A Duchess by Midnight

by Jillian Eaton

  “Love is for fools and poets and men too drunk to know any better,” he growled. “I can assure you of one thing, brother. If I ever do marry again it will not be for love.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Seven Long Years Later

  Clara liked to whistle as she worked. It did not matter that her pursed lips could not carry a tune (or at least it did not matter to her). Whistling helped her pass the time. Time that would have otherwise dragged by in a long loop of endless chores for which there was no end in sight.

  Struggling to lift a heavy basket filled with soiled bed linens, she caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror and couldn’t help but smile at the disheveled young woman looking back at her.

  Reddish gold curls clung to her temple and the nape of her neck, plastered there by the summer heat. More sweat dampened the skin between her shoulders and breasts, causing the simple brown dress she wore to itch unbearably. Yet even hot and sweaty and red in the cheeks, there was beauty there. Beauty she did not yet see in herself.

  When Clara happened to glance upon her reflection she still saw an awkward girl with freckles that were too bold and a bottom lip that was too wide and a chin that was too stubborn. What she did not see was the elegant arch of her cheekbones or the delicate, ladylike tilt of her nose or the sweeping lashes that framed bright, inquisitive eyes the color of a clear sky on a warm summer’s day.

  At twenty years of age, Clara had grown into exactly what her stepmother feared she would: a stunning young woman whose sweet, wholesome allure and natural grace was simply unparalleled. Which was why Lady Irene had kept Clara secluded at Windmere while she and her daughters enjoyed season after season in London, attending one ball after another while they searched for the perfect husbands.

  Had Clara been interested in fancy dresses and sparkling jewels and dancing until dawn she might have resented being left behind, but the truth was that while her body had gone through a myriad of changes in the seven years since her father’s tragic death her rebellious mind and her wild spirit were still very much the same.

  Suffice it to say that if given the choice between spinning around a ballroom in the arms of a handsome stranger or sitting on the bank of a pond throwing bread to a flock of ducks she would have picked the ducks every time.

  “There you are!” Rounding the corner clutching a similar basket to the one Clara held propped against her hip, Poppy exhaled a weary breath and leaned against the wall. “This is the last of the pillow cases from the third-floor closet. Why Lady Irene has us wash perfectly clean bed linens I’ll never understand.”

  Clara grinned. “Because she’s Lady Irene.”

  It was, all things considered, as good an explanation as any she could have given.

  “When are they returning?” Poppy asked as the two women carried their baskets down the grand master staircase – which they were only allowed to use when Lady Irene was away – and veered left past the parlor and the music room to a narrow door that led directly to the side lawn.

  A tidy mess of confusion, the side lawn was filled with tubs of water, buckets of strong-smelling lye, ribbed wash racks, and maids running hither and dither. Wash day, even at an estate the size of Windmere, was no small task, particularly when there was a strict deadline to meet.

  “The day after tomorrow, I believe.” Dumping the contents of her basket on top of a large pile of similarly soiled linens, Clara shaded her eyes with the side of her hand as she searched for Agnes. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth when she found the housekeeper standing atop an overturned bucket, bellowing orders like a navy general commanding a fleet of ships. No matter how many times she told Agnes not to stand out in the hot sun, the older woman still did as she pleased. It was an admirable – and frustrating – quality.

  “I will be right back,” she told Poppy before she marched across the lawn and confronted Agnes with both hands on her hips and a knowing gleam in her eye. “What do you think you’re doing? There is no reason for you to be out here.”

  The housekeeper scowled. “There is every reason when these fools can’t complete a simple task without constant supervision. You there!” she yelled, pointing at a young maid holding a scrubbing brush in one hand and a chemise in the other. “That needs to be cleaned by hand! What have I said time and time again? The brushes and wash racks are to only be used for the curtains and towels and bed linens! Honestly,” she muttered under her breath before she stepped down off the stool. “Like chickens with their heads cut off, they are.”

  “They’re doing fine,” Clara said even as she stepped neatly in front Agnes’ line of vision to prevent her from seeing a maid who was doing precisely what Agnes had just said not to do. “And you need to rest. Come on. Let’s get you a cold glass of lemonade. Then you can sit in the parlor and be lady of the manor.”

  Agnes’ mouth stretched into a mulish frown, deepening the lines across her forehead and the corners of her eyes. “If there is anyone who should be sitting in the parlor with her feet up sipping lemonade, it’s you. Why you’ve continued to work like a common servant all of these years when we both know–”

  “Not now, Agnes. Please,” Clara implored the housekeeper as they made their way inside. “We have been over this again and again. I would much rather be here doing laundry with you than stuck in London with them.”

  In all this time, Clara had never told a single soul why she’d shed the mantle of her noble birth and chosen the life of a common maid. Only Lady Irene knew why she had done it: to protect those that she loved. In doing so she had played right into her stepmother’s cold, calculating hands. But she didn’t care. Not if meant keeping Poppy and Agnes from being thrown out on their ears.

  “If your father could see you now…” Agnes trailed off with a shake of her head. “You’re a lady, Clara. More of a lady than the three of those witches combined. You should be wearing fancy dresses and white linen gloves and holding the arm of a duke.”

