Chester rose from the bench, and Orley felt his heart sink, afraid that his maudlin tale had driven the young woman away. What did he truly know about having nothing? He had been born into the lap of luxury. He quite literally had a silver spoon that had been presented to him at birth, sitting in a polished maplewood box at his ducal estate in the country. And yet here he sat, pouring out his tale of woe to a maid. Someone who had been born to serve others. Chester, who had been born being told he was less than others, not only because his parents were both servants and untitled, but because his mother was Tafrican.
Orley felt shame sweep over him. He did not blame Chester for leaving him. He felt like a cad. He opened his mouth to apologize but stopped when he saw Chester sink to the grass beside his injured leg. His heart galloped a race against the wisdom of his brain, which told him to put a stop to this when Chester’s hands reached up to his thigh and began to knead the aching flesh.
“W-what are you doing?”
“My maldy often does this for Mum… I mean, my mother, when she has been working too long and her leg begins to bother her,” Chester replied, not looking up at Orley.
Orley’s leg trembled and slowly relaxed beneath Chester’s ministrations. He sighed even as his groin tightened. It was beyond the pale to let a genteel young lady touch him in such an inappropriate manner. Especially out in the open when they were unmarried. Chester’s reputation could be ruined.
But he is not a young lady. He is just a woman. He’s a woman of no class at all. Just a maid. You could lie with him all you want, and no one would look down on you at all. You could actually bring him into your home and have him all you want, and no one would bat an eye.
Orley mentally shook his head free from such disgusting thoughts, which sounded vaguely of his father’s voice. He did not think in such a manner. Not of anyone, and most definitely not of Chester.
“So tell me more of the war. That is why we are here, is it not?” Chester’s soft, melodic, and lilting voice drifted like the barest of fairy’s wings through the fabric of Orley’s breeches against his skin and he groaned softly. Inhaling sharply, he reined in his lustful thoughts and tried to remember what they had been talking about.
“Ah, yes. I was reckless. I’ve been hailed as a hero all over Angland, but in reality, I was cork-brained.”
February 1812
Badajoz, Tportugal
“Commander Whitcomb!” Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley’s voice rang out over the camp, and Orley groaned as he pulled his hand out of his breeches. He was so close. His only ten minutes of alone time at night before Pompinshire, Yarborough, and Quincy returned from washing off, and he was being summoned? Why did the heavens hate him so much?
He shoved off the thin blanket and rose from the cot in his tent. Orley hated being at shore. He couldn’t feel the waves beneath his feet when he was on land, and he felt completely anchored to the ground. Orley was suffocating on land, even though he was outside most times. He stretched his arms above his head and turned to pull on his blue frock coat over his white waistcoat. He smoothed down his hair and made himself presentable before stepping out of the tent. He looked around the camp, trying to spy Lieutenant-General Wellesley, and once he’d found the man’s location, he turned and walked toward him.
He ignored the greetings shouted at him, offering none of his brothers-in-arms a smile or nod in return. He would apologize when he returned to his tent, but for now, his mind was focused on why he was being asked to come to the Lieutenant-General’s quarters. As he approached, he noticed the way Wellesley shooed away the other men who were standing about, as well as the six women who followed the camp. A feeling of trepidation slithered up his spine, and he swallowed nervously.
Squaring his shoulders, he thought of his father. The man’s round face, flushed red, spittle flying as he ordered Orley to cease his ridiculous notions of joining His Majesty’s Navy and “fall in line.” Orley had been a disappointment to his father the day he had failed to properly hunt a fox at the age of fourteen. It was not that Orley could not do so; it was that he did not want to. He had found the beautiful creature long before his father had come around the bend with the rest of the members of the hunting party, but rather than pull out his musket and fire as a “gentleman” would do, Orley had climbed down off his horse, chased away the hounds, and let the fox go free. His father had taken a crop to him that evening, there in the field, with Orley’s shirt stripped from his skin, and his arms wrapped around the tree. He’d told him that he’d embarrassed him and would never do so again. And yet Orley had bought a commission and had proceeded to do just that.
