Romance: Regency Romance: A Lady's Powerful Duke (A Regency Romance)

by Matilda Hart

  “But Charles – it is a disaster!”

  “Yes, Elinor, it is a disaster, albeit a domestic one, but a disaster nonetheless.”

  Annabel was in a fog. Just what had happened?

  “Yes, Charles, I am glad that you can finally admit the word. It is a disaster. We had such plans, and now they lie in ruins. Perfect ruins. This is the worst turn of events!”

  “Charles!” Annabel could take it no longer. “Just what evil has befallen us?”

  He sighed, and placed his hands in a prayerful manner upon his lips. “It is Lord Donovan.”

  “Yes? And?”

  “He has returned from Brussels earlier than expected. This morning, in fact. He is here, in this house.”

  Annabel smiled. “His house.”

  “Yes, I am afraid that it is the way of it.”

  “And this has set your wife to tears and you to worry, because?”

  Charles glowered. He evidently did not approve of his worry and Elinor’s tears being coupled together. “Annabel, do you recall our conversation about the owner of this house late yesterday afternoon?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then do you not see that his arrival here changes so many things? If it were just Elinor, and myself, I would not be so concerned. Regardless of the man’s reputation,” and here Charles glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, “I am confident of my place in my wife’s heart.”

  And her bed? Annabel was shocked at the thought, and placed a hand over her mouth. Charles was not looking, however, as both he and Elinor were now gazing into each other’s eyes. Charles finally turned his stare back to his sister.

  “But you, Annabel, are a different matter.”

  She narrowed her eyes, and it was now her turn to glower at her sibling. “How so, Charles?”

  “Because you are an unmarried daughter of a wealthy lord, and you are in my care. And unmarried daughters of wealthy lords are highly attractive to this kind of man.”

  “Indeed. And I, of course, like a typical member of my sex, am so weak that the merest of flirtations will see me elope with this man?” Her face had grown hot, and her fists were clenched at her side. How dare Charles – after their long talk – assume the worst of her moral character? She was no chambermaid overpowered by the talk of titles and the unexpected attentions of a lord.

  “That was not my meaning,” Charles replied. “I fear not so much what you would do if you met this man, but what people would say that you did.” He paused, and played with his wedding band. “I would not want people to discuss you, as we discussed others yesterday afternoon – as a cautionary tale. I would not want people to pair you and Lord Donovan in any way, let alone in malicious gossip. I do not want your name blackened.” He reached across and took his sister’s hand tenderly. “And I would hate to think what our parents would think of this situation.”

  Annabel nodded, and Elinor grew pale.

  “So, I have decided on a course of action that will protect you, and your reputation. It is clear that we cannot return home. That would be too large an insult and, given Lord Donovan’s influence, would curtail any further prospects I had at Court and even endanger the potential good matches that I suspect father is planning for you. I also know that father has run into some debt, and I suspect that Lord Donovan may be one of his creditors. I cannot risk insulting this man in his own home.”

  Charles got up, and began to pace the room.

  “What do we do then, Charles?”

  “We? Well, Elinor and myself will do as we planned to do. We will mingle with the guests and pay our – brief – respects to our host. I am, after all, a peer of the realm and should be seen to do what is proper. You, Annabel, well I am afraid your rooms will be all that you will see of this grand house.”

  “What do you mean?” Suddenly, Annabel felt the walls closing in on her.

  “I mean just what I say. From this point on, once you leave our rooms, you will be confined to your own for the duration of our stay.” He put up his hand to stifle Annabel’s objection. “Annabel, please hear me out. You need to be kept away from contact with this man. It was too speculative to have brought you here in the first place. This is my doing. So now, I am going to protect you by telling everyone that you were fatigued by the journey from Liverpool and have caught a chill.”

  Annabel laughed. “A chill? A chill is not enough to keep me quarantined for a week. Really, Charles, is this the best you could imagine?”

