Claiming the Heart of a Duke: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 1)

by Arietta Richmond

  Completely awake now, he drank deeply of the water, which Bulwick had thoughtfully provided, in a carafe on the side table. He went to the window, opened the heavy velvet drapes, and peered outside.

  It was still dark, but a faint rosy shade began to colour the East. No question of going back to sleep, now. Hunter was sure that Nick was already up and going.

  He would look for the old groom and wipe away the last of the nightmare, listening to Nick relating everything that had been going on here, during his long absence from home.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Lady Louisa Barrington, Duchess of Melton, looked critically at her face in the mirror, while her young maid, Prudence, was arranging her hair under a flattering beribboned lace cap.

  “You look yourself again, my lady, if I may say so. You have filled up a bit and your eyes… But now”, she went on briskly “his Lordship is back home again and everything will be all right, will it not, my Lady?”

  Lady Melton smiled. She had known Prudence since her birth, the daughter of a respectable but impoverished family, and was used to her artless demeanour. And the girl was right. For the first time since the accident, she could look at herself with some satisfaction, and at the future with some hope.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the mindless terror that had gripped her when the careening coach, driven by some drunken lout, had suddenly appeared around the bend. The horses had reared, neighing, and the heavier vehicle had smashed full into their light travelling carriage, with a sickening noise of crushed wood. That sound was the last thing she could recall before oblivion had claimed her.

  Louisa shook herself out of her brooding. Time to start the new day and to get to know, again, her own son – so much time had passed - she wondered what sort of man he had become.

  There was so much to be said and done.

  She sighed. Some of what had to be said would not be pleasant. Her late elder son, Richard, heir presumptive to the title, had not been wise. Handsome and debonair, always exuding charm, a redoubtable Corinthian, able to spar with Gentleman Jackson himself, and to feather angles with his curricle, he had also been a reckless gambler and had entertained questionable relationships with ladies of dubious virtue. His father, the late Duke, had been so inordinately proud of his heir, that he had never checked or restrained him.

  “Don’t you fret, my boy” he had indulgently told Charles, his hard working, serious third born, when he had shown his father the heavy dent that Richard’s expenses were making in the estate’s revenues.

  “Let him be, he will calm down in time and, anyway, we can afford it, can’t we?”

