But had his attempts to enjoy life driven away his chance of moving forward, toward the marriage his father had wished for him? As beautiful as the other ladies had been, richer than Eliza, too, his father had never approved of any of them.
What would his father think of Eliza? What would his mother?
If he were being truthful, his father had not cared for his lady friends, because he had thought they were only interested in him for his money and title; that they would not make good wives. Even without being married to him, a few had managed to bring him down in the eyes of the public. Gossip spread like fire, but a marriage to a sensible lady could help to quench the flames.
Eliza did not care for his money. That much was obvious. She had agreed to the hasty marriage with the imposter because she had fancied him. And she had not agreed to marry Stephen. She did not care about his money, so unlike the other ladies, who constantly dropped hints about hats, slippers, or dresses.
Did she need him? She was strong, despite what the pretender had done to her. Her reputation would survive this, even if they did not marry, would it not?
Which did he want? Somehow, he did not think he had a say in the matter any longer. Perhaps he shouldn't.
One thing he did know—all of the ladies he knew eventually became tiresome. Every single one. With Eliza, he doubted that would be the case, but uncertainty was not enough. He needed to know her better. He needed her to give him another chance.
Maybe it was only because she did not fawn over him like the others, or maybe she truly was different. Either way, he must learn. Somehow, she had wormed her way into his life, and she would be the only one to determine how long she would remain there.
Chapter Nine
Straight from the library, Eliza rushed to her room. Beneath her pillow, she had left the letter her one of her friends had sent. All the details about his reputation. To think, he had said he was concerned about hers. She should send him away now, but he was a duke. How could she do that?
Her door opened. She did not turn around until the door closed. To her relief, Stephen had not entered.
"What is wrong?" Jean crossed the room to envelop Eliza in a hug.
"I am fine." She tried to laugh it off.
"You should be. Your duke wants to give you everything."
A scoffing sound escaped Eliza's lips before she could contain it. Certainly not ladylike.
"Talk to me." Jean tugged on her hand, and they sat on the edge of her bed.
The desire to share her secret was proving to be almost more than she could handle. "It's the duke," she said slowly.
"What about him?"
Eliza hesitated, her hands smoothing out the wrinkles of her skirt, before deciding to plunge ahead. She needed someone else's opinion on the whole situation. "Well, there are two."
"Two dukes? I do not understand."
"Before, the one I was going to marry, he was not the real duke. He fled before he could be discovered. That was when the actual duke showed up."
"The actual duke." Jean shook her head. "I do not understand."
"The man who asked Papa if he could marry me looked enough like the duke that he was able to pretend to be him. Why he dragged me into it, I do not know. I wish he hadn't." Eliza swallowed hard.
"I… How did I not realize this? They look alike and sound alike and everything?" Jean clapped her hands to her cheeks, eyes wide.
"Yes."
"So the one in the house, he is the real duke?"
Eliza nodded.
"Well, that is a relief. And he still wishes to marry you! Why do you look so glum?"
"Because he thinks he can have whatever he wants."
"I would think dukes tend toward that behavior, yes," Jean conceded, "but that he offered to marry you, despite everything, has to mean something, does it not?"
"He also thinks he can have whomever he wants. He left behind several ladies who are eagerly waiting for his return." Eliza slipped her hand beneath her pillow and handed the letter to her sister.
"This makes no sense." Jean shook her head. "Why, he asked me this morning about colors and fabrics and what you might need. He wants to buy you things."
"As if my life is lacking. As if I am not good enough."
"Eliza, you are being too hard on him. Can you not see he is trying?"
"Why?" she burst out. "What am I to him other than a fool who believed the lies of an imposter? I am nobody. I am nothing. And even if I were worthy of a duke, I would rather have a different one."
Jean sighed. "I cannot believe I did not even notice there have been two different men in our house! How could I not have realized?"
"Do not feel badly. They are very alike in nearly every way." Anxious energy built within her, and Eliza slid to her feet and paced in front of the bed.
"I am appalled by all of this." Jean said, "Perhaps you should not marry this duke either. Come. We should tell Father all of this."
"No!" Eliza quickened her pacing. "What will that accomplish? It will only serve to ruin our family name. No, that is not an option…"
"What are you going to do?"
"I do not know. I never should have agreed to marry the first duke, and the second… W… well, I think I might have been in such a state of shock… I do not know how else I could have entered that church…"
"My sister, why did you keep this from me for almost a week? Christmas will be here soon. You should be happy." Jean stood and halted Eliza's pacing, placing her hands on her shoulders.
"I do not know how I feel." Unbidden, tears formed in Eliza's eyes.
"Come now." Jean wrapped her arms around her. "You must do what you must. Whether that be sending the duke away or marrying him."
"I know what I should do, but I do not know if I can go through with it."
"If there is anything I can do… I really do feel like you should talk to Father about this."
Eliza stepped back out of the embrace. "I am on my own," she whispered. There was only one person she wanted to talk to. But whatever he said, how could she believe him?