  Despite the situation, and the tone in his sister’s voice, Charles could not help but smile. “It will be a bad chill, and my own personal physician will visit you today and tomorrow. If Lord Donovan stays beyond three days, then you will recover enough to make the short trip back to our less grand surroundings, and you can start the summer season in earnest. I promise.”

  Annabel turned to Elinor. “And you, Elinor? You have been awfully quiet.”

  “Oh, Annabel, I have to agree with Charles. It is best that you stay behind locked doors – “

  “ – which I assume Lord Donovan has keys to?”

  Elinor’s already pale complexion now resembled that of a lily. “Perish the thought!”

  Charles intervened. “It is time to retire to your room. You will be well looked after by Susan. Later tonight, my physician will stop by. There is also an extensive library here, and later on I will escort you down there to make a selection to entertain yourself during your – your, confinement.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “Oh, don’t my lord me, Annabel! It is time to go back to your rooms, where Susan is waiting for you and knows exactly what to do.”

  With barely a nod, Annabel got up and left. If one were to have observed her at this point, it would not have been unimaginable to guess that she was running a fever, and one that could have kept her confined for a week. Susan went to comment on her mistress’ redness, but the look from Annabel sent her cowering.

  For the next hour, Annabel sobbed on and off. Then she had an epiphany. She would dress for the ball. She may not be attending it, but she would see how the newest dress she had bought looked on her in the opulent rooms she was fast considering a prison. If she dressed well, then she could hold back the feelings of confinement. Susan was called in, and still stinging from the earlier unspoken rebuke, was sullen and quiet, and not daring to ask why her mistress was dressing herself for a ball that she was not going to attend.

  Once Annabel was dressed, she admired herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom.

  “You look beautiful, miss,” stammered Susan, her first words since she had been called in.

  It was a simply breathtaking aqua blue gown. Annabel’s eyes were lit up by the color and her hair, in ringlets, draped invitingly upon her shoulders. The gown showed her in a wonderful light, tight across her waist and curving everywhere else where it should. She ran her hands admiringly over the smoothness of the material, reveling both in her good taste and the illicit thoughts running through her mind.

  “You are quite correct, Susan, this dress is too good to be confined to quarters. It needs to be aired out, to be seen by the lights of the ballroom. I think,” and she smiled, “I might take it out for a turn or two. Yes, you’re quite correct.”

  “But, I, miss, I didn’t say that.”

  Annabel put a finger to the lips of her servant. “But that’s what you were thinking. It is the proper thing to do.” Her mother’s disapproving face flashed into her imagination. Annabel proceeded to block her out again, and left her rooms, openly defying her family for the first time in her life. Susan stayed behind, quivering.

  The first thing she noticed in her act of defiance was the music. The time must have slipped by, between her sobbing, recovering from sobbing, and Susan dressing her. As she moved out of the wing that had been assigned to her family, she followed the music. The corridors were lined with art works, busts of half naked women in the Greek fashion, and Greek gods, smooth in marble and – she gu
essed – anatomically correct. The paintings too, were of a pagan nature. Satyrs, maidens, gods come to earth and frolicking with mere mortals were all on prominent display. There were also some exquisite portraits, but she lingered in front of one painting that depicted a young woman, asleep, seemingly naked because one breast could be seen above the covers, and lying next to her, was a young man, a stunning man. He was pulling back her hair with one hand, kissing her neck, and the other hand seemed to be drawing the sheet from her body. His eyes were closed, but he was quite possibly the most handsome man she had ever seen. He, too, she imagined was naked, but all she could see of him was a muscular arm and the top of his broad chest.

  For a moment, she wished she was the girl in the picture. To be coveted like that, with no finery about her but her own body, surely that was the pinnacle of existence? To be asleep, to not be plying any female wiles, and yet to be still awakened by a man desiring her just for herself? She began to feel warm. Suddenly, the music grew louder and changed its tempo. She drew herself away from the painting and, not really thinking, descended a staircase and found herself on the edge of the party she had been forbidden to attend. She positioned herself behind a rather ostentatious Roman pillar, and watched the invited guests mingle in their finery. They all looked magnificent, and she longed to join them, just on the off chance that Charles and Elinor were not yet down to spoil her pleasure.

