The Secret Duke

by Jo Beverley

  He’d always done his duty, however, so as not to disappoint the people here. Without him in residence, why bring in the greenery? Why prepare a grand feast for only the various family dependents who lived here on his charity? His tenants and other local people expected him to join in their celebrations. There were traditions and responsibilities that it seemed only he could perform.

  Robin had a mother happy to be his proxy.

  He had no one.

  Perhaps next year he would have a wife, and in time children.

  Bella, and Bella’s children.

  His people could celebrate without him one year. This year. He sat to write to Rothgar accepting the invitation.

  But then he crumpled it and threw it in the fire.

  It would not do. Too many people would be disappointed.

  He took another sheet of paper and wrote to Robin asking him to take care of Bella in his stead, and to ensure above all things that she did not form an attachment to anyone else.

  Once his Christmastide obligations were over, however, he’d make haste to Bella, wherever she was. If she was still of the same mind, if she could not tolerate the Duke of Ithorne, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  Bella climbed down from the luxurious traveling chariot at Rothgar Abbey, full of anticipation. The journey had been good for her. In some way it had removed her from her treadwheel of unhappiness, and she felt fresh-made and ready to enjoy herself.

  She’d never experienced a merry Christmas. Under her father’s rule Christmas had been a sober affair marked for its religious significance. There’d been no hint of the older practices Lady Thalia had chattered of on the journey—a Yule log, a mistletoe bough, and the Lord of Misrule.

  Augustus had added penny-pinching to the tradition. Of course, now she knew he’d needed those pinched pennies for his gaming debts. Bella was still amazed that no one had guessed, and she thought often of the secrets people kept. The Trayce ladies, for example, knew about her youthful scandal, but nothing of Bellona Flint, or of Bella’s feelings for the Duke of Ithorne, and she’d keep it that way.

  The dark-haired man awaiting them must be the marquess, but he was dressed very simply, and his smile was so warm Bella wondered why he was sometimes called the Dark Marquess. She was introduced, and then he offered Thalia his arm up the stairs while Lady Calliope was extracted from the ingenious sling seat that had eased the journey for her. Despite his dress and easy manner, his power, his importance, were palpable.

  And Thorn was of even higher status, she reminded herself.

  It would not do.

  It was a lovely golden day, as sometimes came in December, when the low sun struck warmly off bare branches. Bella paused at the top of the entrance steps to look out over the parkland, drawing pleasures into herself. There was so much beauty in the world if one cared to look. A person could make a good life without a husband, without children, without that special kind of love.

  Lady Calliope was being carried up the steps now in her big chair. Bella waited and then entered the house with her, for she was still intimidated by this grand establishment.

  The house was as splendid inside as out, but she saw no sign of the lavish Christmas ornamentation she’d been promised. She was introduced to the marchioness, who was unconcealably enormous, and who rubbed her belly with a wince. “I think the child’s practicing a jig in there.”

  Her glow, her ripe contentment, gave Bella another pang. But then, nearly everything did. She curtsied and thanked Lady Rothgar for inviting her.

  “You are most welcome, Miss Barstowe.”

  Lord Rothgar came to his wife’s side. “You must excuse us for celebrating quietly this year, Miss Barstowe. We are all at the whim of the littlest Malloren.”

  He smiled at his wife.

  Stars in the eyes again, even here among such people.

  Might it be possible?

  That was a question she’d forbidden herself, but it broke through. She shook it away. The Marchioness of Rothgar had been the Countess of Arradale before her marriage—a countess in her own right, having inherited the title from her father. Like should marry like. Wasn’t that in the Bible?

  She was given into the hands of a maidservant and taken upstairs, then led through a bewildering maze of corridors to a room that seemed too grand for a mere companion. Bella knew better than to say so, but she asked where Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope were.

  “Just down this corridor, miss. You won’t lose them, but everyone new here gets lost. Don’t you hesitate to ring for a footman to guide you. Here’s the bell.” She showed Bella a knob by the fireplace. “Just give it a good hard pull, miss, and it rings down below. I’ll go and get you some hot water so you can freshen yourself after your journey, miss, and soon your luggage will be here. Is there anything else you’d like, miss?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Bella absorbed the room, absorbed the great house around her, surprised to find that it wasn’t as terrifying as she’d imagined. Despite its size and grandeur and the confusing warren of corridors, there was a comfortable, domestic feel to Rothgar Abbey.

  The question poked at her again, and new thoughts began to stir, like seedlings unfurling from the ground in spring. She resisted for a moment, but then relaxed and allowed them.

  The journey here had changed her in some peculiar way. Being in a new place, one without any associations, was also having an effect.

  To fight her greatest desire would be insane, and if tiny plants could push aside stones, as she knew they could, she would let the seedlings in her mind do as they would.

  Chapter 33

  In no time at all, Bella felt at home at Rothgar Abbey. Perhaps it was because this was, as said, a small gathering, mostly of family. It being the cold time of year, the dozen or so people generally gathered in modestly sized rooms that were easily kept warm.

