”

  Hart fixed Beaumont with an odd look. “You kept out of things well enough. Where have you been?”

  “Some business called me to Loxton,” said Beaumont. “Private business.” He leaned a little on the word private, relying on Hart’s deference to ward off any unwanted questions.

  At the start of the summer, the four gentlemen – Robert, Hart, Northmere, and Beaumont – had all made a vow to forsake female company until they left Scarcliffe Hall. Women were complicated, and the men were after simpler pleasures. Now, it seemed, Beaumont was not alone in forgetting his promise. He only hoped that Robert had more success than he did.

  They found the Baron Northmere in the stable yard, holding a couple of fencing foils.

  “Hullo, Beaumont,” he said, tossing one towards him. Beaumont caught it with ease, his arm whipping out automatically. “Care for a friendly sparring session?”

  “In this heat?”

  “We have to amuse ourselves somehow while we’re in hiding.”

  Beaumont shrugged off his jacket and began rolling up his shirt sleeves. “Speak for yourselves. I have no need to hide”

  Northmere took up a fighting stance and waved his sword through the air dramatically. “That’s an awful lot of talk, Beaumont. Scared I’ll beat you?”

  Beaumont merely smiled, drawing a complicated pattern in the air with the point of his blade. Northmere growled in satisfaction and charged him.

  Beaumont sidestepped his first lunge easily and allowed Northmere a few more attempts before he unleashed his full prowess and went on the attack. Hart let out a whoop of delight as Northmere was beaten back until he stumbled against the stable wall.

  “Do I look scared now, Northmere?” asked Beaumont archly. The other man was too winded to answer.

  “I should yield, if I were you, Northmere,” suggested Hart. “He’s not going to let you get the upper hand.”

  Northmere parried a few more blows with increasing wildness until, finally, the blunted tip of Beaumont’s sword caught him in the chest.

  “Ah ha!” Hart crowed, as Northmere flung his weapon to the ground in frustration. “The fatal blow!”

  Northmere wiped the sweat from his brow and shook his head ruefully. “I say, Beaumont, if I’d known you were in that sort of mood, I’d never have teased you.”

  “Don’t be a sore loser,” said Beaumont, picking up Northmere’s sword and handing it to him.

  “I wanted a few friendly lunges, not an outright war.” Northmere was still breathing heavily. He was not unfit, but Beaumont had him for height and strength and, in this case, fire. “What misfortune befell you this morning to put you in such a fierce mood?”

  Beaumont was not aware that his chagrin over Anna’s refusal was visible. He was momentarily at a loss for a response, but was saved from confusion by Hart’s snide remark,

  “His Grace was called off on secret business this morning, and we common folk are not to question him on it.” Hart folded his arms and gave a moody shrug. “This summer has ta
ken a sour turn. First my father comes to stay. Next, Robert falls in love with the most unsuitable woman imaginable. Now you, Beaumont, have decided to behave like a duke for the first time in your life. Business, indeed! This was to be the summer of indolent pleasures. There’s enough business and bother and matchmaking in the London Season to last all year. I thought we intended to escape it?”

  “You take a very dim view of your brother’s happiness, Hart,” remarked Beaumont, glad to turn the subject away from himself.

  Hart shrugged elegantly. He was a man with a vast repertoire of expressive shrugs. “I think falling in love at all is a very poor idea, let alone with one of our family’s enemies.”

  “Too right!” Northmere slapped Hart on the back. “We had the right idea, banning women from the Hall for the summer. We ought to remind Scarcliffe of his duties when he gets back. Assuming he’s not eloping with the girl?”

  “I don’t dare imagine,” said Hart darkly. “Ah! I can’t stand this talk of women and romance. Somebody change the subject before I sink into one of my foul moods.”

  “How much time do you spend in Loxton, Hart?” asked Beaumont immediately. Hart blinked, puzzled by the rapid response.

  “I pass through. It’s the Duke of Loxwell’s land, of course.”

  “Have you ever noticed the state of poverty which has overcome many of its people?”

  Hart and Northmere exchanged a look of amazement. “Now, Beaumont, I was only joking when I said you had started to behave like a duke.” Hart eyed him nervously. “Don’t say you’re taking your responsibilities seriously. Besides, the old Duke of Loxwell won’t like you muscling in on his territory.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Beaumont realised that Anna’s words were nagging at him terribly. Men of your station never notice. Well, if that were true, why was it a sin for Beaumont to be equally oblivious? Duke or not, he had never considered himself more able or intelligent than his fellow gentlemen. Yet Anna made his habitual carelessness seem like a crime. “You don’t think, chaps, that there is anything notable about Loxton?”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Northmere. “I hardly know the place. And when it comes to leaving your estate management to the land agents, Beaumont, I’m behind you all the way. Only Hart here has a right to his indolence. We men of property must struggle for it.”

  “The plight of the younger son,” sighed Hart. His eyes widened in panic as the sound of marching feet approached the stables. “Blast! That’ll be a pair of father’s footmen, sent to dig me out and make me answer for the crime of helping my brother.” He cast about for a hiding place. “Into the hayloft!”

  “You can’t be serious,” laughed Northmere.

  “I am terrifically serious about avoiding my father when he’s in this mood. I am not the heir, only the spare, and unlike dear Robert, I can be disinherited.” Hart darted into the stable and mounted the ladder with alacrity. As he kicked about in the hay, he dislodged a small, square object which Beaumont caught as it fell through the hatch.

  “What’s that?” asked Northmere, as the footmen rounded the corner. Beaumont tucked the object behind his back and gave the servants a stiff nod.

  “You appear to be on a mission, my lads.”

  The first footman regarded Beaumont with a mixture of nerves and suspicion. “We are looking for Lord Jonathan Hartley, Your Grace.”