  “A duke is it?” Clara smiled wryly. “Even if I did wear a fancy dress and white linen gloves I would still be the daughter of a baron. No duke would like twice at me.”

  “Only because you never take the time to look at yourself. You are the spitting image of your mother,” Agnes declared. Stubbornly shaking free of Clara’s grip, she bypassed the parlor and instead went up the back staircase, her breathing growing more labored with every step. “Lady Gwen was…the most…beautiful woman I…have ever…seen,” she gasped. “Until…you were born and I knew…then…that–”

  “My beauty could move mountains and make grown men weep.” Clara rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, so you’ve said a hundred times before.” Rather alarmed by the housekeeper’s red face, she helped Agnes up to the landing and guided her down the hall and into the guest bedroom. Light and airy with a canopy bed and white curtains, the room was exclusively reserved for Lady Irene’s sister whenever she came to visit.

  Or so Lady Irene thought.

  “Lay down,” Clara instructed as she opened the windows to allow in a cool breeze, “and rest. I will bring up some lemonade and refreshments.”

  Though Agnes huffed and puffed and grumbled, she did as she was told. Reclining back on the small mountain of pillows she closed her eyes and breathed a deep, heavy sigh. By the time Clara returned with a pitcher of cool lemonade and a platter filled with various meats and cheeses the housekeeper was fast asleep.

  She set the refreshments aside and stood over Agnes for a few moments, watching the steady rise and fall of the older woman’s chest. With her eyes closed and her body dwarfed by the oversized mattress and small mountain of pillows Agnes looked every inch her sixty-two years. She should have retired half a decade ago, but stubbornness – and her devotion to Clara – had kept her on at Windmere even when her hands began to fail her.

  The knuckles, once smooth, were now knotted and swollen with arthritis. On a good day she could keep up with her chores without batting an eyelash, but on a bad day she fought her body
to complete even the simplest of tasks. Lady Irene hadn’t noticed, not yet, but she would soon. And Clara knew that Agnes’ deteriorating health would be just the excuse her wicked stepmother had been waiting for to finally let the cantankerous housekeeper go.

  It was no secret the two women despised one another. Agnes was the only servant who dared stand up to Lady Irene and had gone toe to toe with her more than once over the years. It was a wonder she hadn’t been fired already. But Clara had kept true to her word and Lady Irene – against all imaginable odds – had kept true to hers as well.

  They’d never again spoken about the agreement they had made in the parlor all those years ago. At least not with their words. But a single glance was telling, and when Clara’s temper threatened to boil over all it took was one knowing stare from her stepmother to remind her why she was mopping floors and dusting chandeliers and hemming her stepsister’s petticoats.

  “I will not let anything happened to you,” Clara whispered as she pressed a tender kiss to Agnes’ forehead. “You will have a home here at Windmere for as long as you wish. I promise.”

  The housekeeper’s lashes fluttered, but she did not wake. Grabbing a handful of cheese – she’d forgotten to eat breakfast – Clara tip-toed from the room and closed the door silently behind her.

  “This cannot continue.” Standing in the middle of the formal drawing room with her arms held rigidly at her sides and her prominent nose held high in the air the Dowager Duchess of Thorncroft stared down both of her sons without blinking.

  At fifty-seven years of age the dowager duchess was every bit as intimidating as she had been in her youth. For even as a debutante dressed in virginal whites with her hair in soft curls no one had ever dared describe Annette as ‘beautiful’ or ‘lovely’. Strong was used instead. Strong and tenacious and determined. As the fourth daughter of a viscount with no means of furthering herself up the social ladder aside from her own wit and charm she’d had to be.

  It was that strength and tenacity that had seen her through the death of two husbands and the birth of two sons. Two sons, she reflected darkly as her gaze shifted from Andrew to Adam and back again, who have been trying to deliver me to my deathbed ever since they emerged from my womb.

  She loved her boys. They were infinitely precious to her. More precious than her estate in the country or her house in town or her countless jewels and furs, all bestowed upon her by her late husband… and the few discreet lovers she had taken since his death a decade ago. But there was no doubt that the last seven years had sorely tested just how deep that love ran.

  She was not asking for much. Just that her boys – most specifically Andrew – settle themselves down with pretty wives who would give them handsome sons to continue a ducal line that had started nearly five centuries ago.

  “Get up,” she said, a hard edge of steel sharpening her tone as her gaze dropped to the blue velvet sofa where her youngest son lounged as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Adam had always been the more devil-may-care of the two. It was in his nature to be wild and a little reckless. Because she had Andrew – and by turn Katherine and Robert – the dowager duchess had turned a blind eye to his philandering ways. But her daughter-in-law and grandson were both gone now, taken far before their time, and if she could not free Adam from the claws of dark despair that had snatched him away from her then it would fall to Andrew to produce a viable heir.

  A troubling thought indeed.

  “Get up at once and do something productive with your life or so help me God I will write you out of the inheritance!”

  Adam lifted his head and looked sideways at his brother. “Can she do that?”

