Duke of Sorrow

by Blake, Whitney

  Will studied her. Moments ago, he had been resolute in his determination to see her gone from the manor. But upon seeing her again, he was regrettably more indecisive and more protective.

  You just had to follow the sound of a creature in pain, didn’t you?

  “What in Heaven will I do with you?” he said to nobody in particular.

  Chapter Three

  The afternoon brought Will a wave of new resolve.

  True, it could have been his mere two hours of sleep fooling him into a false sense of confidence. But after he’d breakfasted, convened a quick meeting with his steward, taken a short rest, then gone for a brief walk in the gardens—more to wake himself up, than anything—he believed that this matter of his new “guest” could be taken care of without any more melodrama or complications. Benedict had seemed to agree, and frowned a little when Will mentioned Jane’s adamant wish that she stay.

  “Your Grace,” said Benedict, looking slightly to the side of Will as he generally did, and Will could not figure out if this was because Benedict was frightened of his face or not, “with respect, is Lady Jane the mistress of Blackbrook, or are you its master?”

  “She is not, but she is my aunt,” said Will, a little taken aback. It was the first time Benedict had been so forthright with him. Did he dislike Jane’s presence? If he was a traditionalist and believed women should be subservient to their male relatives, it was possible that he disapproved of her. Then again, she was a widow with money of her own. There was nothing disrespectful about that, and Will personally did not have a problem with her temperament at all, which had been headstrong before her marriage and the death of his uncle, just as it was now. He gazed at Benedict. “Does the fact that I take her counsel bother you, Benedict? I’d no idea you were so…” Backwards, Will thought. “Traditional,” he finished. He asked because he was curious and because such behavior needed to be culled, now. Benedict could believe what he wanted privately, but it was not his place to judge Jane.

  Flushing, Benedict sniffed. “No, it does not. But if you do not want this young woman within the manor, then I see no reason why you should let Lady Jane sway you.” He shammed writing in a ledger, possibly so that he would not have to elaborate.

  Still puzzled, Will wanted to understand why Benedict seemed so firm on the matter. “I do not, but she is still quite unwell. Benedict?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I do have your word that you won’t tell a soul about her presence here?”

  “I shall be the very soul of discretion,” answered Benedict, still “writing” something. He was perched on the edge of the chair opposite Will’s desk, appearing most uncomfortable.

  “And if you hear any gossip about there being a young lady here, when you are in Brookfield, I mean, could you tell me?”

  I should have phrased that more as an order, thought Will. He still wore the privileges of his dukedom awkwardly, like a lad who’d outgrown his favorite coat and refused to give it up. The difference was, he hoped he’d grow into the role.

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “I don’t know if he will talk, but we did have to hire a driver to take us back to Blackbrook after we found her.”

  “I don’t consort with drivers,” said Benedict.

  “Of course not.” Will humored him. “However, gossip travels faster than sickness, sometimes, and if this particular piece does, then I will know who started the spread.” Benedict paused, sensing that something more was in the offing. He finally met Will’s eyes. Will grinned, and it would not have been a kind expression even if his face were perfectly intact. “That driver, or you, Benedict.”

  Benedict swallowed.

  Slightly smug that he’d shaken the man with more than his countenance, Will continued. “Now, I don’t believe you’d speak about it. I only say so to make a point.”

  “Point taken, Your Grace.”

  Will still did not wish to go against his aunt and cast the woman out without her being in better health. But Benedict raised something that Will often took for granted: he was Lord Ainsworth and this was his manor. If he felt uncomfortable hosting someone, he would see to it that they were not underfoot for long. It was his right.

  He decided to visit the invalid after he changed out of his riding clothes.

  She seemed to be in surprisingly good spirits. She was sitting up on the chaise, curiously watching a maid who was clearing the room of the tray of food he had noticed earlier. She looks as though she has never had anyone do anything for her, noted Will with some humor. The woman wore an uncomfortable expression as she eyed the maid’s actions. He could see in the better light that her eyes were a golden brown.

  She was also in fresh clothes, which Will assumed could have only come from Jane. In fact, the emerald green cap on her dark hair was one that his aunt had donned only a few days ago.

  “I see that you are doing better,” Will said, as he made his way into the parlor.

  The maid bobbed a curtsy and hastily left the room. Will was accustomed to such abrupt treatment from newer members of the staff, and this maid was both relatively new, having been hired on by Jane in the last month, and very young. His servants were told never to speak about the manor, or what he looked like, or of anything that might encourage idle gossip. It was possible that some did but, if so, they did it with tact and he had never found out about it. He was not a harsh taskmaster, but he had established something of a new order since his return from Salamanca. Only the servants who had verifiable household duties were allowed into the manor, and if any outsiders needed to enter to provide a service or a message, he vetted them carefully.

  Everyone he employed was paid handsomely and well above the usual rates. It was an unusually circumspect arrangement, but his older staff seemed to welcome it out of loyalty to him and the family name, while the newer ones were swayed by money. It was also well-known that any whiff of nattering would translate into immediate dismissal. Consequently, there was a bit of a divide in behavior. There were the servants who would address him convivially, and these were people who had known him since childhood, like Marcus, his valet, and James, who had been a butler in Blackbrook since Samuel was small.