So it was his father’s visage, looking for all the world as if it were in the middle of an apoplectic shock, that Orley pulled up in his mind’s eye as he stood before Wellesley. He saluted the Lieutenant-General and stared straight ahead. He might have bought his promotion as did other noblemen of his kin, but he’d also earned his medals through countless battles, wounds, enemies captured and killed, prisoners reclaimed, and enemy secrets discovered and handed over to His Majesty. No one needed to know that Orley constantly saw his father’s face before each battle or that it was his father’s voice yelling at him in the midst of every skirmish. Or even that every wound, every painful, piercing cut upon his flesh was nothing compared to the ones inflicted by his sire.
“Whitcomb, I have a mission for you,” Wellesley stated, staring at him.
Orley nodded, staring at the top of Wellesley’s head. “Yes, sir.”
“There is a traitor among the Tfrench and the Tspantish. I want you to discover who it is.”
Orley turned his gaze to Wellesley’s face and raised his eyebrows. “Me, sir? How am I supposed to do that?”
Wellesley hesitated. He cleared his throat and folded his arms behind his back. Orley could tell that whatever the Lieutenant-General was about to say, he wasn’t going to like it.
“We have received word that whoever this traitor is, he wants you.”
“Wants me, sir?”
Wellesley nodded. “He wants to hold you for ransom.”
Orley’s breath stuttered, and it dawned on him what he was being asked. “Pro aris et focis, sir?”
Wellesley clasped his shoulder. “You are a good officer, Whitcomb.”
Orley nodded, and once he was dismissed, he returned to his tent, knowing he had agreed to his own death.
Chester’s hands lay frozen on Whitcomb’s thigh; he was surprised by the duke’s story.
“But, if you knew this traitor was searching for you, knew there was a possibility you would be captured, why would you sacrifice yourself?” he asked.
Whitcomb shrugged. “Perhaps it was easier.”
Chester shook his head. “I don’t understand. What was easier?”
“It was easier to let someone else kill me and be branded a hero than to kill myself and be labeled a coward for all eternity.”
The next morning after taking breakfast in his room, conveniently served by another maid who was not at all as comely as Chester, Orley met the rest of the men down at the stable for the hunt. He accepted his bridled black stallion, Gideon, and hoisted himself up into the saddle. He realized Quincy’s and Yarborough’s eyes were upon him, and he looked at them.
“Yes?” He quirked an eyebrow at them.
“Where were you last night, Whitcomb? We sought you out to play a game of chess and could not find you,” Yarborough stated.
Orley shrugged. “I took a turn in the gardens and found myself captivated by the flowers within.”
Quincy snorted. “You have never been one for foliage, Whitcomb. Perhaps it was another delightful object with a lovely stem and beautiful petals that drew your fancy?”
Yarborough’s eyebrows rose, and a grin split his tanned face. “Oh ho. Do tell, Whitcomb. Has a lady turned the head of the most sought after bachelor of the ton?”
Orley shook his head. “I think not, old chum.” He narrowed his eyes at Quincy. “I tell y
ou that it was just my need for the quiet and solace of the gardens that beckoned me out into the night. I shall meet you for a game of chess tonight if it pleases you.”
Heathcliff’s appearance from the Tfrench doors, a wide grin on his face, caught their attention then, and Orley watched as their friend made his way toward the stables with a light step the entire way. Orley tried not to be envious of the happiness that seemed to radiate from the very being of his old Eton chum, but he found it difficult to swallow the bitterness that choked him.
As Heathcliff swung himself up into his saddle, Orley pasted a knowing grin onto his face.
“What?” Heathcliff asked looking at him.
Orley pointed at him. “Why the pleased smile on your face, Pompinshire?”
Heathcliff laughed. “Because, gentlemen, I have decided to woo my husband and make him fall in love with me.”
