For the Love of a Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  Daniel had had no hand whatsoever in the procurement of the Duke’s bride. Whatever deal had been struck between the Duke of Lytton and the Earl of Bexley, it had been done privately between the two of them.

  If he was honest, Daniel was glad of it. He was an attorney and a man of some principles, and he could not have supported the idea of presiding over the business side of such a tawdry arrangement. There were such elements of the upper-class society that Daniel could not abide, and matrimony for financial reasons was chief among them.

  He knew, of course, that such weddings, such unions, existed within the middle classes, especially those who sought to climb and claw their way further up. But he was of the opinion that the upper classes had most certainly mastered the art, and whilst looking down on all around them, they still managed to loosen and bend the rules for themselves where they would not for others.

  Still, it was the Duke’s affair. Daniel was just his attorney and the Duke just his client and that was all.

  The Duke was, in fact, his only client, and more than once Daniel had wondered at the sense in that.

  Over the years the Duke, a man who was seemingly unable to make a decision unaided, had leaned upon his attorney more and more, treating him as an overseer, a steward, even a confidante, as well as being his legal adviser.

  There was no denying that it paid well, but Daniel had often suffered the impression that he had put all his eggs into one basket, and by letting his private client base diminish year by year, had perhaps tied his own fortunes too closely to those of the Duchy.

  “And in any case,” the Duke went on, “I should like you to be entirely free for the day of my wedding. I cannot have you tearing about the county making final arrangements for a transfer of monies, can I?”

  “No, indeed, Your Grace,” Daniel said and groaned inwardly.

  “After all, I should like you to be there,” the Duke said and smiled.

  At that moment, Daniel realized that the Duke of Lytton was attempting to treat him as a friend of sorts. Perhaps he did not realize it himself, but Daniel knew that the Duke had very few close friends. He had more acquaintances than Daniel could count, but none he would confide in with the sort of matters he had often confided in his attorney.

  With a brittle smile, Daniel wondered if that was a position that he truly wanted. And yet, at the same time, the idea of his employer’s determination to have Daniel at his wedding made him feel a little sad.

  All in all, Daniel knew that a firm list of private clients in the county would see him free of such unwanted feelings and dubious responsibilities. Perhaps it was something that he would be wise to work towards.

  Eliza’s wedding was due to take place in the Duke of Lytton’s own private chapel. As far as she was aware, there was a very small list of attendees, not that she could have cared less.

  Her own family had made a great effort with their appearance on that morning and perhaps even more so with their determination to lift her spirits.

  Even Henry was being excessively kind, and she could not bear it. Why could they not have been kinder in making their plans than they were on the day they were sacrificing her for the sake of themselves?

  Of course, just as her father had said, the final decision had rested with Eliza herself. But with her heart fully broken by Miles Gainsborough and her feeling of abandonment almost complete, Eliza could see no other option. If she stayed with her family, she would join in their ruin and feel their growing hatred for her forevermore.

  As much as they claimed to love her now, and she was sure they truly did, that love would turn into something else altogether when they were all living much more impoverished lives. Bit by bit, they would each come to blame her for their misfortunes, never once wondering how it was the family had come to be in such a position in the first place. But that would not matter, not when they had looked upon her as the only person who could solve it all.

  And so, in the end, Eliza had given in. She knew that she would find no suitable husband for herself now, not when word of the Earl of Bexley’s downfall had spread through the county.

  Once that was known, no young man of note would approach her. She realized now how the world worked, how it turned on an axis built entirely of money, and she could have no hope for future happiness for herself whilst her mind was firmly fixed on the cold reality of life.

  Eliza had visited the Lytton Hall estate only once prior to her impending marriage, spending only one afternoon with the man with whom she was intending to spend the rest of her life. And, as far as she was concerned, that was enough.

  She was never going to devote herself to getting to know a man she could not love. Why should she?

  And so, when her father’s carriage drew the silent Ashton family onto the Duke’s estate, it was only the second time she had ever seen it.

  The carriage ride from the entrance gate to the hall itself took almost fifteen minutes; the estate was so vast. The outer reaches of the estate seemed to be a wall of dense woodland, so lush and green that Eliza forgot her cares for a moment. Perhaps she would be able to find some solace in such a beautiful place when her day-to-day life came to be lived out at Lytton Hall.

  “You really do look beautiful, my dear,” Eliza’s mother said, her voice breaking with emotion.

  “Thank you,” Eliza said in a voice that seemed to be devoid of all feeling, even if her heart was breaking beneath her cool exterior.

