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

by Arietta Richmond

  “I always seem to scare you, Lady Nerissa.” he quipped with a smile.

  She smiled in return, an impish smile that reminded him of the ten year old Nerissa, an elfin creature who was always lurking, or trailing in his wake.

  “Awkward, am I not, my Lord? I should have played the damsel in distress and feigned a fainting fit – at least that is what my mother would expect me to do”, she replied, straightening her pelisse.

  Hunter caught her slim little hand in his own.

  “It’s a good thing I interrupted you - look at your fingers, they’re blue with cold.”

  She briskly took her hand away from his and put on her gloves.

  “My tomboy past is coming back to haunt me, my Lord. I used to climb that fence and pretend it was the mainmast of a pirate ship, and I, a daring Pirate, looking for a Spanish galleon to plunder. Ahoy! Ship to starboard, mates!”

  Hunter laughed aloud, something he had not done for quite some time.

  Sobering, he looked at Nerissa, becoming lost in her mischievous green-gold eyes. There was something so refreshing, so exciting, about this beautiful young woman, who was not trying to attract his attention, or playing the coy maiden or – and he smiled again – the damsel in distress. It was as if she was unaware of her own beauty, unaware of the effect that she had on him (or, he amended, that she likely had on any other man with eyes!).

  Unexpectedly at ease with each other, they strolled together, grateful to the inclement weather, which allowed them some time alone, no one the wiser.

  ~~~~~~~~

  They met again during the following weeks, always with the same strange mixture of mutual attraction and camaraderie, of shared laughter and untold feelings. They were deeply aware of the impropriety of it, but somehow unable to stop themselves, unable to care about those rules, which seemed so irrelevant, when they were in each other’s presence.

  Hunter would brush his fingers against her smooth cheek, with the excuse of removing a speck of dust, she would daringly straighten his neck-cloth. Nerissa would wait for him, half hidden behind a majestic old beech tree and boo loudly, trying to frighten him. Hunter would encourage her tendency to do unladylike things – he showed her how to skate on the frozen pond using wooden clogs, a trick he had learned of in the Netherlands.

  Those winter mornings became a world of their own, separate from the rest of their lives, removed from the rules of society and the expectations of others, in which they learned to know each other and in which their budding friendship strengthened.

  Hunter found it unexpectedly easy to tell Nerissa about the war, about his guilt at not having been home when his father had died, about his doubts in his role as a Duke – the role that he had never expected to need to fulfil. Nerissa listened with a sympathetic ear and, when she felt gloom was becoming too pervasive, she made him laugh with her whimsical sense of humour.

  Laughing aloud – a practice strongly disapproved of by the straitlaced Lady Augusta Chester – was a rare gift and she loved to share it with Hunter. She loved to be able to smooth his darkening brow, to see his eyes light up, to see a smile turn up his mouth at its corners.

  In turn, Nerissa told Hunter about her parents’ wish for her to be married as soon as possible, of her own misgivings, of the suitors that Viscount Chester approved – prosy bores, each and every one of them.

  “But what can a young lady do, but marry?” she had asked him once.

  “Even if one has dreams of her own…” and had suddenly snapped her mouth shut, as if to cut off the words, as if caught on the brink letting a secret slip out.

  A secret, Hunter felt, that had to be connected with those strange drawings of hers that he had glimpsed, on their first meeting in the park. Something he had tried to inquire about, only to be thwarted and misled each time.

  A girl with dreams of her own. A girl with a mysterious interest that she would not speak about. A girl soon to be married off to somebody not of her choosing. There was nothing unusual in that – quite the expected situation, amongst the ton. Hunter did not know why such a normal occurrence should make him feel so uneasy, should weight on his soul like a dark pall. But it did.

  The Season was just beginning when his Grace the Duke of Melton, his family and their retinue arrived in London.

  The housekeeper and the butler, who had been dispatched a week before to open up the London house and make it ready, welcomed them on their arrival. The journey had been unexceptional, the road in reasonable condition and the inns comfortable enough.

  Charles had planned everything - to the family’s satisfaction and to Hunter’s vast relief. To be sure, he thought, the forced march from Vitoria to Pamplona, in hot pursuit of the retreating French troops, in some ways paled in comparison to the logistics involved in moving his family from Meltonbrook Chase to London, a scant 140 miles away.

  The first days were hectic, with a seemingly incessant stream of tradesmen conferring with Lady Melton and the housekeeper, and with a whirlwind of shopping expeditions to milliners, haberdashers, shoemakers and couturieres.

  Strongly backed by Lady Melton, Bulwick succeeded at last in whisking Hunter off to Meyer’s of Conduit Street, one of the fashionable men’s tailors, and achieving his heart’s desire of arranging enough fashionable attire to outfit him to a standard, as the valet put it, suitable for one of the better-looking gentlemen in London.

  Hunter had suffered his thick and unruly dark mahogany locks to be cut and styled in a fashionable “a la Brutus” coiffure, but, to Bulwick’s consternation, had consistently refused to use a quizzing glass or a cane.

  “My good man,” he had firmly stated “I’m neither infirm nor in my dotage and my sight is excellent. Please give up bothering me, will you?”