The other married gentlemen with them, Lord Oakley, Lord Norfolk, and Lord McCalfrey, all made sounds of understanding, and as Heathcliff nodded in return, Orley found himself feeling sorely left out. How he longed to have a husband to woo and to love. An image of Chester’s face from the night before rose to his mind’s eye, and he felt his gut clench.
He wanted to make Chester smile at him the way Lady Lucien smiled at Heathcliff when he thought no one was watching. He longed to watch Chester’s belly grow round with child and know that it was with the child that Orley had placed within.
He wanted to lie in bed next to Chester and hold the young woman in his arms and hope that kept his nightmares at bay.
The sound of a gunshot pulled Orley out of his reverie, and he gasped, looking around, realizing he’d been riding around in pursuit of a fox but had not been paying attention. Lord Oakley lowered his revolver, which was smoking, and the other men were smiling at the man in amazement.
“Well matched, my lord,” Heathcliff said with a wide grin.
Lord Oakley merely shrugged. “A good shot for a Tamerican, hmm?” he said softly. Orley noticed the clean shot and whistled low. He was amazed at the skill Lord Oakley displayed.
“A good shot for any man,” Heathcliff said back. Orley had to agree and smiled over at Lord Oakley, nodding in acquiescence. Looking back at his footmen, Heathcliff raised his hand and shouted. “Release another!”
Realizing he needed to pay attention or the other men would notice, Orley shoved away thoughts of Chester, though he found it extremely difficult to do so.
A streak of orange darted across the grounds and the hounds barked, pulling against their leashes, anxious to give chase. At a nod from Heathcliff, the footmen let go of the dogs, who ran after the fox, and Orley pressed the heels of his boots against Gideon’s flanks to follow the hounds. The wind whipped through his hair, tugging at the ribbon that held back his queue, and he grinned, delighting at the freedom he felt in simply being unhampered in that moment.
He was unbound by the restrictions of being a duke. He was simply Orley Garrick, a carefree young man, out with his friends, hunting a fox on the grounds of another. He wanted to whoop and holler like a colonist. He could not do such a thing, however. It would be the height of impropriety, but oh, how he longed to do so.
He turned his head to the side when Quincy rode up beside him, and he smiled at his friend. He could tell by the way Quincy’s gaze kept darting around them that he wanted to say something, so Orley pulled back on his reins to bring his mount to a halt. Quincy did the same, and Orley stared at him for a long moment. When Quincy said nothing, Orley gathered up his crop and prepared to follow the group once more. “Were you with the maid last evening?” Quincy asked.
Orley sighed. He turned to look at Quincy. “And if I were?”
Quincy shook his head. “What are you doing? Are you merely looking to make him your courtesan, Lee? If so, talk to Pompinshire, give the girl a nice settlement amount, set him up in the manor, and be done with it. But you are mooning over him as if you are going to marry him and make him the Duchess of Whitcomb.”
Orley snorted, then sobered quickly. He shook his head. “Quincy, you are my dearest friend, but please don’t ever presume to tell me what to do about my affairs as the Duke of Whitcomb again.”
With that, Orley pressed his heels once again to Gideon’s flanks and caught up to the rest of the men. Though Quincy followed and did not bring up Chester again, the man’s words haunted Orley through the rest of the day. Was Orley really acting as his friend had accused him? As if he were trying to court a maid? It was certainly not done. There had been a few members of the ton who had married governesses, but those men had instantly been ostracized, and those had been love matches. This would not be a match of love; this would be a match of… what?
Comfort?
Tenderness?
Affection?
Lust?
Because Chester was the first person who let Orley talk about the war without cringing?
No. Those were certainly not the reasons one should devote his life to someone else. It was foolish and bordering on the edge of madness.
As Orley dressed for lunch, he lifted his head to allow his borrowed manservant for the week to tie his cravat around his neck. He tried desperately not to think about the fact that he still had plenty of days to get to know Chester, and he struggled even harder not to let that knowledge fill him with excitement.