  Then there were the newer additions to the staff that avoided his gaze and did their work competently, but were as timid as mice while they went about it.

  None of this bothered Will because he was used to it. He never mistreated any of his servants, but he did not necessarily exchange words with all of them. However, his patient’s face belied a small amount of censure at his silence toward the maid, who had made a hasty retreat from the room and actually dropped an item of clothing on the rug on her way out.

  Blast it all, he thought. She is actually judging me, isn’t she?

  The mildly disdainful expression on her face caused him to feel a little shame and he didn’t even quite understand why. Slightly disgruntled, he proceeded to retrieve the piece of clothing off the plush rug, which gave him a little time to school his emotions.

  But it only added to the strange feeling of embarrassment that was blossoming in his chest.

  The maid had dropped a corset.

  Don’t you dare throw it back onto the floor, Will. You’re a grown man. You’ve seen unclothed bodies, and the insides of bodies, and this is nothing more than a piece of clothing, he thought.

  No one knew that he was, in fact, relatively uninitiated in the ways of the flesh and carnal matters. Unlike his brothers, he had not tumbled any of the village girls at his earliest opportunity. When he was out in society as a younger man, he likewise did not indulge in many affairs, in spite of his natural charm and elegant but easygoing manner. Then, while he’d worked in London, there had been little time for him to seek any women out at all.

  You only ever kissed Diana, as well, he told himself ruefully.

  He was not naive or inexperienced but, despite teasing his aunt about men who paid women to watch them do salacious things, he was still rather shy. He
supposed this was the burden of having been a child who kept to himself, then a man who was generally more intrigued by books than thoughts of dens of iniquity. He’d been that way even before his disfigurement.

  He held on to the corset gingerly and placed it on the chair Jane had occupied last night. He was certain his face was pink.

  No sound had emerged from the figure on the chaise until then, when he thought he heard a tiny snicker of amusement. He abruptly turned his attentions back to her, trying not to glare as he did so. She tried to disguise the laughter on her lips with a cough. Her eyes closed quickly as she brought a hand to her mouth and coughed viciously, hitting her chest gently with the other hand as though to clear it.

  What a minx, he thought, rather cross that she was chuckling at his expense.

  Her actions were transparent and he found himself torn between anger that she was amused by his discomfort, and admiration that she was quick enough to attempt playing it off. He decided not to settle on either reaction, and not to acknowledge the incident at all.

  Arranging his face in a steady, grave look, such as it was, he settled in a chair beside the chaise and resignedly waited for her measured coughing fit to pass.

  When it did, there was a playfulness to the manner in which she opened one eye first, as though she were fearful of a reprimand, miming the way an impish child might gauge a parent’s reaction to a prank or jest. As she opened her other eye, she made a show of collecting herself and bowed to him, even seated as she was.

  Will had to admit that it was actually refreshing. Nobody, save for Jane, felt like they could joke with him. True, he did not exactly encourage the practice.

  He thought that she might, perhaps, speak after all of this.

  He was wrong.

  “So, we are at the same impasse. But apparently, you have developed skills that would serve you excellently if you were an actress.”

  She shrugged and still did not budge on her silence. Will stroked at his lower lip. He couldn’t decide on what, exactly, to call her, seeing as he did not know if she was married, unmarried… he gave a heavy sigh that was almost a groan.

  “Miss, you put me in a delicate position with your refusal to talk. However, we must communicate our thoughts one way or another. I don’t believe you even wish to make proper introductions. But I’ll make the attempt.” He frowned. “Again. I told you who I was, but I think you were too distressed last evening to understand much. I am Lord William Ainsworth, Duke of Ravenwood. Would you do me the honor of telling me your name, now?”

  No reply met his measured speech. I didn’t expect anything else, though.

  He stroked at his lip even more, thinking. This situation had occurred to him; he had little evidence to believe that the woman would speak to him. Holding her gaze, he went to an old bureau in the corner of the parlor and opened it, locating a small bottle of ink, a piece of paper, and a quill. He did not know if she was literate, but he was about to find out.

  “Can you write?” He raised an eyebrow.

  His patient nearly scowled and seemed to think better of it. She nodded. He walked toward her as non-threateningly as he could.

  But she drew away from the proffered writing materials like he held a dangerous, snarling beast or an implement of torture in his hands. He almost cursed.

  He was now completely convinced that she had no desire to reveal anything about herself. Either that or she was saving face by lying about being able to write. Depending on her status, it was not out of the question that she would be unable to, but it was maddening that if she could, she was refusing to oblige him.

  Unbidden, without having given the idea serious thought before that instant, he started to wonder if she was running from the law. Will studied her. She did not seem criminal. She seemed stubborn, and frightened, and hardened beyond her years, but he did not truly think she could be responsible for anything too ghastly.

