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

by Matilda Hart

  Chapter Eight

  Annabel’s wait, however, was fruitless. Lord Donovan did not grace her chamber once more, and there was no note of explanation either. When they left Hayden Manor that afternoon for the more conservative environs of Epsom, there was not even the formal leave taking that she had resigned herself to accepting. Annabel, by that stage, would have settled to have Lord Donovan take her hand as she curtsied. His touch, in a formal public setting, would have been like a secret note, swapped between the two of them in full, scintillating view of the world.

  As she and Susan entered their carriage, Annabel sighed. Susan, who looked longingly out of the carriage window, matched her gloomy mood.

  “Are you catching one last glimpse of Hayden Manor, Susan?” she teased good-naturedly.

  “The Manor? Why, yes, miss, that is what I am looking at one last time. It was the most splendid manor I have ever experienced.” Her voice was wistful.

  “You have grown attached to Hayden Manor?”

  “Very much so, miss.”

  “I can very much understand that, Susan. What was it in particular, that has made you pine for it so much before we have even left?” The carriage lurched, and Annabel swore that she heard a choked sob emanate from Susan.

  “Oh, Susan!” She reached out a comforting hand to her chambermaid. “Did Matthews really steal your heart so?”

  She was nodding through tears.

  Annabel did not really want to ask, but even though Susan was in tears, she needed to put her own heart at rest. “Susan, did you – amidst all your prolonged goodbyes – deliver the note that I asked you to?”

  Again, there was much nodding through tears.

  So, Matthews had the note. Annabel had to assume that Lord Donovan would be in possession of it. Why then, this silence from Lord Donovan? Susan was not so silent – her sobbing was reaching a crescendo as the carriage lurched away from Covent Garden. “He was so sweet to me, so gentle and loving…oh, I can barely think of myself being apart from him! Tell me, miss, oh please tell me, that we will mix in those circles again, so that I can see him again?”

  “As far as it is up to me, Susan, we will.” Annabel patted her maid’s hand.

  Poor Susan, she was distraught. Annabel enjoyed just for a moment the burden of her own sorrow being lifted by thinking of another person’s pain. Susan had no idea that Matthew’s had been ordered by Lord Donovan to seduce her, to keep her away from Annabel’s room so that Lord Donovan could have his way with her in secrecy. The likelihood was that Matthews was as well practiced as his master, and had a list of chambermaids and kitchen hands that he had seduced, just as his master had a list of well-bred but now spoiled ladies.

  Just as she pitied Susan for her situation, suddenly, and with full force, the foolishness of her own situation hit Annabel. How could she expect that Lord Donovan, with his long list of bad behavior, was suddenly going to change his ways after a night with her? If she believed that Matthews was set in his ways, how much more so his master, who was the one that pulled the strings? She set her face hard in the direction of Epsom. There would be no message, no note, there would be no unexpected arrival of Lord Donovan, ready to propose marriage and a happy ever after ending that would end with her being swept up in his arms. There would be, quite simply, a marriage of convenience to man who was proper, but who would not wonder about the lack of enthusiasm from his bride on their wedding night.

  Despite the feelings of abandonment, she knew that no one could light the fire in her as Lord Hayden had.

  “Do not worry, Susan,” she said, barely fighting back her own salty tears, and gripping her maid’s hand all the more, “there will be enough at Epsom to keep you occupied.”

  “Yes, miss – but it is Matthews whom I want to occupy me.”

  “We will see. I can promise nothing – being but a female Fletcher who has no real say in the day to day decisions. But, who knows?” She paused. “Do you really have such strong feelings for him after such a short time?”

  “Yes.” Susan let out an enormous sniff, and finally stilled her tears. “It is hard to believe, miss, after such a short time. I have heard that it happens. That you meet a man and you cannot imagine your life without him.”

  Annabel nodded. “I have heard that, too – usually in books. But I suppose even books must have some basis in fact?”

  “I suppose, miss. Matthews had such sharp words about some of the poets and writers that hang around the Court.”

  They spent the rest of the journey gossiping about writers who were addicted to opium and gin. There was much to discuss.

  The gardens at Charles’ Epsom manor were extraordinarily well manicured. The neatness of the hedges, the topiary, these were the aspects that Annabel first noticed. While she was initially impressed at the presentation, she increasingly sensed her mother’s imprint on the design – everything was just so, everything was just so proper. Not a leaf was out of place, not a speck of dirt despoiled a path, and no flower was allowed to stay in bloom so long as to have a brown tinge mar its appearance. She pitied the gardeners.

