Falling for the Heartbroken Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  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 porcelain 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 despising 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 irrit
ation 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.

  However, it is some distance from the dining room, and I had wandered down several corridors before I realized that not only was I nowhere near finding the morning room, but I also had no idea how to make my way back.

  And then a door opened suddenly, and Mr Winchester marched out of it with a very stern look on his face. He came out so quickly that I gasped, but he made no apology whatsoever for startling me.

  “Your Grace? Have you come to look for me in particular?” he said in a tone that reminded me very much of the stern classics tutor my father had employed in the summer months when Henry was back from Eton.

  I must admit, something about it made me feel like a child, as if I had done something naughty and that I ought not to have been in that part of the house at all. Despite the fact that by dint of my marriage, that house was now my home.

  “No, I have not come to look for you, Mr Winchester,” I said with a little polite aggression of my own.

  I was determined, you see, not to stutter and blush before him. I suppose these last weeks have changed me, Ariadne, and I am not quite as sweet-natured as I once was. In truth, I am a little angry at the world, and I find that the only people I can think of in the same way, with the old love, are you, of course, Lady Dearborn, and Eames, my father’s butler.

  Not a very great list, is it? Especially when I used to have such great care for almost everybody.

  Anyway, to return to the unusual Mr Winchester, he looked a little taken aback with my firm stance although he did not speak and instead chose simply to raise his eyebrows in question.

  “I was trying to make my way to the morning room, Mr Winchester, but it would appear I have taken a wrong turn, or indeed several wrong turns. Perhaps you would be so good as to direct me a little better.” I was polite, but still, I did not allow any concession in my tone.

  I suppose I was neither friendly nor unfriendly, and I have determined to remain that way until I have a better idea of the man himself.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” he said and gave me the very briefest and tightest of smiles. “But it is rather a convoluted explanation, so perhaps I should walk with you.” He came fully out of the room he was in, a room I assume now to be his own little study or office, and he closed the door behind him.

  We walked in silence for what seemed like an eternity, and it was clear how very wrong I had got my bearings when I had set off in search of the morning room in the first place.

  Walking at Mr Winchester’s side gave me a great sense of his size, and he is so upright in his bearing that he reminded me a little of a friend of my father who was a Colonel in the British Army at the time of the war with France.

  I can hardly explain what I am about to say to you next, so you must make of it what you will. There was something about walking at the side of that man which gave me a deep feeling of safety, of security.

  But how can that be, Ariadne, when he has not been particularly friendly, and I have not felt myself once to be in any kind of danger? It makes no sense, does it?

  So, at least I will have something to think about to take my mind off my situation. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I shall devote my time to trying firstly to befriend my maid, Nella West and secondly to solving the riddle of Mr Winchester. If, indeed, he is a riddle at all and not simply a standoffish man of no particular interest. Only time will tell.

  You must write back to me as soon as you can to let me know if we are safe to meet at Lady Dearborn’s. Now that I know I am free to come out on Thursday, I should very much like to. I think it will make the unreality of the last fortnight a little easier to manage.

  My dear Ariadne, I cannot wait to see you again and hear all your news, and I dearly hope that I shall see you on Thursday.

  With much love,

  Eliza.”

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