  ~~~~~~~~

  Back in London, Hunter had met again with his friends, a close-knit group of young men with whom he had spent most of his soldiering years.

  He had, somewhat to his surprise, missed them terribly whilst at Meltonbrook Chase, and had discovered, to his chagrin, that he had very little in common with either his brother, dear as he was to him, or with Kevin, Lord Chester’s son, who had been his best friend before the war.

  The war.

  Like a scythe, it had cleaved his life into two halves, causing an irrevocable breach.

  On one side, there was a carefree young man, driving his curricle at breakneck speed and riding to hounds on his chestnut hunter, given to light flirtation, pranks and bets.

  On the other side, there was a sombre gentleman who felt that he did not, really, have a fixed place of his own, who was unsure of his role, saddled with all the honours and obligations inherent in his title and his rank, without any of the training and preparation required to deal with them.

  He could share his uneasiness only with his friends. Somehow, they were, in certain ways, more family than his blood relatives were.

  Somehow, they had taught him the very meaning of friendship: not some casual, albeit cordial, acquaintance, but somebody upon whom you could blindly rely, somebody who would look out for you, somebody who could understand your feelings without a single word needing to be said, somebody you could tell everything, even your worst weaknesses, faults and mistakes, without being judged or blamed.

  They were very different from each other, yet somehow their talents, as a whole, were more than their simple sum.

  They were, together, a force to be reckoned with.

  Hunter Barrington, Duke of Melton. Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm. Lord Barton Seddon. Lord Geoffrey Clarence. Mr Raphael Morton. Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford.

  His Majesty’s Hounds, as they had been nicknamed in France and Spain, for their ability to sniff out the enemy’s infiltrators, and their most secret plans.

  The previous evening they had met, and joked about their rusty social skills.

  Charlton had done some wickedly funny impersonations. He had wonderful abilities as a mimic. Abilities which had stood him in good stead during the
intelligence forays, which were one of the Hounds’ allotted tasks in the field,

  His impressions of portly aristocrats squeezed inside creaking corsets, of studiously bored, languid dandies ogling the ladies through bejewelled quizzing glasses and of swaggering Corinthians talking their almost unintelligible sporting cant. They had all laughed until their sides ached, and agreed that they would never ever behave in such a foppish, ridiculous, preposterous way.

  “No delicately reared female will spare us a glance… we have to accept the simple fact that we are not good ton,” Geoffrey had sighed, theatrically.

  "Don't tell my mother," Hunter had cut in "she would have me marry whatever girl would have me, bed her and even breed before the Season is over, if that were possible.”

  "In that precise order?" Barton had queried.

  Everybody had laughed. Gerald had arched his eyebrows in supercilious disdain. "The marriage Mart is rather like a fox hunt, you know. We, the eligible bachelors, are the quarry, and the marriageable damsels are the hunters, cheered on by their (and alas, by our) dear Mamas."