  Annabel sighed.

  A consoling hand was upon her arm. It tightened ever so slightly as she involuntarily gasped. The hand was warm on her arm, and she turned, fully expecting to see Charles’ face set in anger.

  It was not Charles.

  The face, though, was familiar.

  “You look as though you have seen a ghost,” came the deep, sonorous voice. It was a smooth voice, older it seemed than the young, handsome face that it emanated from. “However, I can assure you, no spirits wander these halls. I had my man see to that before I moved in. Ghosts are wonderful ideas in Gothic novels, but they do rather spoil any intimate atmosphere one is trying to cultivate.”

  This was Lord Donovan Hayden. This was also the man from the painting, albeit fully clothed. Touching her, while she was turned from him.

  “You – “ was all Annabel could say.

  “I am Lord Donovan. This is my house, and you seem to be leaning on my Roman pillar.”

  “Yes…I am…I am Lady Annabel Fletcher, Your Grace.”

  He bowed, releasing her arm.

  “Lord Charles Fletcher’s sister? Ah, then you are my guest. You are welcome to lean on any pillar you find convenient. My man tells me you are all settled into the visitor’s wing?”

  “Yes. The rooms are opulent.”

  “That was my intent.” He looked over her shoulder for a moment at the dance. “Can I ask – has anyone filled your card in yet? Or am I to have the privilege of being your first?”

  “My card, no, no I am yet available to dance.”

  He smiled. “You know, that is the best news I have heard since I arrived back from Brussels. May I have this dance, and the next one, with you?”

  Annabel normally considered herself a strong and independent woman. Although a child of dominating parents, she had learned to hold her own and succeeded in winning some minor skirmishes. She knew that she must say ‘no’ to this man but, with her feelings a flutter from both the painting and meeting Lord Donovan now in real, solid form, she could do nothing but let him take her by the hand and lead her to the dance floor. The gathered lords and ladies made way for them, and he slipped that muscular arm around her waist and began to move her where he willed over his dance floor.

  As Lord Donovan spun her, she closed her eyes and drank in his presence.

  Chapter Four

  When Annabel stopped to think what happened later, she could only describe her own feelings – to herself – as being in a dream. A dream in which every sensation she felt was heightened beyond previous experience. She was used to music, but the quality of what was being played surpassed everything she had ever heard. The finery of the dresses on the women was of a level she had not ever considered – her own gown, which she had so lovingly admired prior to the dance, now seemed to be nothing spectacular. The women themselves looked radiant, and the men, who normally were only to be seen as fashion accessories to their fairer partners, were uniformly handsome. In this dream, she was surrounded by but not drowned out by the quality of persons sharing the dance-floor.

  Yet, this was not what was making her giddy.

  Lord Donovan was the cause of that. Having seen his picture, and now dancing with him in person, Annabel was lost in a maelstrom of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She felt feeble in his firm, unyielding grip. His posture, so straight and erect, threatened to overcome her, but she felt drawn to this man – this womanizer, this adulterer, this toady of the Prince Regent, this man who could well be a spy for the French, if the rumors could be believed. Annabel had never experienced such a clash between decorum and feeling prior to this man.

  “You dance wonderfully well, Miss Fletcher,” he said, looking deep into her eyes.

  “Thank you, Lord Donovan.”

  And they whirled again, and the world around her continued to spin, even when he stilled her.

  “I have danced with many women, Miss Fletcher, but few who can keep up the pace I set. I have had complaints that I start too hard, and by the time the dance has concluded, the ladies are too tired to go around again. I’m not sure about you, but one dance is never enough for me – I like to go around again, and again, until I am fully satisfied.”

  Annabel was simply breathless, but not from the physicality of the dance. “I think, Lord Donovan, that I can keep up with you.”