  ‘Well, we are not destitute,’ she thought, ‘and the estate is vastly profitable, thanks to Charles’ thrifty management, but, with two dowries to provide for, a mansion in London to keep up, and a living to arrange for Charles, if he decides to enter the Church (although that seems rather less likely now)… things need to change. It is, truly, not seemly for Charles to act as his brother’s steward – regardless of the cost, an estate manager must be employed. And, as Hunter really must marry, and get himself an heir, a good dowry would not come amiss, now, would it?’

  ~~~~~~~~

  In a few days, a routine, of a sort, had been established.

  Hunter would wake at dawn, after a restless night plagued by nightmares, go down to the stables and have a chat with Nick, take a brisk walk in the park and then break his fast, with his family, in the small dining room.

  It was a cosy and intimate room which he liked infinitely better than the formal dining room, with its long table, musty hangings and depressing centrepieces.

  His mother would tell him about his neighbours, and expound on her plans for the coming Season; his sisters would laugh and chatter and talk of French couturierès, balls and routs; his brother would prose on about the estate, the tenants and the improvements he had thought of. Hunter would listen to everybody, nod genially, let the flow of conversation dance around him, and reprove himself for his lack of interest.

  After having dealt with decisions which entailed life or death, for much of his adult life, he could not help but feel that there was a slight lack of import, or even sense, in the topics in which his family – as dear as everyone was to him – seemed so absorbed.

  Life as Colonel Lord Barrington had been much harsher, but much simpler, than life as His Grace the Duke of Melton.

  Hunter soon realised that his mother wanted him married tout de suite, possibly before the Season ended, and preferably to a young lady with a fat dowry.

  He found this an appalling prospect, because, even if not averse to marriage in principle, he did not want to be rushed, neither did he want somebody else to choose for him.

  His mind felt scarred, still torn by everything that he had seen and done – and he was not about to explain anything of that, to anyone. It was still too sensitive a topic, and his nightmares unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

  Perusing his library, he had found a book of Ancient Greek poetry, and read a fragment by Sappho, with which he felt a total affinity:

  “Like wild gales, sweeping desolate mountains

  uprooting oaks

  Eros harrows my heart

  sweet, bitter, indomitable wild beast…”

  Beatriz was still an indelible, aching wound. He did not want to suffer again. He did not want to lose his heart to somebody who could tear it asunder.

  He wanted an affectionate, companionable marriage. He wanted to be friends with his wife. He wanted a sensible, cool-headed young woman, not some vapid, giggling miss or some haughty high-flier.

  One afternoon, while he was walking, brooding and trying to sort out his feelings, full of a sense of guilt, that he, as the Duke, could not bring himself to care, more, for the management of his estates, he wandered away from his usual path and found himself deep inside his neighbour’s park.

  Looking around, at first he did not understand where he was: the natural woods of the park had progressively given way to a more structured growth.

  The park seemed larger than he remembered, with cunningly planted thickets, graceful avenues flanked by stately trees, cosy nooks, elegant fountains, well designed flowerbeds and herbaceous borders. Even now, in the depths of the winter, it was not difficult to imagine a profusion of bright colours vying with each other to the beholder’s delight.

  He remembered the park as he had known it during his childhood: a fascinating tangle of trees, creepers and weeds, which could well become a mysterious jungle, where his friend Kevin, Lord Chester’s son, his brothers and himself, would hunt for wild beasts, find hidden treasures and fight warlike natives.

  Lord Chester must have hired a new head gardener, Hunter mused. The place had improved beyond recognition.

  His senses, honed by times when the ability to hear insignificant noises could make the difference between life and death, perceived a slight rustle, as if something were moving between the winter bare bushes, and he stepped abruptly past the branches.

  To his chagrin, he found himself at less than a foot’s distance from Lady Nerissa, who could not hold back a soft whimper of startlement at his sudden appearance.

  “I am sorry, Lady Nerissa”, he spoke softly, almost as startled as she appeared to be. “Did I scare you?”

  She smiled, lowering her eyes. He found himself disappointed that she had veiled their green-gold depths from his sight.

  “Not at all, my Lord. However, I should not be here on my own, without a chaperone. Please excuse me, I must go back at once.”

  Her beauty seemed to burn like a flame against the frozen background, composing a jewelled symphony of brilliant shades: gold, silver, coral, aquamarine, mother of pearl, as the cool winter light reflected from the warmth of her skin.

  “Nerissa!” Hunter exclaimed, loath to let her go. “Lady Nerissa, we are old friends and neighbours, are we not? Surely nobody could object to our exchanging a few words in an open place, during a casual meeting. I am the meekest and
most inoffensive of gentlemen, I do assure you!”

  Nerissa looked at Hunter under her lowered lashes. He gave an impression of energy and passion kept on a tight leash, like a wild horse straining at restraints. His deep sapphire eyes flashed in a countenance darkened by many seasons spent in warmer climates, his firm mouth and strong chin bespoke character and courage, his lean, hard body and his long, sensitive fingers, made her feel… she could not even name those feelings.

  No, he was not inoffensive, he was very dangerous, much too dangerous for her own peace of mind, for she had discovered, to her chagrin, that she found him just as attractive now, as she had as an infatuated ten year old.

  She should go away, but she could not. Mesmerised by his smile, she smiled in return.

  “Just a few minutes, then. Let’s walk, it is too cold, and the ground too damp, to sit anyway…”

  They walked for a while, making small talk, stealing surreptitious glances at each other, laughing without a real reason, somehow prisoners of the strange enchantment of their unexpected meeting.

