The Duke's Last Hunt

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “It has been for three months or more,” Rufus snapped.

  “How trying for you,” replied his younger brother.

  Eliza began to feel that she had fallen headlong into some tangled family quarrel and could find neither head nor tail of the string.

  “But who was living there?” demanded Adele.

  “Caretakers,” said Rufus shortly. “They are gone now.”

  “How many do we expect for the luncheon tomorrow?” asked the duchess, deftly deflecting the topic. As the details of the next day’s hunt filled the air, Eliza was able to retrieve her hand from underneath the duke’s large paw.

  13

  After dinner, the ladies adjourned to the drawing room, and after a suitable interval, half the gentlemen made their appearance—the duke, Mr. Turold, and Lord Henry were absent. Eliza endured three quarters of an hour of hearing her father discuss business ventures with Mr. Curtis—acting for all the world as if he had money to scatter about—then pleaded a headache and deserted the drawing room. Did he really think Rufus would be so full of largesse to his newly acquired relations?

  The summer sun was just beginning to dip behind the horizon, and instead of retiring to her rooms, Eliza sought solitude outside in the gardens. The roses were inviting at this time of day, the low sun bathing them in a gentle glow. Eliza admired the scent of a few of them before turning down the path that led past the garden maze. She would find her bench and sit and think.

  But the solitude she craved was not to be found tonight. She had no sooner sat down and smoothed out her skirts than she heard men’s voices from the maze behind her.

  “Why her?” asked a surly voice. “There could be so many others.”

  “Why not?” replied his companion. She recognized the duke’s voice. “She’s beautiful, and in just the style I like. She’s unassuming. She’s vulnerable.”

  “She’s a simpleton,” said the other man.

  Eliza nearly gasped aloud but instead put a hand over her mouth.

  “And what of it?” replied the duke.

  Eliza did not think she would ever be able to forgive him for that. She knew that she was painfully shy, awkward even—but that he should think her a simpleton? An imbecile? Her hands balled into fists.

  “A clever girl would not come along with me so easily. I suppose what I should do is thank you for the introduction, as it were. I would never have noticed her if it had not been for you.”

  Eliza’s fingernails dug into her palms. What was it that her mother had remembered? That she had danced with Walter Turold at some assembly? It must have been he that set the duke on her scent. It must be he conversing with her betrothed behind the hedge.

  A stir of movement from somewhere nearby caught her by surprise. Someone else was there outside the maze—a second eavesdropper.

  She stood up quickly and felt a rush of dizziness and sent up a silent prayer that she would not faint. Her ankle turned slightly on the uneven grass, and in a moment Lord Henry was at her side, one hand supporting her arm, the other with finger pressed against his lips enjoining her to silence.

  Time seemed broken as Lord Henry led her quietly down the path. Eliza felt hot tears running down her face. She could not look up. Which was more awful—that the man she was to marry thought thus of her, or that Lord Henry had overheard the shameful words?

  They had half circumambulated the house now and put the building between themselves and the hedge maze. In another couple moments they would come round to the porch between the columns and the front door of the house. The yellow twilight was turning to purple and blue, and shadows were all around.

  Lord Henry stopped, pulling Eliza to a halt as well. He turned to face her without loosening his grip on her elbow. A quick glance through her own wet eyelashes showed his dark eyes full of concern. “Eliza…”

  She tried to pull away.

  “What you heard—”

  “Please! As you are a gentleman, I beg you not to speak of it.”

  His lips parted in protest, but no argument came forth. She had disallowed him the office of friend, and he was too kind to force the intimacy upon her.

  “May I escort you back to the house?” He had let go of her and was offering his arm properly now.

  Eliza wiped the back of her hand over her tear-stained cheeks. “As long as you leave me at the door to enter on my own.” She did not want to be seen in his company—not while in such a state.

  “As you wish.”

  They rounded the corner of the house and climbed the steps. Eliza needed to be rid of him then, before the butler or the footmen took notice. “Good night, your lordship.”

  “Henry,” he reiterated. “I believe the familiarity is justified now that you have agreed to become my sister.”

  Is that what she had agreed to? At the thought of such a consequence, she began to sob uncontrollably. Pulling the door open, she ran into the house, through the saloon, and up the stairs to her room where she fell on her bed and wept until the summer’s night went black.

  * * *

  Henry paused by the door, his brow knit in consternation. A wretched business, this. What exactly had Eliza overheard? She must have heard enough to know that Rufus—on the very day he was proposing marriage to her—was pursuing another woman.

  Whatever she had heard, it had cut her to the core. Her face was absolutely stricken, her body trembling with shock. Henry was torn by conflicting emotions of rage and pity. He wanted to strike Rufus across the face and call him out with a brace of pistols. He wanted to fold Eliza Malcolm in his arms and still her shaking until she felt safe again.

  But first there were other affairs that must be handled. He stopped staring at the door behind which Eliza had disappeared and returned to the maze. The voices behind the maze were silent now. Rufus was nowhere to be seen, and Walter was pacing beside the entrance. He looked up at the sound of Henry’s footfalls, his long hair falling around his face in lank curls. “Well, did you hear it?”