  She learned that in previous years, Lord Rothgar’s brothers and sisters had always attended, but with their marriages patterns were changing. They were beginning traditions in their own homes. If Lord Rothgar minded, he showed no sign of it. He, after all, was also changing patterns. He had a grown daughter here for the first time in Lady Huntersdown, a lively and lovely Italian lady.

  Bella remembered how Lady Fowler had tried to make Petra Huntersdown’s existence a foul scandal and was ashamed of having any association with it. She wished she could apologize, but Bellona Flint was dead, taking all her deeds with her.

  Soon Lord Rothgar would have a new child, probably the first of many, and in the future Christmas at Rothgar Abbey would take on a new tone.

  There were a few more guests, whom Bella gathered were so accustomed to spending the season here that they’d been invited. A Miss Malloren, who was middle-aged and inclined to gossip. She knew all Bella’s scandals, but must have been warned by someone, for after the first time, she didn’t mention them. A Mr. Thomas Malloren was very quiet, and a Lieutenant Moresby was some family connection and home from sea with nowhere else to go. He was inclined to be pleased by everything, including Bella, which made him an excellent addition. She had no real interest in him, of course, but he became her partner and she enjoyed his company.

  Lord Huntersdown seemed to sometimes compete for Bella’s attention, which embarrassed her until she realized his wife didn’t mind.

  “Ah, Robin! He flirts as he breathes,” Petra Huntersdown said in her delicious Italian accent, “and indeed, he does it so well. Is not the English Christmas odd? The heavy plum pudding. The gigantic log. Tomorrow the men must cut it. That will be amusing. We will walk down together, for we are the only two young ladies to hold the coats, which I gather is another tradition.”

  And so Bella walked with Petra on Christmas Eve to watch the younger men strip to their shirts to wield a huge saw and cut the Yule log. Even Lord Rothgar took part.

  She went with Lieutenant Moresby to cut holly, ivy, and mistletoe, and later allowed him to steal a kiss under a branch of it. Or rather, she enc
ouraged him. He was quite shy. Everyone worked together to decorate the hall with the greenery they’d cut, sometimes singing traditional songs.

  This was not how she’d imagined the high aristocracy, and among them, she was aware of her small plant growing, of new leaves unfurling.

  Oh, she knew the other side, the glitter and formality, the arrogance and distance, but now she knew this too. Simply a family celebrating Christmas—and awaiting, with some anxiety, the birth of an impatiently wanted child.

  The doctors had said it might come early, but here it was Christmas Eve, and no sign of labor. A doctor and midwife were in residence, constantly observing Lady Rothgar, who now kept mostly to her room. Lord Rothgar played the host well, but tension grew in him.

  “Because he can do nothing,” Petra said to Bella. They were weaving bright ribbons around the railings of the stairs. Others were hanging tiny bells. They rang prettily, but the jingle was beginning to get on Bella’s nerves.

  “There is nothing anyone can do,” Bella said. “But how terrible if anything were to go amiss.”

  Then she remembered that Petra carried a child, though there were some months before her lying-in, and wished she’d not said that.

  “He is used to making things be as he wishes them to be. With a Malloren, he says, all things are possible. It is hard to love.”

  “Is it?” Bella asked, tying a holly sprig in with the ribbon. The berries were plentiful, which was held to mean good luck, but she remembered an old song that equated them with blood.

  “But of course. When we love, we fear above all to lose our beloved.”

  “Perhaps it’s better not to love, then.”

  “There is no choice. It is life. It visits us all.” Petra looked at her. “You . . . you have never loved?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then you have not loved,” Petra said with a dismissive flick of her hand.

  “Yes, I have!” Bella protested, then sat on a step, despairing at herself.

  Petra sat beside her, all eagerness. “Tell me!”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Because to speak of it would turn a seedling into an oak in a moment, shattering everything.

  “Are you all right, love?” It was Lord Huntersdown, all concern for his wife because she’d sat down.

  “Of course.” But then Petra admitted, “Just a little tired.”

  He helped her up, so tenderly, with such concern. Love, wondrous and terrible, and not to be denied, but the sweetest gift of a lifetime.

  So, Bella thought, watching the couple move away, absorbed in each other. Thus the tree grows, guard against it as one will.

  She sat on the stairs amid the greenery of hope and the ribbons of celebration, with the bells of joy tinkling all around her. Everything now seemed perfectly clear. So much so that she couldn’t imagine why she’d ever seen it any other way.

  Love was the key, and they had love. Captain Rose or the Duke of Ithorne—the man beneath was the same. He was the hero of the Black Rat and the generous traveling companion. He was her partner in revenge, her lover, and her friend.

  Love glowed inside her. The same love he’d confessed to with perfect simplicity.

  Such love was not delicate, to be crushed by trials and difficulties. It was like a plant, steady and strong, and able to move stones, even mountains. It was an oak.

  Lady Thalia came to the bottom of the stairs. “Bella, dear, are you all right?”

  Bella rose, smiling. “Perfectly.” She picked up some ribbon and another holly branch.

  Except that her blindness might have cost her everything.

  What if he’d changed his mind? A month had passed.

  No, that couldn’t be, or their love was nothing.

  But she’d rejected him. So definitively. If only she could go to him now, take back that rejection. It was impossible. She must wait. . . .