Truthfully, she had never felt more alone. When her sister left, she did not seek him out.
She had always known her marriage would be arranged, and not necessarily born out of love. However, now that it was upon her—and since she had almost married a man for a love that had proved to be false—how could she go through the farce another time?
Perhaps the best course was not to marry, after all.
Chapter Ten
Too long had passed since he had a lead on the imposter, and Stephen was growing impatient. What if the man slipped away completely? There was no reason to believe the man would stop until forced to.
So he left the manor behind and went to the local inn to see if he could find any clues. Through talking to those gathered there, he learned of some small abandoned buildings toward the south, the perfect place for an unscrupulous man of little means to hide.
As much as he wanted to investigate them himself, he could come up with no excuse for being away long enough. His coachman agreed readily enough. A slip of coin provided them with with—hopefully—accurate directions to the buildings.
In truth, he was growing weary of failing to locate the imposter, and he also did not wish to be long away from Eliza. Even if she had periods when she withdrew from him, talking about her with her sister or brother through marriage, catching glimpses of her here and there… it was more than enough for him, at least for now.
But still, he wanted to do more to find the imposter, while waiting for his coachman to return. After supper, servants bustled about, clearing off the table, and Stephen approached the Welles' butler. "A word, if I may?"
The man nodded.
They entered the study, the first unoccupied room they passed.
"What may I help you with, Your Grace?" The butler stood tall, face impassive, hands behind his back.
Thus far, he had managed to avoid arousing the servants' suspicions, but now the cru
nch of time weighed heavily upon him, and he struggled with words. "My mind is a blur. With so much to prepare and deciding to postpone the wedding, I am afraid I cannot quite recall—"
"Your Grace."
Stephen startled at the sound of Lord Welles' voice, and pasted on a practiced smile as Eliza's father entered the study.
"Give us the room," Lord Welles commanded.
The butler nodded, bowed, and left them alone.
The baron walked around the desk to face Stephen, his gaze clearly one of frank appraisal.
For whatever reason, Stephen felt nervous, an emotion he did not often experience. "Is there something you need me for? I am more than willing to—"
"I would like to know your intentions toward my daughter." The man scowled. "I will not be taken in again."
"Again?" Stephen swallowed painfully.
"You see, the strangest thing happened the morning my daughter was to marry." His eyes were shrewd and shone with pain. "Imagine my surprise, when the duke insisted on seeing me early that morning. Of course, I could not refuse him, and he told me the truth."
"The truth," Stephen repeated, feeling like a clodpole.
"It seems that man was not the duke after all. He was an imposter, a reprobate, and he blackmailed me. I had no choice but to pay him as much money as I had on my person. What else could I do?"
Stephen permitted himself a small sight of relief, although he clenched and unclenched his fists. The farce—was it a farce?—was over. Would the baron try to ruin his reputation over the matter? "I imagine you were quite surprised—"
The baron rubbed his chin. "After I paid him, I fancied the thought of detaining him, but he fled like the coward he is. I…" He hung his head. "I could not bring myself to tell Eliza. I do not think her feelings for him ran deeply, but how could I allow her to be hurt? If she were to marry a duke, it would be a boon to us, but I will not allow her to become prey to men who would deceive her. I love her, and I did not wish for her reputation to be tarnished by a man of despicable character."
"And then I arrived."
"Yes. The real duke. You showed up. The entire time I had been sitting in the church, I had been trying to determine how best to salvage her reputation, to repair it, to best help her through this. I still have not determined a way to save her face." He shook his head and sighed deeply.
"I wish to help as well."
"Your Grace, I would know your true intentions toward my daughter. I have allowed you to live in my house. I have been watching you. I am no longer certain I wish for my daughter to marry any Duke of Wyndale"
Stephen opened and shut his mouth again without answering. He should have known others would suspect that he and the imposter were not one and the same. That the fake duke had never intended to marry Eliza, that all he cared about was money… It should not shock him to learn this, and indeed, it didn't. All he felt was fury.
His true intentions… what were they? Was finding the imposter all that mattered, or had Eliza become more important than he had ever planned?
Chapter Eleven
After the midday meal the next day, Eliza returned to her room to find a lovely white dress on her bed, far finer than anything she had ever touched before, let alone worn. Her fingers trailed against the beading along the neckline, at first in awe of its beauty, but then, as she realized from whom it came, her smile twisted into a frown.
Only a week until Christmas, and nine days until the planned wedding to the man who had sent her this gown. She needed fresh air. She needed to be surrounded by nature.
Outside, the wind brushed against her cheeks, harsh and biting. It did not slow her pace, and she only stumbled to a halt when she spied a figure leaning against a tree. The duke.
Not wishing to be seen, she changed direction.
"Miss Berkeley."
How formal of him.
With poise, she looked over her shoulder. "Oh, Your Grace, I did not see you there."
His smirk as he approached suggested he knew the truth. "Did you find my present?"