  Standing up out of the chair he’d been sitting in for the better part of an hour while his thoughts drifted – as they always tended to do – to the wife he’d loved and lost, Thorncroft looked down at his brother with vague amusement. “No, but I can. Do as she says, brother, before you send her into another fit of apoplexy.”

  The dowager duchess glowered. “I have never succumbed to a fit of apoplexy in my life.”

  “And we wouldn’t want you to start now.” Springing off of the sofa with surprising ease given the amount of brandy he’d imbibed the night before, Adam grinned at their mother and pressed a smacking kiss to her cheek. “What would people say about us then? The cold-hearted duke, his ne’er-do-well brother and the fainting dowager duchess. We could be our own sideshow.”

  Thorncroft risked a glance at their mother, the corners of his mouth tightening to suppress a smile when he saw her expression. If a single look was capable of killing a man where he stood then Adam would have surely turned to ash. “You incite her at your own peril, brother.”

  “I know,” Adam said with a careless shrug. “But if I didn’t, who would?”

  The dowager duchess closed her eyes. Thorncroft could all but see her counting to ten, a method she’d used often over the years to prevent herself from losing her temper. A duchess, particularly a dowager duchess, was always expected to be calm and collected even during the most trying of times.

  When his mother’s eyes opened there was no hint of anger swirling in the cool gray depths, but there was a gleam of determination that immediately put Thorncroft on guard.

  He had indulged his mother’s frequent visits over the past few years because he knew it pleased her to see him and – though she would never admit as much out loud – she was lonely. But he had drawn a firm and hard line at allowing her any influence over his social life. To her credit she had given him both time and space in the year following Katherine’s death which was more than he could say for his damn brother. But on the very day his year of mourning expired she had taken up the cause of finding him a new wife with vigor, even going so far as to invite young, bashful debutantes to his doorstep.

  Determined to remain a bachelor for as long as it suited him Thorncroft had politely turned away every woman his mother had tried to force upon him. He’d also declined every invitation that found its way to his desk. Invitations to luncheons and balls and operas and picnics and even one to a pig race. Eventually he ordered Garfield to throw the bloody things out and had threatened to do the same to his mother – although mayhap not in so many words – if she persisted in trying to find him a wife he neither needed nor wanted.

  Resolute in his conviction to remain alone, Thorncroft had even stopped traveling to London for the yearly Season and instead had thrown all of his attention and energy into a complete and total renovation of Longford Park.

  After seven longs years his tireless efforts were finally coming to fruition. Though no one would know it outside of his family – for no one was invited past the enormous wrought iron gate that guarded the entrance – Longford Park was now one of the grandest estates in all of England.

  And still he remained unsatisfied.

  There was something always clawing inside of him, searching for a way out. Something dark and dangerous and ugly. He felt it the most at night when he laid motionless in bed, staring up at a ceiling that held no answers to the questions he still tortured himself with.

  It was a numbness in his gut. A hollowness in his chest. An aching in his heart. And no matter how consumed he became with work or how many different ways he tried to distract himself the darkness remained, simmering just beneath the surface.

  A part of him acknowledged that it had always been there, even before Katherine’s death. She had merely helped suppress it and now that she was gone the darkness was closer than ever before to being set free.

  “What are you scheming now?” he asked his mother flatly.

  “Scheming?” she said with a sniff. “As if I would ever do anything of the sort.”

  “Scheming is all you do.” Crossing the drawing room Adam pushed open the double doors and stuck his head out, presumably looking for the blonde-haired maid he’d had his eye on for the past few weeks despite Thorncroft’s strict warning to leave his servants alone. “I know it and Andrew kn
ows it so you might as well come out with it.”

  “Fine.” The dowager duchess drew a sharp breath. Beneath the lace cap she always wore her silver brows snapped together over gray eyes turned shrewd and sharp. “I have given you seven years, Andrew. Seven years to mourn Katherine and your son. Seven years to put their deaths behind you and let the past be the past. Seven years to find a new wife and produce a new heir as is your duty as my firstborn son.”

  A new wife… A new heir…

  The words cut through Thorncroft like a knife. Gritting his teeth, he turned away from his mother and stalked to the window. Gossamer curtains offered a thinly veiled view of the front gardens where a myriad of roses bloomed, their curled faces turned towards the sun.

  “You do not know what you are asking of me,” he bit out.

  “I know exactly what I am asking of you for it is the same thing that was asked of me when my first husband died. Do you think I wanted to marry your father? No,” the dowager duchess said curtly before Thorncroft could growl a response. “I did not. But marry him I did, out of duty to myself and obligation to my family. Because that is what we do, Andrew. That is what the British aristocracy has always done. We meet our duties and our obligations, no matter how impossible they may seem. As a duke, your duties and obligations are greater than most. Some might look at your wealth and your grand houses and your titles as good things, and they certainly are, but nothing comes without a cost.”

  The roses sharpened as Thorncroft’s gaze turned hard. He knew the bloody cost. He knew it better than anyone.

  Not realizing his short nails were digging furrows into the windowsill until his mother gently laid her hand upon his, he relaxed every-so-slightly, forcing his lean body to uncoil before it snapped like a spring drawn too tight.