  "A sobering thought, and one that makes me feel a real sympathy for the poor fox, if it suffers like we do when trying to evade pursuit", Raphael had countered.

  It had been a good evening, warm with friendship and shared laughter.

  But by now the Season was in full swing and social duties must be met. It would be impossible for them to soon meet again. At the end of the evening, Hunter had donned his greatcoat and beaver hat and gone home, to the townhouse that did not yet feel at all like home, a deep frown creasing his brow.

  ~~~~~~~~

  The whole ton agreed that the successful opening event of the Season had been Lord Edmund Wollstonefort, Earl of Granville’s wedding to the beauteous Lady Maria Loughbridge.

  The bride, a vision of loveliness in her pale ivory gown, had almost floated down the aisle, on her doting Papa’s arm, while the besotted groom waited for her. The wedding feast, held at Viscount Chester’s townhouse, had been granted the status of a grand squeeze by the leading hostesses, and the bride – with Lady Jersey’s permission – had dared to waltz with the groom, followed by the reproving eyes of some of the old fashioned high sticklers. Nobody had noticed the bride’s younger sister, a tall, gawky girl with an angular face, dressed in a nondescript, exceedingly modest, pale pink gown (which did not suit her colouring at all…).

  ~~~~~~~~

  Nerissa was with her mother, visiting the Salon of the noted French couturiere, Madame Beaumarais, a tiny woman with sparkling, shrewd, birdlike black eyes and profusely crimped blond hair of an improbable shade.

  Madame asked Nerissa to turn around slowly, mumbling to herself. She perused some fabric samples and a huge portfolio of illustrations of designs and patterns, while listening to the incessant stream of suggestions made by Lady Chester.

  After some time, the couturiere raised her hand and spoke.

  “Assez! My dear Lady Chester, you would have your daughter dressed like a dowdy country miss. Look at her, s’il vous plait. Her colouring is very striking and unusual. She has presence. She has a good body…”

  “You are too bold, Madame Beaumarais,” Lady Chester replied coldly, while Nerissa listened, taken aback by this evaluation of her assets.

  The couturiere shrugged, in a very Gallic fashion.

  “Be that as it may. Do it your way, and she will be lucky to marry a country squire. Do it my way, and she will be the rage of this Season.”

  Lady Chester’s eyes shone with an acquisitive glint – Nerissa could tell that she was imagining Nerissa marrying a man as wealthy as Maria’s husband.

  “Very well, Madame, let us hear your ideas…”

  Nerissa was very careful not to look pleased.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Hunter stood in front of the mirror, while Bulwick was painstakingly putting the last, perfecting touches to his cravat, which was tied in an impeccable Mathematical.

  He wore the knee length satin breeches, the white silk stockings, the buckled black shoes, the brocade waistcoat and the tight fitting coat required for formal wear and mandatory at Almacks.

  “I feel like a dratted fool…” he muttered.

  Bulwick gave him a close lipped smile, and shook his head.

  “If I may say so, my Lord, I have never before had the good fortune of attending to such a handsome gentleman. You are naturally suited to be dressed to perfection.” The valet looked fondly at his master and continued. “You do not need any padding on the shoulders, your calves are elegantly turned yet muscular and you have a very commanding presence…”

  “Yes, I look like a foppish effete. Well, if you have quite finished fawning and fussing, I am going. Good evening, Bulwick, and pray do not wait for me. I’m more than able to shrug out of these rags without your help.”

  Bulwick frowned, but bowed in acquiescence.

  “As you wish, my Lord. Good evening.”

  In the foyer, his sister Alyse looked critically at him and gleefully clapped her hands.

  “How handsome you look, Hunter! I declare, you will be surrounded by a full fair of swooning females as soon as you appear at Almacks!”

  Hunter smiled. “You look ravishing yourself, little sister. Let us go, it wouldn’t do to be late.”