  Beaumont indicated Northmere and the empty space between them. “As you can see, he is not here.” He gave the footman a stern look to dissuade him from any notion of searching the stables.

  “You heard His Grace,” barked Northmere. “Hart is not here. Be off with you!”

  “My – my apologies,” stuttered the footman, and signalled to his companions to march around the house towards the topiary garden.

  “I’ll say this for your title, Beaumont,” said Northmere, as Hart extricated himself with some swearing from a heap of hay. “It’s certainly handy when it comes to getting your way.”

  Doubtless a certain doctor’s daughter would tell him that it was a little too easy for him to have his way. Beaumont caught himself smiling at the thought of her reproaches.

  That was strange. It wasn’t often that he found himself smiling at the thought of a woman, let alone with a sensation of… fondness. She had told him off, for goodness’ sake! She had rejected his advances at every turn!

  Beaumont was not used to rejection. It had never occurred to him that he might actually enjoy it. Miss Anna Hawkins had a mind of her own and a will to match it.

  When he glanced down at the object he had caught from the hayloft and discovered that it was a book of love poetry, he felt a sharp jolt of horror at the route his thoughts had taken.

  “What on earth was that thing doing in the hayloft?” asked Northmere. Beaumont shrugged and tucked the little volume into his pocket.

  “Who knows?” Whatever twist of fate had put the book in his path, it was a lucky one. It was a timely reminder that the last thing he ought to do was think fondly of a soon-to-be-married woman who wanted nothing to do with him.

  Perhaps it was no bad thing that he would not be seeing Anna again.

  7

  Mr Gilbert Jackson was a man of average height and build, with a close-cropped crown of straw-blonde hair, and a mouth which turned slightly down at the corners. He was very far from the dark good looks of the Duke of Beaumont, but perhaps that was for the best. Anna had been so distracted by the memory of the duke’s handsome face that she was glad her husband-to-be was, by comparison, merely average. With Gilbert, she could persuade herself that she was in control. With Beaumont…

  But it was no use thinking of him anymore.

  “Tell me more about the plans for the factory,” she asked Gilbert, reaching over to refill his cup of tea. “Is the funding secure?”

  Gilbert smiled indulgently. “Now, now, Miss Hawkins, there’s no need to concern yourself with the details. I fear you will find it a very dreary subject.”

  “On the contrary,” she objected, “the future of Loxton is the closest subject to my heart.”

  Gilbert patted her arm. Anna tried to imagine that she felt the same thrill of anticipation at his touch as she had done with Beaumont. “Then you must leave it in the hands of gentlemen, dear Miss Hawkins, and trust in our common sense to guide the town to a happier future.”

  Anna was careful not to catch her father’s eye. It was quite unlike her to remain quiet under such provocation, and she was ashamed to guess what he might think of her silence.

  “I do not think you will have much luck persuading Anna to leave off difficult subjects,” Dr Hawkins said gently. “She has a better head for business than either myself or Mr Floyd.”

  “But I have just the topic to suit her,” smiled Gilbert, “and that is the wedding. It really is time for us to agree upon a date, don’t you think?”

  Anna knew that she was expected to feel rapturous joy at the idea. She mustered a smile. “I do not see any need for a long engagement, Mr Jackson. I will agree to any date of your choosing.” The sooner they were married, the sooner Gilbert could focus all his attention on building the factory.

  “Perfect. I will go down to the church tomorrow and organise the reading of the banns. We will be wed four weeks from next Sunday, if that suits? I know you must have many little fripperies to arrange for the day itself.”

  “On the contrary,” Anna protested, “my preference is for a plain and simple wedding. We will be married; that is enough.”

  We will be married. She hardly recognised her own voice as she said it. It was as though someone else were sitting in her body, speaking through her lips.

  Anna struggled to maintain her composure. She had never imagined that she would marry for love. Why should the prospect of a lifetime with Gilbert bother her now?

  The answer presented itself to her mind as clearly as though she heard her own beloved mother speaking it from beyond the grave. Only now do you realise that you feel more for a man o
f a few moments’ acquaintance than you do for your betrothed.

  “Is something the matter, Anna?” asked her father, who must have seen the colour drain from her face. She shook her head briskly, scattering the treacherous thoughts away.

  “It is only the heat.” The heat, and the Duke of Beaumont. A man who wanted nothing more than to make her his mistress. If she had any sense, she would be repulsed by him.

  Gilbert was decent and honourable, Gilbert was rich and generous, and Gilbert was going to make her his wife.

  She was more grateful than she could express that Mr Floyd, who spent more time in the Hawkins household than in his own meagre cottage, knocked on the window at that moment.

  “Excuse the interruption,” he said, after her father had opened it to let him speak. “A boy has just run ahead with news of a hunting accident among some of the local lads. There are gunshot wounds, I hear.”

  “Hunting?” Dr Hawkins repeated, suspicious. “Which of the farm boys has the right to go hunting anywhere nearby?”

  “They’ve been up to no good, I imagine,” sighed Gilbert. “Playing with pistols to while their time away.”

  “They will soon have useful occupation, which will keep them from harm,” said Anna firmly.

  To her relief, Gilbert displayed no desire to stay and help with their preparations. Anna saw him out and began preparations for receiving a wounded patient. She would need to make the bed in her father's consulting room, lay out the instruments she thought he might need, and instruct Mrs Pierce to boil a pan of water. Mr Floyd brought round the horses and he and Dr Hawkins rode off to meet the injured men.

  A doctor's household was always in a state of readiness for disaster. A few moments' bustle, and Anna was prepared for the worst.

  The men who soon arrived at her father’s house had clearly been up to no good. Their faces and hair were blackened with soot, and one of them still wore a mask around his neck which he hastily tore off the moment Anna saw it.