A Governess in the Duke's Darkness: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Abigail Agar

  Silence hung over all of them. Even Christopher’s smile faltered. He stopped bouncing and instead wrapped his arms around his back, turning his eyes to the ground. Behind them, the music continued to swell, churning the ball-goers into another dance. They twirled, their gowns flowing.

  “You love him, don’t you?” Claudia whispered.

  “I can’t possibly,” Marina returned. “For he would never love me in return.”

  Claudia shook her head. But she held no relevant answer. For despite her dress, she was only a child—a child who had suffered and lost. Marina regretted so that she had to be a part of that loss. She ached, knowing she was bringing so much pain to them. For soon, she would disappear once more, follow her Lady back to the Garrett mansion. Hunker over a pot of stew, shelling skins from potatoes. That would be her life, for good.

  Chapter 35

  The Duke beamed at the orchestra. He stood midway through the ballroom, a dark, regal statue—one so dominant-looking, so strange and bizarre and foreboding, that nobody dared to approach him. The strings swelled, creating a kind of mountain of tension. Around him, the ballroom dancers twirled, their wet eyes turning to him only when they had to, in order to avoid him. The conductor’s baton whirled left, right, up—directing the orchestra as they came to the dramatic conclusion of the song before dropping down to a simmering, quiet song. How incredible it was that the instruments had been only long strips of wood, just weeks before. How incredible that now, they beamed such life and vitality into the world, with the light touch of the fingers of these musicians.

  And how grateful the Duke was that he could see it all take place: the light from the chandeliers, flickering above them; the Lords and Ladies in their fine gowns, sipping champagne and placing their fingers against their painted faces, ensuring they remained a pretty portrait for any passers-by. The Queen herself sat near the orchestra, her chin pressing against the top of her hand. Her eyes were bird-like, hunting across the crowd. What was she searching for?

  The Duke whirled around, his coat swirling behind him, and he reached for a glass of champagne on a passing platter. With a jolt, he realised he hadn’t seen his children in quite some time. And, as he marched further into the crowd, he began to see signs that they weren’t up to any good. One table, in particular, had smashed halfway to the ground, with champagne glasses shattered across the floor. Had that been the work of Christopher, leaping around the ballroom to the beat of his own drum? Had it been Lottie, reaching for a cookie?

  The Duke hunted for his children, searching for the glittering turquoise of Claudia’s dress, or Lottie’s curls quaking as she danced. And within just moments, it seemed the sea of people parted before him, directing his eyes towards a far pillar. There, he spotted the four of them: Claudia, Lottie, Max, and Christopher, with their arms wrapped tight around another person, a woman. A woman with alarmingly dark hair, in no beautiful up-do. The woman wore an ill-fitting dress of deep emerald, and it seemed to be stitched together half-heartedly in the centre—so that it fell off from the right side of her waist.

  This woman. With a jolt, the Duke realised who she was. He flung himself forward, with the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea. They gave him dark-eyed looks, muttering about “that crazy Duke, the musical instrument business. You know the one.” But he ignored them, his heart hammering somewhere in his throat.

  What the hell was she doing there? The question was so nonsensical. Marina Blackwater had no context at the royal palace. The security had been top-notch, coming in. Certainly she wouldn’t have been able to sneak into the ballroom? And why. Why, had she come all the way there?

  But he halted, about ten feet away from his children and their ex-governess, watching. Marina’s face had all-out crumpled into tears. Max’s face was pink with worry, and Claudia was mussing with her hair like a child. Even Christopher seemed awash with feeling. He was asking something of Marina, his voice growing increasingly loud. The Duke strained to hear it.

  “But please, Marina, you have to come back with us. We can’t go home without you. Why won’t you come?” Christopher demanded, sounding obstinate. “You told me you’d help me with finding the treasure, in the spring. Don’t you remember? You said we would hunt together, the moment the ground thawed.”

  The Duke’s eyes burned towards Marina. He felt he’d never seen a more beautiful woman, despite her dishevelled appearance. Her fingers laced over Christopher’s curls as she murmured her response, something the Duke couldn’t make out. But Christopher’s crumpled face, in return, told him that Marina had no plans to return.

  This blackened the Duke’s heart. Behind him, the orchestra began to swell once more, an emotional piece that reminded him of those long, sizzling nights, taut with desire, when he and Marina had played violin alongside one another. Still, his eyes burned towards hers.

  Why had he pushed her so far from his life?

  Why had she allowed him to?

  It was as if Marina could sense his eyes upon her. Her eyelashes fluttered up, so that her hazel eyes met with his. Immediately, she yanked from the children, her body becoming all hard angles, all fear.