  Everything was so, so sterile.

  Annabel felt no joy at seeing the manor for the first time – not even Elinor’s enthusiasm to show off their summer manor could shake her from her stupor.

  “My, Annabel,” scolded Elinor, “one would think that you had seen every room before, judging by your aloof manner!”

  “I am sorry, sister, but perhaps the last few days have left me more tired than I have guessed. The rooms are lovely, so lovely. And the gardens are beautifully kept.”

  “Are they not? It is the fashion.”

  “It is indeed, and you and Charles should be suitably proud of how Epsom Manor is in strict keeping with the fashion.”

  Elinor blushed. “That is awfully good of you to say, Annabel. Charles does value your opinion, as do I. Great Portland Street is for show, really, this is where Charles and I are most comfortable and at home.”

  “Of course. The setting here is far superior.” Annabel hoped the boredom and heaviness she was feeling was not noticeable. Elinor, however, was like a child when it came to encouragement – the slightest push saw her almost become giddy.

  “There will be so much for you to do while we are here! So much fun to be had, even in the quieter times. Trust me, Annabel, this will be so the highlight of your first London season.”

  “Oh, I trust you, Elinor, I trust you.”

  “Let me show you to your rooms, Annabel. Once you see them the tiredness will just fall away from you. You will feel as though you are at home, too.”

  “Of course.” And Elinor led her up the stairs, to modest rooms. As they passed through the halls, Annabel looked at the paintings that were on display. They were of English landscapes, stilted and uninspiring, with pale colors – there were certainly no depictions of young ladies about to be ravished by a lustful and determined Duke. There were no Greek statues, smooth and naked, lining the halls as if they were on duty, standing by to usher in pleasurable and forbidden nights.

  Annabel feigned tiredness, and Elinor left her to rest. Dinner would be served in a few hours, so Annabel took out a book from the shelf and sat down to read. Her mind, however, would not settle. Her thoughts raced to the first time she had seen the Adamson painting at Hayden Manor, how the sight of such obvious desire had inflamed her passions, and how those passions had only been sated by the hard body of Lord Donovan that night, and of course, again the next morning. She closed the book, and remembered the feeling of him being inside her, of her body overwhelming her with pleasure, of being held afterwards, and the openness of his words. Were these feelings now a closed book? Had that chapter come to an end for her? Would she ever feel those extraordinary passions again with Lord Donovan – where they met in bed as equals, and gave equal pleasure? Annabel discounted the likelihood of another man arousing her in such a way.

  “Donovan,” she whispered to herself, “where are you?”

  Ove
r the next few weeks, this was her constant refrain. When the mail was delivered to Charles at breakfast, and he doled out the invitations and requests to Elinor and Annabel, there was nothing from Lord Donovan. Annabel got her hopes up each day, even though she reminded herself that a man as discreet as Lord Donovan would not send her a letter by post. Any correspondence would be through other means, no doubt a letter passed on to Susan while she was downstairs – and, for Susan’s sake, she hoped it would be Matthews who would deliver the note, and perhaps something more. Yet, as each day ended, whether it had been preceded by a ball, a dinner, or cards, no note was delivered, no hope was kindled, and neither mistress nor maid had their hearts lifted. Annabel, in particular, grew more and more morose. The bright sunshine of the days, the long summer days, contrasted to the bleakness of her mood.

  Annabel heard rumors, of course, at the balls she attended and over the card tables. One conversation with Lady Elizabeth Hinchington stayed very clearly in her mind.

  Lady Elizabeth was outwardly prim, elderly, but with a spritely tone and sharp eyes. “My dear, you stayed at Hayden Manor, did you not?”

  “Yes, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “That man!” She laughed, and Annabel could not tell if it was derision or delight. “So different to young men in my time. So less made up, but a more handsome creature I do not think I have laid eyes upon. And, oh, he knows full well how handsome he is.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I hear,” and here Lady Elizabeth grew conspiratorial, tapping Annabel on her wrist, “that Lord Donovan has been putting some of his country estates up for sale. Of those, I have no interest. Yet his stables, that is another matter. He is an astute judge of horseflesh. My stable manager has purchased some fine riding horses at a very reasonable cost.”

  Annabel remained calm, restrained. “Why, ma’am, is Lord Donovan selling such good horses?”

  Lady Elizabeth leaned in, her touch conferring a sense of unity between the two. “Possibly debt, but I doubt that – Lord Donovan holds more notes than he owes. The word is that he may be moving abroad.”