  In the moments when she had realized that she would never be able to appeal to either Miles or any member of her family, Eliza had decided to deny them everything. They would not have her tears and her sadness; they would not have her fear. But they would not have her love and kindness either. Eliza had intended to withdraw every shred of emotion and feeling that she had ever afforded them for it was the only thing that was keeping her sane.

  It was the only little matter over which she had control in this world, and she intended to keep the reins of her heart firmly within her own grip.

  And her new husband, the man who had paid so handsomely for her, would suffer little better himself. She would do as she was told; she would behave, and she would conform. But she would never let that man have one ounce of her emotion, never let him see a single feeling escape from her.

  As far as Eliza Ashton was concerned, they were all one and the same person; her father, her brother, her mother, the Duke, and Miles Gainsborough. And none of them would ever, ever be close to her again.

  When they finally arrived outside the intimidating, immense stone walls of Lytton Hall, Eliza allowed her father to help her down from the carriage. The moment that her feet were on the gravel, she hastily shook her arm from his grip and began to walk towards the small chapel alone.

  She could hear the hasty footsteps of her family hurrying along behind her, keen to catch up and thwart any little scene that might be about to take place.

  Little did they know that there would be no little scene; there would be nothing for to them to worry about, no embarrassment for them to bear.

  Eliza simply did not want them with her, even though she knew that her father must give her away. But even then, she did not intend to take his arm as they walked down the short aisle to the altar. She would simply walk at his side and never again look upon his face once.

  As she walked numbly through the open door of the chapel at her father’s side, Eliza was immediately aware of a man who was hovering at the back of the chapel itself. He had stared at her so intently she could not help turning her head and looking back at him.

  He was tall and broad and very well-dressed. She could not imagine that he was a member of the Duke’s household staff but rather that he must be a friend or acquaintance, perhaps even a relative.

  His hair was very fair, a sort of silvery blonde, and it was cut very short. His eyes were rather striking, given that they were so pale a shade of blue that they almost looked unreal, reminding her of the impossibly angelic little eyes in her favourite porcelai
n doll when she had been a child.

  But there his angelic appearance ended, for he was not a typically handsome man. He had a broad, strong chin, and his nose was wide and a little crooked. He almost looked as if he had, in his younger years, been involved in a fight or at least had come off worst in a school boxing competition.

  He was older than Eliza, being perhaps two and thirty years, but he looked well-kept; he looked fit and healthy.

  All in all, she would have found something of interest in that man had he not looked at her so levelly before turning to gaze back towards the altar. There was something almost dismissive in the action, and Eliza thought it would be much simpler to just add him to the list of people she had chosen to care nothing for, to think nothing of.

  Instead, she looked ahead to where the Duke of Lytton was waiting for her. So much shorter, older, and fatter than the man she had just studied; she felt her stomach lurch at the very sight of him. If only this day had never come; if only she had had the courage to say no and put up with her family’s despise of her forevermore.

  Perhaps she ought to add herself to the list.

  When they finally reached the altar, and Eliza found herself at Augustus Tate’s side, she heard her father lightly clear his throat. She knew that he wanted her attention, that he wanted her to turn and look at him one last time. But Eliza would not do it; if she was to suffer, then he was to suffer.

  Without either looking at the Duke or her father, Eliza stared straight ahead and patiently waited for the Reverend to begin the service.

  Chapter 4

  “My Dear Ariadne,

  I have been here but a fortnight, and already I miss you more than I can say. But I am pleased to say that I shall not need to feel this dreadful loss for very much longer, for it appears that my new husband has no objection whatsoever to my continuing to attend our standing bridge afternoon with Lady Dearborn.

  However, I am bound to say that if Miles Gainsborough still attends, I should much rather that you and I met somewhere else altogether. Perhaps you would be able to tell me one way or the other how things now stand with Lady Dearborn. I should very much like to see her again, but not if Miles is there.

  I still cannot quite control the feelings of my own heart, and I know that it would crush me to see him.

  But I do not mean to make you feel sorry for me, my dear Ariadne, for I am perfectly well in most, if not all, respects. My husband continues to treat me well, even though I cannot say that I particularly enjoy his company. He is tolerable throughout the day, and even the evenings, but it is true to say that my stomach clenches almost painfully every time the night draws down and it is time for me to go to bed. That is almost more than I can bear.

  At times, I feel rather sorry for Augustus. He knows that he does not and never will hold any attraction for me. It is not just the great difference in our ages, for he is not a well-favoured man in terms of his appearance. But I am also certain that that is rather more his own fault than not, for he seems to indulge himself in every manner possible. He eats and eats until I worry that he will burst at the dinner table. In truth, I have never seen any man eat as much, and the result is that I feel full in the act of watching him alone.