  He nodded as they continued to dance. “I agree with you. Too many ladies tend to resist the strength of my dancing, but I could tell immediately that you were not like that. You are yielding to me, which means you will have more stamina to last the night. In fact, you are quite an accomplished dancer – it is almost seamless how our bodies move in unison.”

  Annabel could but help think of the painting, of moving in unison with that strong, muscular body. She was growing very warm and, by the start of the second dance, had noticed drops of perspiration forming on her body. Normally, this happening so early in the evening would horrify her, but she sensed that Lord Donovan had caused many a lady to sweat during a dance. He would not mind. If he did not, she would not give it another thought.

  “After this dance, would you care for a refreshment?”

  “That would be lovely,” she replied. He could have offered her tripe in a glass, and she would have acquiesced. For a moment the reality of what was happening crept in – she was disobeying her brother, possibly embarrassing her parents, and was being linked to a man whose reputation was of the worst kind.

  Annabel shut those thoughts out. She simply did not care. So much of her life prior to this moment had been filled with rules and propriety, that to simply feel was bliss. Once the music stopped, Lord Donovan led her from the floor, through the milling crowds, and into a small study that had an assortment of drinks laid out on a mahogany table. He now opened his arms, displaying the drinks before them.

  They were alone, but all that was going through Annabel’s mind is that she missed the warmth of Lord Donovan’s hand on the small of her back.

  “Miss Fletcher, can I ease your thirst?”

  She nodded.

  “With what would you prefer?”

  Annabel realized that she would have to find her voice. “It is customary, sir, for the host to choose the best of what he has on show.” Annabel hoped that he did not notice the slight tremor in her voice. She, for her part, was noticing intently the man standing before her. Lord Donovan was broad across the chest, and stood – she guessed – at least eight inches taller than her. His hair was a deep brown in color, slightly curled, and of a length that was falling just above his eyes, which she noticed were hazel, flecked with brown.
The details, she realized, were getting clearer and clearer as Lord Donovan grew closer and closer –

  “Oh my,” she gasped involuntarily. “You are just so near.” It was like the painting had come to life, full of vigor and, well, clothed. “So near.”

  “Well, it is customary for the host to be near when he gives his guest the best he has.” And he handed her a glass of what appeared to be fine sherry.

  Annabel sipped, savoring its sweetness on her lips. “And this, sir, this is the best you have?”

  He smiled, and she noted just how full his lips were – almost what women wanted when they attempted to recreate their own image before each ball. “This is the best Spain has to offer. Fortified wine. Me? I think I have much more to offer than a small glass of sweet wine. Much more.”

  He took the glass from her hand. It was a forceful action, and she submitted willingly.

  “Would you like to see what more I have to offer?”

  Then a different series of thoughts crashed upon Annabel’s already tumultuous mind. “Who was that woman?”

  He laughed quietly, inching ever closer to her. “Now, that is a question I have some experience at answering – or evading. It depends upon the situation. Let me answer it with another question: which girl are you referring to?”

  It was Annabel’s turn to laugh. “The girl in the painting in the gallery – the one near the stairway that descends to the ballroom.”

  This time he laughed loudly, his neck arching back showing his strong, throbbing veins. “The Adamson? It is striking. I take it that it touched you?”

  He was so close now that she could feel his breath as he spoke. “Yes, I was surprised by the – naturalism – of the work. It is such an intimate scene to display so publicly.” She paused. “Sir, you have done just as you predicted. You have evaded my question.”

  Lord Donovan moved in another inch, and his hands were now touching her forearms, rubbing the material under his palms. “Adamson is a new artist – he is not content with English landscapes, nor French ones for that matter. Occasionally, I must admit, he will be drawn to an Italian one, which, to get to your question, Miss Fletcher, brings me to the girl in the painting. She was an acquaintance of Adamson’s – and her name, her name…I think it was Lucrezia. Italian women like to pose.”