  Nerissa felt as if they were inside a fragile, iridescent bubble and, at the same time, she clearly perceived the terrible impropriety of their situation. Even so, the rebellious mood which had made her fly from home and seek the haven of her beloved park persisted, and made her feel stubborn and daring, enjoying Hunter’s company with a carefree elation.

  But, while she was tucking a stray, wind-tossed tress under her bonnet, the portfolio she was carrying opened and the sheets inside fluttered and fell to the ground.

  Hunter was quick to stoop and help her to collect them, but was very surprised when he discovered that they were not the kind of artwork that one was used to expect from a young lady - pastels, gouaches, flowers and landscapes, painstakingly rendered, dull and respectable - but something completely different, something resembling, strangely enough, the neat battle plans he had so often pored over during his soldiering days.

  Nerissa blushed a deep crimson, and almost wrenched the sheets from his hand. The laughing, relaxed mood of the last hour disappeared in a moment, and she was suddenly tense and distant.

  “Thank you, Lord Melton,” Nerissa whispered.

  “I must go now. Goodbye…” and turning quickly, she almost ran away, leaving Hunter bewildered and wondering what all that had been about.

  Nerissa arrived home flushed and breathless, her hair dishevelled, her bonnet askew. The footman, opening the door, told her the family was in the morning room, waiting for afternoon tea to be served, and Nerissa nodded and ran lightly upstairs to restore her appearance lest she incur in her mother’s displeasure - a frequent enough occurrence, she conceded with a wry smile.

  It seemed to Nerissa she was hearing her mother’s high pitched voice: “You look like a vulgar hoyden, my daughter. It is highly unseemly for a well-bred young lady to go gallivanting around without an escort, even in one’s own parkland. One never knows whom or what one could meet. A lady’s reputation is as beautiful and as fragile as a crystal bauble: once besmirched, it is impossible to restore. I will not have a soiled dove for a daughter - have I made myself clear, Nerissa?”

  Nerissa sighed. Of course Maria, the perfect Maria, would never have behaved in such a reprehensible fashion…

  Nerissa took particular care to remove every sign of her escapade. She changed her slightly muddy boots for a pair of simple black slippers, she carefully coiled her hair, she smoothed her pale blue gown and righted the simple golden chain around her neck. A quick look in the mirror told her that she was as properly turned out as she could possibly be, and she headed to the morning room, where her family was waiting. Her mother looked her over from head to toe, as if trying – Nerissa thought - to find fault with her.

  “You are late, as usual.” Lady Chester said, in a languid resigned tone. “Am I allowed to enquire as to what kept you from joining us earlier?”

  “I was reading, Mother”, Nerissa answered quietly.

  “You’ll do better to try to improve your accomplishments, Nerissa. Gentlemen ridicule bluestockings, but admire ladies who can play pleasantly, sing sweetly, and dance with elegance and restraint. Young ladies should be pliant yet virtuous, gay yet innocent. I’ve told you so, many times, but you do not seem to take my kindly lectures to heart… You will not – alas - be noticed for your beauty, my daughter - you must be noticed for your sweet temper and pleasant disposition.”

  Nerissa suppressed, with a shudder, the highly improper thought crossing her mind - had she been a gentleman, far from being charmed, she would have been bored stiff by such a milksop. Maria, who was embroidering a linen cloth, a long strand of rainbow hued silk streaming from her deft fingers, looked up from the frame and smiled slightly.

  “I feel, Mama, that embroidery is the most feminine of arts, do you not think so?”

  Lady Chester beamed at her elder daughter.

  “Now, this is exactly the kind of charming remark suitable for a young lady. No wonder you did so well, Maria. If only your sister would heed me…”

  The Honourable Kevin Loughbridge, Lord Chester’s only son and heir, who was perusing The Sporting Magazine’s latest issue, rolled his eyes and winked at Nerissa. Their age and gender notwithstanding, they had always been close allies and accomplices, each one aiding and abetting the other’s mischief.

  Nerissa repressed a very unfeminine spurt of laughter and concentrated on sipping her tea in the most genteel fashion.

  Lord Chester looked at her with a fierce scowl – it was an expression which her father had perfected.

  “Now that the Duke is back home, you stay away from Meltonbrook Chase, my girl, do you hear me? I do not want you to consort with him, or to be seen with him, even with his mother and sisters in attendance. I don’t want to hear your name associated with his in any fashion. Always been wild to a fault, that one, until my old friend Raymond – God rest his soul! - packed him off to the Army. I don’t think they succeeded in straightening him out, mind you. He probably spent his time abroad preening in his regimentals and making it up to strump… ahem… to loose women. Goes against my grain, to see his father’s place so unworthily occupied. Now, Charles, Raymond’s youngest boy, that’s a fine steady young man. Too bad he is not the heir. Good head on his shoulders, good feel for the land.”

  Nerissa looked surreptitiously at her father, her rebellious thoughts saying things that she could not say aloud.

  “What would you say, Sir, if you knew that I spent at least one whole, unchaperoned hour with that very same despicable character, the Duke of Melton? And what would my mother think if she knew about my dream of being a garden designer? Of planning and building beautifully landscaped parks, a pleasure for the senses, as well as for the mind? Or, worse, if she knew that I am actually the one who has planned our park? That the improvements she brags about to Lady Emerson, or to Mrs. Radclyffe, the Rector’s wife, are not of the head gardener’s, but of my own contriving?”

  Nerissa sighed, simply nodded, and picked up, from the side table, the embroidery that she had been, for some weeks now, failing to do.

  Her father barely noticed. After having thus vented his spleen, Lord Chester stood up and motioned Kevin to follow him.

  “Let’s have a look at that nag you bought, my son. They probably cheated you out of most of your money, don’t you know? Let’s leave this gaggle of females to their own devices…”