  She swirled from the pillar, rushing towards the exit of the ballroom. His children dropped their arms to their sides, incredulous. Immediately, Lottie burst into tears. Her face looked bright red, a baby bird’s screeching for food.

  The Duke couldn't think any longer. He raced for his Lottie, bringing her into his arms. Claudia’s eyes met with his as he passed. Her words, “Please, Father. Please, bring her home,” continued to echo in his mind as he rushed.

  The three other children ambled up behind him, and they chased Marina. He was conscious that Christopher and Max both said her name, hollering so that their voices bounced off the walls of the foyer.

  But it wasn’t until his, the Duke’s voice, rang out that Marina spun around. She was already in the doorway of the massive foyer. Her chest heaved. From outside, rain spat on her face, joining the tears.

  Marina smashed her hands against her sides, shaking her head. The Duke stepped towards her, closing the gap. Everything within him forced him forward. It was as if he had no other option, but her.

  “Why are you following me?” she whispered when he reached her. “Please. You can let me go. You have to do this. I understood what you wanted, back at the estate. I understood that it can’t be so. And now, look at me. Look at this tattered dress and these scabbed hands. Look at how little I’m enough for you. I can’t imagine how I ever thought …” She trailed off, stumbling over her words. Her eyes grew increasingly orb-like. They were akin to Marybeth’s, yes. But in this light, the Duke saw the difference.

  Marybeth would always be Marybeth. She would remain a memory.

  But Marina? She was something else. And she ached with passion, directly before him. How could he ever refute her again?

  “Just tell me to go,” Marina whispered. “Please. Just let me go.”

  The Duke shook his head. He placed Lottie beside him, so that his hands were free. Lottie joined the other three, who formed a kind of tribe off to his left. He felt they were appealing to her, a joint effort.

  They wouldn’t let her leave them. They couldn’t let her live her life alone.

  “Marina, you are all we want,” the Duke said, his voice raspy. “Marina, you’re the only woman we want. As our governess. As our friend. And as our love.”

  Marina crumpled, drawing her hands against her chest. She gasped for air. But before she could answer, the Duke reached for her. He gripped around her waist, bringing her frame against his. And then, his eyes closed—for he truly needed to see nothing at all to know the truth of his love for her—he kissed her.

  He kissed her, as the orchestra swelled behind them, as his children hugged one another close, as the rain pattering grew more ferocious outside. When all had been dark, they’d had one another. And they always would.

  THE END

  Can't get enough of Marina and Adolphus? Then make sur
e to check out the Extended Epilogue to find out…

  Click the link or enter it into your browser

  http://abigailagar.com/marina

  (After reading the Extended Epilogue, turn the page to read the first chapters from “The Mystery of the Hunted Lady”, my Amazon Best-Selling novel!)

  The Mystery Of The Hunted Lady

  Introduction

  Vera Ladislaw, a third generation Polish aristocrat, lives a quiet life in England, with her father dabbling in political reform and agricultural innovations, and her mother always on the hunt for a good husband. When the unthinkable happens, Vera’s life is torn apart. Alone, framed for a terrible crime and on the run, she disguises herself as a boy and finds work at the remote and storied Avonside Manse, where a mysterious Lord lives in splendid isolation. Will she be able to discover the truth?

  Lord James Stanley, despite his extravagant balls and his rakish ways, is a rather lonely figure. When he finds a confidant in the alter ego of young Vera, a strong bonding is to come. He keeps well-sealed secrets himself, but when Vera’s true identity is revealed, will he still stand for her innocence? Will he be able to trust her?

  Despite him being a notorious libertine, Vera finds there is more to him than meets the eye and soon finds herself caught in a complicated web of romance, intrigue, and danger. How will they manage to untangle this web and find true happiness in one another?

  Chapter 1

  Although aware of her own beauty in the mirror, Vera Ladislaw was not terribly au fait with its effect on men. It was a new power that was only just dawning on her, and she found herself intrigued by its effects.

  She had in the last year or so of her flowering become aware of their oddly sweaty brows or, at times, unpleasantly leering smiles. On other occasions they seemed over-gentle in their desire to serve her tea or help her into a carriage, even when, by any estimation of blood, they were of far superior stock than her.

  She had not yet decided if she found these attentions flattering, which of course they were, or frightening as she found herself increasingly studied as if she were one of her father’s specimen butterflies pinned under a glass.

  To be a foreign aristocrat was a great leveller in England since so many of such diverse ranks had slipped across the Channel chased by the Corsican devil, Napoleon, in the preceding years of conquest.

  The Ladislaws had established themselves before this fashionable rush, having come across from Poland in the ’70s when Prussian upstarts had replaced the Polish aristocracy at sword and musket point.