  It was half past ten when they arrived at Almacks and the rooms were already full. Hunter scanned the crowd for known faces, wondering who of his acquaintance would be in attendance, when suddenly he felt as if his heart had stopped, because before him he beheld the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.

  The lady was clad in a forest green gown of a soft, shimmering material, swathing her gracefully. The deceptive simplicity of the cut was not marred by flounces or ruffles and enhanced her delightful shape and flawless complexion. The deep green colour, although very unusual for a younger woman, offset her green gold eyes. Her abundant burnished golden tresses were piled high on her head in a Psyche knot, and braided with green and gold satin ribbons. She looked like a woodland nymph, astoundingly beautiful yet shy, as if the least sudden movement could startle her, and make her disappear into a beam of moonlight.

  She was surrounded by a mob of besotted young gentlemen, and Hunter almost had to elbow his way through them to reach her.

  The goddess met Hunter’s eyes and blushed.

  “Good evening, my Lord. How nice to see you. Are you here with your sisters?”

  “Lady Nerissa! How are you? I did not expect to see you so soon…”

  They exchanged some inconsequential small talk, all the while finding their eyes locked on each other, perhaps rather more so than was polite, their breath caught a little short, each heart beating faster.

  “Lady Nerissa, may I ask you to spare a dance for me? Even if I suspect your carnet is already full…”

  Nerissa made a show of perusing the booklet. “I am free for the second country dance, if it agrees with you, my Lord.”

  Hunter bowed slightly, in elegant acknowledgement.

  “I look forward to the privilege of dancing with you, Lady Nerissa.” As was appropriate, he moved away, to circulate through the room, and socialise.

  Nerissa followed him with her eyes. She was elated and frightened at the same time. Hunter in buckskins and jacket was handsome, but Hunter in his evening finery was devastatingly handsome, as the admiring looks from many a young lady clearly showed.

  She, herself, did not feel at all the same girl as she was, only a few days before. The new gowns, that Madame Beaumarais had devised for her, had given Nerissa a new assurance, despite her sister’s snide remarks about the ugly duckling turning suddenly into a swan.

  She had waited, with breathless anticipation, for the moment when chance should provide the opportunity for Hunter to see this new, more confident Nerissa, and she had revelled in his frank admiration.

  But what, now? They would meet socially; maybe they would dance together, but it was highly improbable that something more might happen. Both of them had
a duty to their families, which a marriage between them could not fulfil.

  So, really, it was best that she turn her thoughts elsewhere. Stubbornly, her thoughts refused to be turned.

  Nerissa was so absorbed in her musings, she did not realise that the orchestra was striking up with the first bars of the country dance. Hunter appeared in front of her, bowed, took her trembling hand and led her onto the floor.

  A sudden hush fell on the ballroom - they were by far the most striking couple in attendance, complementing each other to perfection, moving with effortless grace thorough the intricate steps and turns, bathed in some sort of magic that made those who were looking on hold their breath.

  Lady Chester did not miss the alchemy between Nerissa and Hunter and, as soon as the dance ended, was quick to whisk her daughter away.

  “I would not have ever believed it, but that Frenchwoman was right and you are on your way to being a great success. Do not be a fool, my daughter, of course, one could not openly scorn the Duke of Melton, but one should not encourage him, do you see? He is by no means as wealthy as many others here. Many gentlemen of impeccable reputation and vast fortunes are vying for your attention - you will have plenty to choose from. Choose wisely.”

  Nerissa lowered her head and answered as a dutiful daughter should.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  The season was by now in full swing, a whirlwind of balls, picnics, routs, dinner parties and the like. Hunter and Nerissa met frequently, but never with any chance for private conversation. Both of them remembered, with longing their walks in the park, their conversations, those surreptitious touches, their hands brushing, all the times that they had almost kissed.

  The ghost of happiness shimmered in front of them and disappeared, like a puff of smoke. Life was leading them elsewhere, away from each other, away from what now looked like just a foolish and wishful fantasy, a short-lived dream.