  Why?

  She dropped the greenery in her hands and hurried to the small drawing room, where she knew writing materials were kept.

  March hare! she thought, and laughed, covering her mouth before anyone heard her. She was laughing for happiness, but a giddiness was bubbling up in her at thoughts of future bliss.

  She could rush out to go to him—she could even steal a horse!—but she wasn’t quite mad enough for that. He was too far away across wintry country. As it was, all she could do was try to put something coherent on paper.

  She ruined five sheets, until she settled for absurdly simple words.

  Thorn, my dearest,

  Forgive me. Yes. Please.

  Yours, Bella

  She made a mess of folding and sealing it, and then, in some idiotic lingering resistance, didn’t want anyone to know to whom she sent a letter. She forced her way through that and wrote the direction, then went in search of Lord Rothgar.

  He was talking to Lady Calliope, and he turned a smiling face to Bella, but she saw the shadow of frightened love beneath.

  The price of love.

  One she’d pay, and willingly.

  “I need to send this letter,” she said. “I know it’s Christmas, and I’m sorry to ask that a groom take it, but . . . but I must.”

  He saw the address on the letter and his smile warmed and perhaps the shadow shrank a little. “Of course you must. I’ll see to it.”

  Then there was only waiting, as she, as everyone played their festive parts.

  As midnight drew close, Lady Rothgar came down, smiling and seemingly relaxed, which eased the mood. She walked awkwardly, however, as if her burden were becoming too much. A large wooden box was carried in, and Lord Rothgar turned to Lady Thalia. “Would you care to open it?”

  Thalia was like a child with a present. “May I? How exciting!”

  She raised the lid to reveal straw, and then dug in it. She pulled out a painted donkey. “Oh,” she said. “Is it a presepe ? How wonderful. I was thinking how sad it was not to have one this year. Bella, dear, come help me. Genova brought one here last year. You remember Genova? Who married Ashart? Such games they played with each other last Christmas. Young love, young love. It never does run smooth, but that is part of the pleasure. Everyone help!” she called gaily. “We must have this set up so the baby can arrive exactly at midnight.”

  She seemed unaware of the looks that flickered around. Lady Rothgar seemed undisturbed. She simply sat, stroking her belly, and watched.

  Petra was almost as excited as Lady Thalia, for this was an Italian tradition. She chattered to her husband about it, about other presepes, about other Christmases, and he grinned, entranced by her delight.

  Love multiplies, Bella thought. It multiplies pain, but also joy.

  A table had been set near the fireplace for the nativity scene, and it was put together with time to spare. The pieces were beautifully made, but there were only the major ones—Mary, Joseph, the ox, and the ass. There were three shepherds and some sheep, but Lady Thalia and Petra insisted on placing them some distance from the wooden structure that formed the stable. There were also three kings on their camels, but apparently they must wait for the Epiphany.

  “Genova had many more pieces,” Lady Thalia said, “but you will add more over time, as her parents did, as birthday presents for your child.”

  This time, her words carried a certainty that soothed.

  Then clocks chimed and distant bells rang, and it was Christmas Day. Thalia put the baby in the manger and they all sang carols.

  The real baby hadn’t arrived, however, and as everyone went to bed, Bella wondered how long it would take for Thorn to reply to her note.

  The March madness was seeping away, leaving room for doubts. Could love fade? Could it die?

  Chapter 34

  Christmas Day brought sunshine, and after the service in the chapel Bella escaped outside. She needed to be alone for a little while.

  Her prayers had mostly been selfish—Let him still want me; let him say so quickly; let this agony of waitin
g be over. But she’d remembered to pray for Lady Rothgar’s baby to come soon and come easily, so the worry could be banished from the house.

  She walked briskly along a frosty path between evergreen hedges, and she was unsure whether she was attempting to race toward something or run away from it. Love, she decided, was madness. She did not feel sane. She walked and walked around the paths as if she could truly walk to Kent, but then made herself stop.

  She must return to the house for the Christmas feast.

  They used a small dining room, but the dishes were grand, and some were served on golden platters. Fine wine flowed and there were frequent toasts, but beneath it all, impatience and anxiety lurked. Bella began to think it would be better if they put aside festivity until the baby came.

  Or did she mean, until Thorn came?

  And then, just as the flaming plum pudding was carried in, Lady Rothgar said, “Ah.”

  All eyes turned to her, and no one needed explanation. She did not look afraid or in pain; she simply looked relieved. “I really do think . . . at last . . .”

  Her husband was by her instantly, helping her to her feet and from the room. It left an awkward dislocation, but Lord Huntersdown took over. “Good news, and yet more reason to celebrate. Sit, my friends, and let us continue the feast.”

  They did so, but Bella suspected most people’s attention was partly on what was happening elsewhere. The birth of a child did not always go smoothly. Sometimes babe or mother, or both, died. The celebration continued, however, moving to the drawing room for cards.

  Bella was disconcerted to find herself at a large table, expected to play a gambling game. It made her think of Augustus, but the game was rather silly, and played for ivory fish. Everyone, even Lady Calliope, was soon exclaiming with excitement or disappointment, and enjoying themselves.