  The Ladislaws had been established in and around Bathcombe for long enough now to have all but lost their accents and to have established a thoroughly, in their view, debased living as merchant farmers.

  Great-grandmother Ladislaw had been forced to pawn the family’s State Tiara to provide capital for her husband’s business, and although they now lived on a small country estate owned outright – and were able to keep Mishka, their maidservant – the need to work for a living still stung for Vera’s Maman and Papa.

  One thing about her beauty that Vera had become used to was the knowledge that in the mind of Maman and Papa it was hitched firmly to the family’s fortunes. For several months, the farm had been assailed by suitors invited to view her rather in the way Papa would take prize cattle into the market, and with each visit Maman had repeated the importance of a suitable match, through which the family might come by a title in their new country.

  A poor choice on the other hand, in the overwrought words of Maman, would condemn the family ‘to join the growing bourgeoisie of industrial England.’

  So Vera had spent many an afternoon over the summer at tea and cakes with men of many professions, so long as that profession yielded at least eight-hundred a year, or else came with a peerage.

  Vera took the task of understanding these men very seriously but found almost at once that it was impossible to draw a man into a discussion. She was either mumbled at by the weak, or ignored wholly by the strong that saw her as little more than a clothes-rack or doll.

  Today, however, the suitor in question had made a promising start. He was young, showing signs of much the same lack of surety that Vera herself felt. A man with a regimental uniform and the beginnings of what was clearly his first moustache growing unconvincingly from his upper lip.

  He sipped his tea and a rime of milky brown hung in droplets from the sparse down of his upper lip. Vera was distracted enough by the mishap that she almost missed his proud boast to be heading to, ‘Your homeland, Poland, I hope. We are to be sent to reinforce the Prussians against Napoleon’s advance.’

  ‘I am sure you are aware that the Prussians are occupiers of Poland,’ she said, reminded of Maman’s habit of wincing theatrically whenever Prussia was mentioned. ‘My family is only here because the Prussians sit atop our rightful lands like a plague. While I would not wish harm upon yourself or the fighting men of my adopted homeland, you must understand I feel a great deal of hope when I hear that Napoleon is knocking at our door bringing with him the chance for an independent Poland within his Empire.’

  The words had come out in a nervous rush, and she felt herself blushing, in part because she had got carried away and in part because she knew that so much of what she said was not her thoughts or feelings but those of her father.

  So you’re parroting Papa’s political speeches now, she scolded herself.

  ‘I say,’ the young man said, rather startled. ‘You’re not rooting for this Napoleon fellow, are you?’ He was squinting suspiciously at her as if she were hiding state secrets beneath her petticoats and he could suss them out by staring at her bodice hard enough.

  She blushed again. Fix this you silly thing, her inner voice snapped.

  When he met her eyes and she laughed self-consciously, he was clearly a little unsure of himself, but Vera was pleased to see her good humour was carrying him along.

  ‘I am a mere spectator of this back and forth,’ she said aloud. ‘Britain has created its Empire abroad; Napoleon has created his in Europe. Neither Empire worries about what people fall beneath the boots of progress and expansion. I am on neither side in this; the French Republic may be as brutal as the Prussian tyranny in the end. I may never get to see the land of my forebears. So, I will continue to drink my tea and observe, while brave men like you go forth to decide the outcome of history. Are you not at all afraid to go?’

  Bestowed by her words with the power to shape continents, the boy, whose name Vera suddenly realised she had forgotten, seemed to sit up a little straighter.

  It felt almost like one of her father’s experiments; she had tried a new track and got a better result. She felt a little more confidence, glad she had not upset the young man.

  ‘Well, of course,’ he said, attempting to put an authoritative tone in his voice. ‘Nerves are part of the soldier’s life. It’s dangerous work after all, but compared to the thrill of the adventure of it, the joy of doing my duty – why, I feel lucky to be sent!’

  He looked so much like a schoolboy pleased to have been picked to play cricket for his school, that Vera was forced to lift the over delicate china teacup to her lip and hide her smile behind the hand-painted china.

  He is sweet, so keen. She wondered if her own uncertainties showed as clearly on her face.

  The tea was a late picking and tasted bitter, even with the rich creamy milk which had come fresh that morning from the Ladislaw’s herd. Vera was making a mental note to tell Mishka to spend a little extra on a decent blend when a new game occurred to her.

  What fun that might be, she thought.

  Waiting for the boy’s eulogy of the military life to come to a close, she took a small breath to steady her nerves and asked: ‘Are you very good at shooting a musket?’

  ‘Of course, the British army trains with live ammunition. No one shoots straighter or faster than a Red Coat.’ He may have actually winked at this point.