She marched the distance between them to meet him halfway. "I do not want your dress or your money. I never asked for this."
"As the future wife of a duke—"
"That will not come to pass. Good day, Your Grace."
The look on his face… shock? Disappointment? Something else? She did not linger to find out. He infuriated her, and yet, there were times he seemed almost vulnerable. Something about him called to her, and it frightened her. She had been so easily swayed by the other man who looked like him, that to give herself over to him made herself feel both exposed, and maybe even helpless.
She lifted her skirt, barely, to walk away. Not back into the house. No, he would not spoil her walk.
She could not stop thinking about him. That he could have any lady he wished, and still stayed by her side to protect her reputation, spoke highly of him. The man she was starting to get to know did not match the man her friends had described in their letters. Perhaps he was only using her to find the imposter and nothing more. Perhaps his kindness came not from the heart, but from his mind, his will, his desire for revenge.
A glance behind revealed the duke was not following her. Indeed, in her haste to move away from him, she could no longer see the man. She was alone. Swift disappointment settled onto her like a shawl. Perhaps she should turn and talk with the duke more. Perhaps they could be friends at the very least.
Would friendship be enough for him? Would it be enough for her? No, friendship was not all she wanted out of her marriage.
Her feet had continued onward as her mind churned, and she found herself a good distance from the house now.
"Ah, there you are."
The imposter's voice. How could she have thought it so similar to the true duke's? Stephen's held a deeper quality to it, a richer tone. This man's voice was harsh and brash.
"Who are you?" She retreated a step, her stomach churning, feeling faint. Had the duke returned to the house? An unchaperoned walk had never before seemed like such a horrible idea.
"Who I am does not matter. You, you are what matters." He crossed the distance between them and gripped her arm so tightly she wanted to cry out, but refused to do so, to reveal weakness.
Her gloved hand connected with his face. "Leave me be! Stephen!" Her voice cracked on his name. "Help!"
"Oh, no, you don't." His right hand still clamped on her arm, he bent down, jerking her downward, too, and seized a rock.
Eliza struggled, punching and screaming, kicking and wiggling, but his hold proved far too tight. When the rock connected with her temple, her vision darkened. Her last sight? His wicked smile. Her last thought? He looked nothing like the duke, after all.
***
When Eliza woke, her head pounded fiercely. She opened her eyes to discover her vision was spotted and dim. Her stomach violently objected when she tried to sit upright, and she leaned over and retched. She tried to shift away from the mess, and only then, realized her hands and feet were tied.
Her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness enough to realize she was in a dusty, rundown room. No furniture, no rug, just one window covered by dark curtains. How much time had passed? Where was she? Where was her captor?
Fear seized her. Would she ever see her parents again? Her sister? Her friends? Even the duke. Especially the duke.
"Ah, so you're awake."
Eliza could not help wincing as the imposter knelt in front of her.
"You do not need to be afraid, my dear."
His saying that only increased her fright. His clothes were ragged and dirty, the finery all but ruined. Had that been the outfit in which he intended to wed? His eyes were so cold and hard, his lips a thin, harsh line. Everything about him—his looks and his manner—could not be more different from Stephen.
"You see, you mean a great deal to me." His hand clasped his chest. "You do. Alive, not dead, and certainly not married to me." His vicious grin returned.
Despite her
mounting fear, she refused to tremble and lifted her chin in defiance. "No one who knew the truth would ever consider marrying you."
"Ah, now, you may claim that you only agreed to marry me because I did not reveal… how should I say it? My true character?"
"Exactly." Ladylike or not, she spat in his face.
His backhand darkened her vision once more, although she did not lose consciousness this time. Her stomach still felt weak, but she managed not to be sick again.
"Well, that may be true. You see, I not only look like the duke, I acted like him as well. I watched him from afar and learned his mannerisms and ways with the ladies, and it was all too easy to charm you. Ladies fawned over him, and I wanted to enjoy that myself. Why should he have all the fun?"
"Did you ever plan to marry me?" Her head swam. Life married to him would have been worse than a marriage to the devil himself.
"That matters not, now, does it? What matters is that the duke finally left his den of sin long enough to not only notice me, but to fall in love."
Den of sin? As if this man were blameless. And love? The man was delusional. Mad. Stephen didn't love her… did he?
"I've been watching the two of you. That kiss…" He howled with laughter. "He'll pay a pretty penny for your safe return, and I shall have enough money for the rest of my life."
The sound of his mirth almost brought her to tears. Instead, she succumbed to the darkness, perhaps sleep or nightmares.
Chapter Twelve
Stephen stomped back inside the house. The nerve of Miss Berkeley! And yet, he found himself unable to blame her. When he walked past the drawing room with the pianoforte, his chest ached. Was that to be one of the only two happy memories he would ever have of her? Had he lost his chance to prove himself worthy of a lady? A true lady, not the likes of Uriana or Susan or Barbara. They did not care for Stephen, the man, only his looks and title and wealth.
Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection Page 44