  He drinks a little more than I would imagine healthy, for I can often smell it on his breath, and when I am forced to look at him closely, I can see so many little red lines on his face, the broken veins that speak of a life that has not been led well.

  But still, he is kind enough, and I cannot say that my life is as frightening or as appalling as I had imagined that it would be. That is not to say that I am happy, nor even content, simply that I am safe. My husband is not an ogre, and even if I know I can never be happy with him, at least I am not afraid. I daresay I am not the first wife to find consolation in that thought.

  Lytton Hall itself is a very fine building and I find that I can almost tolerate living here. It is easily three times the size of Bexley Hall, and the grounds would swallow my father’s estate several times over.

  The Duke’s servants are attentive but almost mute. They are not like my father’s servants with whom one could strike up a little conversation here and there when our paths crossed. Even my lady’s maid, Nella West, cannot be drawn into much conversation beyond the very mundane. I cannot help thinking that the woman does not yet know whether or not she ought to be afraid of me.

  Or if not that, perhaps it is simply that she does not yet trust me, for she is a very pleasant young woman in all other respects. Of all the servants here, I should like to find a little sympathy between the two of us, a little common ground and perhaps a little closeness.

  But I have found the other servants much the same, and so I will not yet firmly state that my husband is not an ogre to them, despite the fact I have not witnessed anything to suggest that is so.

  And again, I have only been here for a fortnight, and it is impossible to know very much about one’s husband and his household in so short a space of time. Well, time seems to be all that I have now, so perhaps I shall make my study of them all my hobby.

  There is one other member of the household whom I cannot decide upon at all. His name is Daniel Winchester, and I understand that he is the attorney to the Duchy of Lytton, and yet his purview seems to run very much more than that.

  As far as I can tell, my husband is his only client, although I daresay that he is client enough for he seems to need to speak to this Daniel Winchester on every possible subject.

  Daniel Winchester is not silent and furtive as are the household staff. He is very straight-backed and well turned out and seems to be very comfortable with himself. He is a little older than us, Ariadne, and I imagine him to be perhaps two and thirty or a little more.

  Mr Winchester is difficult to describe in that he is not necessarily handsome and yet is rather attractive. I can imagine you laughing now, my dear Ariadne, for I realize that makes no sense.

  But I am afraid it is true, and so I shall describe him quite simply as tall and broad, well-dressed, fair-haired with the palest blue eyes I have ever seen. He is a large man with large facial features, and it is true to say that his nose could never, ever be described as aquiline. It is rather that of a pugilist of many years standing.

  Quite why I am describing him to you at all is beyond me, for I cannot say that he is of any particular interest. And yet, at the same time, he is.

  Not of interest to me personally, but just interesting from the point of view that I cannot work him out. Although I am bound to say that I am quite certain that Daniel Winchester does not like me at all and that he had already decided upon it before the two of us had ever met.

  For example, on my second visit to Lytton Hall, the day of my wedding, I entered the chapel to find Daniel Winchester staring at me in a most disdainful fashion. I did not know then who he was, of course, and thought him so very upright and fine that he must surely be a relation of the Duke.

  And, although his glance irritated me, I am bound to say that it was that irritation which got me through the dreadful wedding ceremony so admirably. I am not in the habit of thanking people who do not necessarily deserve it, but I have to admit a begrudging gratitude to Daniel Winchester for his disdain, for I spent the entire service contemplating it and deciding to be annoyed with him forever more.

  As silly as it sounds, it worked very well.

  Anyway, since my new hobby is the study of everybody who lives at Lytton Hall, I have found myself adding Daniel Winchester to the list despite the fact that he does not live here at all. He is not a part of the household, and there is something in his manner which makes that very clear. I cannot quite say what it is, perhaps a little something in his bearing, or even a sense of aloofness, but whilst he is here almost every day, he is very much apart, very separate.

  And yet I see him with such regularity that I think I must include him. After all, what else is there for me to do? I must find solace in something, even if it is only the study of the lives of others. But I
am drifting again and feeling sorry for myself, and if I am not careful, I know that I shall upset you.

  So, before that happens, perhaps I shall tell you of a strange little encounter I had with Mr Winchester when I had been here at Lytton Hall but five days.

  I must start by admitting that I am finding the geography of so large a home very trying and a little daunting. I find myself lost if I stray too far from the area containing the drawing room and the dining room.

  I had already been shown the morning room and must say that it is a morning room in the truest sense. It is set up beautifully in an orientation of the great hall which enjoys the very best light in the mornings. I had only been in the morning room once, and following a breakfast with my husband in which I was forced to watch him overeat for more than an hour, I decided to make my way there to sit in silence for a while and gather my thoughts in the brilliant sunshine of that room.