  You’ve been reading too many novels of late.

  He set down the writing materials on a low table nearest the chaise.

  “Your stubbornness is very taxing.”

  She looked slightly amused at that.

  “But for the sake of my aunt—the woman you met last night, and who advocated so soundly for you—I shall overlook my own feelings of annoyance in the hope that you will regain your power of speech sometime soon.”

  Lost in thought, he regarded her without properly focusing on her. Then he said, “You need a name. I am going nearly mad just addressing you in such generic ways. It also makes me feel unnecessarily rude. I thought, perhaps, that for the sake of conversation, I could call you ‘Brooke’.” Will gave her a smirk. “In honor of the obvious. Unless you think it too trying to be reminded of your misadventure, whatever it was.”

  After a few seconds, her head bobbed in agreement. She looked pleased that he was no longer dwelling on her pronounced silence.

  Miss Brooke stared openly at him as though she found him dashing, but Will suspected that she, like he assumed everyone else did, did not—he felt she was perversely interested in the state of his face.

  “Why do you look at me so intently?” He smiled faintly. “Never mind. I know you won’t answer, and I also wouldn’t want to hear your answer.”

  There was, oddly, gratitude in her eyes as well as some curiosity. No doubt, she was memorizing his features so that she could enthrall her friends with his description as soon as she was away from him.

  I wish she would just go. It wouldn’t do. He was not going to be stared at like an exotic creature.

  “Now, I shall take a look at you. I should be able to tell more about your present state in the light of day.” He stood. “It doesn’t seem like it, but my eyesight is very sound under the right conditions. Daylight. Bright lamplight.”

  His announcement seemed to alarm her. She shifted uncomfortably, her legs twitching under the blanket. He knew that the thought of being examined in a thorough manner often scared women, and she had been unconscious last night when he tended her. “You have no need to be frightened, Miss Brooke,” he said. “I shall not make you undress or expose yourself in any way. Your welts are obvious enough.”

  She colored profusely at his frankness.

  Will was both charmed and satisfied that he had managed to set her off-kilter.

  She raised her arms slightly as though inviting him to look at her. Will perched on the very edge of the chaise, eyeing her fair skin and the condition of the marks against it. She really was nearly ashen in her paleness because she had been so fevered, so the welts were stark—angry crimson ringing purple, with some of them bearing small, open cuts.

  He felt a flash of protective rage.

  “I suppose you have no wish to reveal who did this to you?” he asked calmly.

  She shook her head.

  “Might I ask a few questions to determine if you are safe in your accommodation? You can merely nod or shake your head.”

  She bit her full lower lip. Then nodded.

  “Very well. Are you married?” Will went right for the obvious question.

  Miss Brooke shook her head.

  “Then do you live with family, or…” he trailed off, waiting for her response.

  She nodded halfheartedly.

  “Your mother and father?”

  She shook her head. No.

  “Other relations?”

  No, again.

  “Your mother?”

  No.

  “Your father?” Will couldn’t stop his wince.

  Miss Brooke nodded. Just once.

  It was not standard practice for a physician, but he occasionally had asked women he suspected were being mistreated the same sorts of questions. The wrenching thing was, there was little he could really do even if they disclosed who had abused them. Sometimes, there were ways that he could persuade them to abandon their abuser to seek sanctuary in almshouses, or missions, or with family and bosom friends.

  These things did not always have happy endings, though, a
s he well knew.

  “Your reticence to speak only protects the person who mistreated you,” said Will, reverting to a stiff brand of formal distance because he smarted at the world’s injustice. Daughters, like wives, were most widely considered property. It was an optimist’s foolish hope that said things should be otherwise.

  He was an optimist.

  Without another word, he proceeded to observe her wounds. It appeared that she had been badly beaten, with the brunt of the blows reaching her arms and shoulders. The light gown she wore had no sleeves and, perhaps, his aunt had chosen the attire in deference to Miss Brooke’s welts. He did not really need to move anything aside to see.

  Some of the welts disappeared below the neckline onto her back. From the way she sat, he could infer that she was still in pain. She would be for some time, he feared. Though he was utterly bothered by her mistreatment, he remained calm, almost taciturn, and asked that she show him her ankle.

  She hesitated.

  “I already wrapped it last night,” Will reminded her. “I need to see how it is faring.”

  Miss Brooke sighed.

  Will shook his head at her and clamped down on his flaring anger. “I could just take you back to Brookfield and leave you in the square—I’m sure someone would claim you.” It was cruel of him, but the words just slipped out before he could think better of them.

  To his amazement, rather than show signs of sadness, her eyes threw him a challenge. She gathered the quilt away from her legs and drew up her skirts a little to reveal her ankle. Surprised but pleased, he got up and went to the end of the chaise to see. Gently, far more gently than his unkind speech, he undid the wrapping and let out a slow breath. Her ankle was still swollen, and badly. It was at least two times its normal size.

  Is it actually broken? He didn’t think so.

  Very carefully, he pressed into her flesh with his fingertips and she gave a squeak of pain.