Taking his cane in hand, he observed his appearance in the standing mirror, found himself suitably attired, and went in search of the other gentlemen, who were having cigars and brandy in the study. And if his gaze searched out a particular maid along the way, well, one could not really fault him.
Chester knocked lightly on the bedroom door assigned to Lady Arthur Blackwood and, hearing nothing, stepped within. He had always loved the way this particular suite of rooms had been decorated. The draperies and cushions were a gorgeous hue of maroon striped in gold, with gold leaflets embroidered upon them. From the duvet to the window seat covering, the room spoke of elegance and class, and yet also of comfort. More than once Chester had escaped to this room and stood in the middle of it, fantasizing of a faceless gentleman who would sweep Chester into his arms and kiss him madly and speak of a love that drove him crazed with desire.
Chester chuckled at himself and shook his head. Fanciful notions of a young woman with no real idea of the way the world worked. There would be no gentleman in his future. Best that he let that dream go. The image of the Duke of Whitcomb rose in his mind’s eye like a smoky apparition, and Chester huffed, waving his hand to brush it away. He really had to let that one go. He didn’t want to spend his life pining away for a noble who would sire a brood of children on him who would all be bastards, mocked and teased, unclaimed by their father, scorned and looked down upon by the other children in the town. How could he look his babes in the eye in the day, when he would spend his nights anxiously awaiting their sire to come to his bed? To toss him crumbs of his affection?
“Oh!” A startled gasp yanked Chester out of the dark turn his thoughts had undergone, and he jumped slightly, placing a hand to his chest.
Standing before him was Lady Arthur, his reticule at his feet, looking for all the world as if he were preparing to travel.
Without letting anyone know.
Chester glanced around the room and looked back at Lady Arthur, whose cheeks had flushed bright red.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” He curtsied. “I knocked, but there was no answer. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Lady Arthur laughed, though it sounded nervous and slightly hysterical. “No, no. You didn’t disturb me. I must admit that I am a bit on edge. I thought you were someone else.”
Chester looked over his shoulder and then back at the bag at Lady Arthur’s feet. He wouldn’t exactly call himself the smartest person in the world, but neither was he the slowest. Why, he’d been known to solve a riddle faster than His Grace the Duke of Pompinshire a time or two, though he would never deign to tell His Grace that. So it took him no time at all to realize L
ady Arthur was intending to run away. Chester’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. Lady Arthur raised a hand and stepped forward.
“Please, please. I beseech you, do not say a word. You must keep this a secret.”
Chester nodded. Servants were paid to hear all but speak nothing. Though sometimes they were paid to see all and speak everything. It all depended on who was doing the paying. In this case, Chester knew he would not be saying anything. A young woman’s reputation was on the line.
“I must leave. If I don’t go now, things will be even worse for me.” Lady Arthur’s hand dropped down to his stomach, and Chester’s eyes widened further.
Lady Arthur’s reputation was really on the line. He bit his lower lip. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Chester.”
“Arthur.” Lady Arthur rolled his eyes. “But you probably already know that.”
Chester grinned and nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
Lady Arthur waved his hand. “Please dispense with the honorifics. Because of what you know and because of you helping me, I hope, I
think it’s best that you call me Arthur, hmm?”
Chester inclined his head. “If you insist, my lady.”
Lady Arthur nodded. “I do.”
“Then I will, Arthur.”
He wouldn’t think about why it was so easy for him to call Lady Arthur by his Christian name and why he had such a difficult time calling the Duke of Whitcomb by his. It was as if there were some part of him that seemed determined to remind him of the differences in their social standings. As if he would ever forget that he was a lowly maid, whereas the duke was well… a duke. Chester shook his head.
“Do you need help, my lady?” Chester offered.
Lady Arthur grinned. “Thank you, Chester.” He looked around. “I find myself needing to meet up with Lord Cholmondeley so we may elope in Gretna Green. But I am not exactly sure how to get away.”
The Servant Duchess of Whitcomb Page 4