  “Not all of it,” answered Henry. “I was…interrupted.”

  “He threw it in my face at first, said it was my fault he had even noticed her, but when he came to see that I was in earnest, he changed his tune. Said he’d stay away from her and not so much as lay a finger on her—an especial favor to me.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Like I believe the devil! He’ll search her out again at his first opportunity.”

  “Did you part quarreling?”

  Walter snorted and kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. “No, I let him think he’d convinced me. Thanked him for his grand gesture.” He spat on the ground. “But what now? How do I stop him?”

  Henry felt a peculiar rush of pleasure at the question—could it be that Walter respected his opinion?—but also a poignant sense of loss. Ten years gone of nothing but silence between them. Ten years of friendship wasted, or even worse, ceded to Rufus, for after that awful event, Walter had turned to his older brother for companionship. Perhaps Walter still respected his opinion on this matter, but it was as certain as rain in spring that he no longer respected him.

  “You should warn the Reverend,” said Henry. It was the only reasonable course of action.

  Walter scowled and did not respond.

  “Is there any reason not to?”

  “He has a…weak heart.”

  “Truly?” Henry remembered the Reverend’s sturdy physique. “He does not look it.”

  “It’s true though,” growled Walter, “and it’ll startle him badly to hear of this. She’s the apple of his eye. His only jewel.”

  “I do not doubt you,” said Henry placatingly. “Well then, have you a better idea?”

  “I must watch Rufus. All the time. Never let him out of my sight till we’re back in London.”

  “Is that…possible?”

 
Walter shrugged. “It will have to be.”

  * * *

  Eliza’s eyes blinked open. They felt puffy and dry after her tears last night, and her body craved another hour of sleep. But a noise in her room had awakened her. She saw a blond woman in a dark dress hovering over the small couch at the foot of the bed.

  It was certainly not Ollerton.

  “Excuse me, what are you doing?” asked Eliza, sitting up abruptly as her sleepy eyes focused on the intruder’s white cap and apron.

  “Beg your pardon, miss,” said the maid, bobbing a curtsey. She turned to leave the room. It was the same blond maid that Eliza had seen “conversing” with Henry—no, Lord Henry—in the hallway three days ago. Eliza could not help feeling an instant dislike towards her, coupled with the knowledge that such a dislike was unworthy of her.

  “Wait,” said Eliza, throwing back the bedclothes and sliding out of the bed. “What is this?” Clad only in her chemise, she walked over to the Roman couch where a green dress—somewhere between the green of the grass and the green of the forest—lay spread out with care. Eliza stroked the fabric and found it soft as lambskin.

  “If you please, miss,” said the maid with another curtsey, “it is a riding habit.”

  “But there must be some mistake. It is not mine.”

  The maid gestured to a little white card posted like a placard on the green landscape of fabric. Eliza picked it up and turned it over.

  To Miss Malcolm, with my warmest regards

  There was no signature. But even so, Eliza was almost certain who had written those words. Did the maid know as well?

  “Could you please tell me who sent this?”

  “Oh….” The maid’s eyes turned wary. “I couldn’t say, miss.”

  “I’m sure you must know who gave it to you.”

  There was no reply.

  In normal circumstances, a newly-engaged lady might expect an anonymous gift to come from her betrothed. Eliza steeled herself to pretend that all was normal. “It must be from the duke,” she remarked innocently.

  Again, there was no reply, although Eliza detected a sneer rippling across the pretty maid’s nose. She contemplated sending for the housekeeper and questioning the maid in front of her—that would get some answers—but then again, it might also have negative repercussions for the maid. As much as she disliked the maid, Eliza did not wish the girl to be let go on her account.

  “Thank you. You may go.”

  The maid disappeared within seconds.

  Eliza could see the hem of her golden gown peeking out from the door of the wardrobe. The maid must have returned that dress as well.

  She looked at the little white card again. “With my warmest regards.” No, it was not from the duke. Never mind the fact that it was too thoughtful of a present for him to give—it had probably never occurred to him whether she owned a riding habit or not—it was also too ambiguous a note. She could not imagine him giving a gift without claiming ownership of it. Rather than favoring an anonymous card, he would have had his name embroidered on the dress itself.

  But if not from the duke, then from whom?

  Eliza’s mind danced around the obvious possibility. Who was the one person who knew the outdated style of her old riding habit? Who was the one person on cordial enough terms with that blond maid to enjoin her to silence?

  She took a deep breath, unsure how she felt about such a gift from…him.

  Picking up the green habit, she held it out full length. The elegant lines of the bodice were a marked contrast to the boxy shape of her old brown habit. How had he been able to order such an exquisite garment to be made on such short notice? A longing fluttered inside of her to put on her mysterious present, to feel the bodice fitting tightly over her breasts and the skirt cascading smoothly over her hips.

  Even alone in her chamber, her cheeks began to redden. She dropped the garment guiltily. A knock sounded on the door, and without waiting for a response Lady Malcolm stepped into the room. “Good morning, daughter,” she said crisply, walking over to give her daughter a kiss on the cheek.

  Eliza was surprised at the unusual display of affection.