  ~~~~~~~~

  Three days had passed since his meeting with Nerissa and, even if Hunter had often strolled near the place where he had run into her, he had not seen more of the elusive and enchanting young lady.

  The day before, he had gone with his mother, his brother and his sisters to pay his respects to Lord Chester and his family, but he could not help noticing the cold, formal demeanour of the Viscount and his lady wife. It was clear that the stiff-necked aristocrat had not forgiven him his youthful pranks and follies, which, Hunter had to admit, had often been outrageous enough. It seemed that Lord Chest
er could not conceive that six years at war might change a man.

  Nerissa had not been there. She was, as Lady Chester had graciously deigned to explain, with a group of ladies, led by the Rector’s wife, who had gone to bestow hand knitted scarves and socks upon the deserving poor down at the village.

  “My Maria would have gone with them, tender hearted creature that she is, but I would not have it”, she had gushed, “She is so delicate, and the weather is so very cold. We must take good care of her, on behalf of dear Lord Granville, her betrothed…”

  Hunter had to admit that Maria’s fame as a great beauty was deserved, but he thought her sister was much more interesting. Nerissa called to his mind images of green, secluded glades, limpid forest pools and the scent of freshly mown grass and crushed mint leaves.

  He remembered that rather disappointing visit, as he walked through the park in the crisp early day. It was particularly cold that morning - the frozen ground crackled under his booted feet as he walked, and his breath surrounded his face with a hazy, silvery cloud. The path led him out of a copse of thick trees, and suddenly he saw Nerissa, perched on a fence, writing in a leather bound journal of some kind.

  The morning sun, now risen far enough to touch this sheltered spot, painted her with golden highlights, contrasted against the greys and browns of the landscape, with as sure a touch as a Flemish master.

  She was totally absorbed in her task and did not see him until he was almost upon her. Some sound of his passage must have penetrated her concentration, for, suddenly, she looked up, startled, gasped, lost her balance and would have tumbled onto the damp, hard ground, had not Hunter, his reflexes honed to a fine edge, caught and held her.

  Time froze - he had her in his arms, soft, lissom, vibrant, her deliciously lush, kissable mouth half open in fright, her wonderful eyes wide, a rosy flush on her marvellous high cheekbones. Hunter felt as if something deep in his soul was stirring, some half-forgotten magic, a hopeful wonder he was only dimly aware of. Then, reality reasserted itself, with its rules, shattering the enchantment. Hunter steadied Nerissa and let her go.