  “Your father told me about yesterday’s events. I must confess, I had hoped you would visit me in my rooms to tell me yourself, even though I was indisposed.” Lady Malcolm sniffed the sniff of undeserved persecution.

  “I am terribly sorry, Mama,” said Eliza in dismay. In truth, it had been most remiss of her—she ought to have been able to overcome her own distress enough to do the duty of a daughter. But then, it was doing her duty that had occasioned the distress in the first place.

  “It is no matter now,” said Lady Malcolm, magnanimously setting aside her own wounded feelings as a mother should. “Your father tells me you are not as happy about the match as some young ladies might be.”

  “No.” Eliza stared at the floor.

  “I am sorry, my dear. Marriage of any sort is a trial that a woman must bear up under. The Apostle Paul himself recommended that it were better to remain unwed since the unwed virgin cares more for the things of the Lord. But in this current world and with your father’s financial affairs being what they are….” Lady Malcolm sighed and then continued. “I suppose the brevity of the acquaintance must give you pause. However, the duke seems eager to tie up the matter quickly, and your father does as well. One must hope that love will come later for you, or if not, then at least felicity and companionship.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Eliza bit her lip. Felicity…that was what her parents had—or if not always felicity, then at least companionship. Perhaps it was foolish to hope for anything more. Perhaps it was enough to have a husband who admired his wife’s appearance…while deploring her intellect. Eliza shuddered.

  “What is this?” Lady Malcolm picked up the green riding habit and held it out with a puzzled stare.

  Eliza handed her mother the unsigned card.

  “Ah, from the duke,” Lady Malcolm surmised. It was clear that her mother had scant knowledge of the character of her future son-in-law. Lady Malcolm handed the card back to Eliza. “A romantic gesture, surely”—Eliza’s lack of enthusiasm must have registered on her face—“but perhaps it is not in your temperament to appreciate such things.”

  “Oh, certainly it is!” said Eliza, losing some of her restraint.

  Lady Malcolm frowned. “I am not sure I entirely approve of such a gift, but I suppose it will do little harm to have you wear it.” She opened the door where Ollerton was waiting for the conclusion of the conference between mother and daughter, and together they helped fit the new riding habit onto Eliza.

  When they had finished, they stood back and looked at her. Neither said a word.

  “Well?” asked Eliza, a little apprehensively, taking hold of the train to allow herself greater ease in walking.

  “You are beautiful, Miss Eliza,” said Ollerton, her old eyes shining. Eliza’s mother nodded a silent but unqualified approval.

  There were other preparations to be made—Eliza’s hair must be twisted up into a suitable frame for her face and her half boots buttoned into place, but it was not more than a quarter of an hour before she was ready to go downstairs.

  “I shall pray for you, my child,” said Lady Malcolm, “that you do not suffer any mishap in the saddle.”

  It was only then that Eliza remembered that the primary purpose of a riding habit was for riding. But somehow, in light of everything that had transpired since yesterday morning, staying atop a horse seemed one of the smallest worries clouding her future.

  14

  Henry paced the checkered floor of the saloon. He had been awake before sunrise, alert and anxious and angry. He had seen his brother ill-use his tenants and his servants, he had been ill-used by his brother himself, and the knowledge that his brother was about to ill-use two innocent women—whose lives had been inextrica
bly tangled with his own—filled him with incandescent rage. Walter would attempt to stand guard over one—could he stand guard over the other?

  Eliza’s face surfaced in his mind—he could never imagine it without seeing a sadness there—and he wanted, oh so much, to see what could happen if that sadness were exchanged for joy. She reminded him of a shy woodland flower, needing tender shade and gentle rain to flourish—and Rufus was neither of those things. He was a thick-soled boot, treading indiscriminately on any plant that stood in his path.

  Henry paused by the staircase, one hand on the banister. He could not stand by and see her trampled by abuse or withered by neglect. How if he spoke to her father and warned him of Rufus’ character? His teeth clenched. Somehow he could not imagine Sir Arthur taking his concerns seriously, especially when they stood in the way of such an advantageous alliance. The man was too deeply dipped, and the Rowland fortune promised a way out. He would never consider ending the understanding with Rufus unless another opportunity—equally lucrative—presented itself.

  Henry’s heart thudded like a drum. Why did he hesitate? He knew that he was able to offer the sort of advantageous alternative that would appeal to Sir Arthur—that was not the sticking point. Was it fair, though, to have Eliza freed from one undesirable match only to be coerced into another match that was also distasteful to her? Nothing that had transpired so far could lead him to presume that he had gained her goodwill. Was there enough time still to earn it?

  A sound at the top of the staircase drew his eyes upward. There she was, exquisitely beautiful in the gift he had given her. He would not call her a goddess—that was for statues of marble and granite—and Eliza was a woman of flesh and blood, and tears and blushes, and someday trust and love.

  Did she love him a little? Would she trust him enough?

  It was clear as sunlight that he was waiting there only for her. She came down the stairs slowly, her fingers gliding over the same banister where his hand was rooted. He held his place at the bottom of the stairs, and she came to a stop one step above him, her hand only a fingerbreadth away from his own on the railing.