  “To France?”

  Lady Elizabeth smiled. “You have heard the rumors.”

  “I have, ma’am, but as with all rumors I merely hear, not believe.”

  The elderly lady laughed again, and Charles joined them. “Oh, Charles, your sister is a delight. I know many young men whose lives would be so much the better if she were on their arm.”

  “There is a line, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Of course! I had such a line, too, and my father – God rest him – had a fine eye for suitors with hereditary estates.”

  Charles nodded. “Well, if you can get Annabel to smile, then imagine how long the line would be? She has been slightly withdrawn these past few weeks.”

  “Perhaps, my dear, you miss Liverpool and your parents?”

  Annabel looked down at her feet, embarrassed.

  “I suspected not. You have an air about you – you want to see beyond home, do you not?”

  “I have seen Liverpool, and some of London.”

  “Of course, but there is more.” Lady Elizabeth waved to someone across the room. “Lady Jane has arrived. If I do not compliment her on her air, I will pay for it. Excuse me.”

  They bowed slightly.

  “She likes you,” said Charles.

  “Lady Elizabeth is pleasant company, and informative.”

  “Are you enjoying yourself here at Epsom?” This was a question he had asked each week.

  “Yes, of course, Charles. I would like to stay here beyond the season.” As dull as life was without the promise of Lord Donovan, the thought of returning to the ahems of Liverpool was worse.

  “I know, but father has written again, and we can delay it no longer. He insists that you return next week.” Charles looked glum out of sympathy with his sister.

  “Next week?” Her face fell. “Did he say anything else?”

  “No – you know father. Ink is treated as though it is gold.”

  Next Wednesday, it was decided, would be the day. Annabel would return to Liverpool, not in disgrace as she had once feared, but in despair at a future without passion and love.

  Chapter Nine

  By Tuesday afternoon of the next week, a wan and drawn Susan had almost packed her mistress. Annabel walked in, moved past a pile of hatboxes, and sat down heavily in her armchair. She looked at Susan, who quickly looked away.

  “No news?”

  “No news, miss. No note, no visit, not even a whisper on the wind.”

  Annabel sighed. “Then continue to pack – you might as well pack my life into one of those boxes, too.”

  Susan paused, unable to process such a comment, and scooped up a handful of ribbons instead. “Miss?”

  Annabel got up, ignored her perplexed maid, straightened her dress out and announced that she was going back downstairs. For the past day, she had prowled about Epsom Manor like a hungry cat. She could not settle. It was not so much the thought of returning to Liverpool that was causing her distress. There was in her a sense of anticipation that was still – barely – intact. That anticipation, that sense that something had to give way, was being eroded steadily as time marched on and there was no news, not even a word from Lord Donovan to give credibility to her feelings. Charles and Elinor had both tried to buoy her mood over the past week, but Annabel merely nodded and smiled, partaking in every activity they suggested and meeting every one they thought worth meeting, only to resume her “dark manner” in Charles’ words, once they activity had ended or the potential beau had departed.

  Elinor found her downstairs, sitting, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We will invite you back for Christmas, Elinor, and will extend your stay for as long as we can. Liverpool will only be a short diversion.”

  Annabel nodded, smiled, but inwardly pondered if that were truly the case. Under the rule of her parents once again, even a short stay felt like exile. “I would appreciate that, Elinor.”

  “Perhaps we can find a reason for you to stay longer in London?”

  “Such as?” Plots were afoot, Annabel sensed.

  “Sir Edward Sheen was quite taken by you at the ball last month. And at cards the other week. He is a very eligible bachelor, Annabel, and a cultivated and cultured man. His collection of English landscapes puts ours to shame.”

  “Indeed?” Annabel fast found herself judging men by the pictures they hung in their halls.

  “He even, it is said, paints a little himself as a way to pass the time. Perhaps you could sit for him? He could paint your portrait…” Elinor trailed off, her thoughts outpacing what was proper and decorous to proclaim. “You could get to know Sir Edward. You would be very comfortable with such a man as him.”

  “Comfortable?” Was this man a chair? Annabel did not want the characteristics of furniture to be prevalent in her future husband. “That is an admirable quality,” was all she could say.

  Elinor nodded. “Charles would not be surprised if Sir Edward called in before you left.”

  “Goodness – whatever for?”

  “Perhaps, he may give you a reason to unpack? To stay here in London on a permanent basis?”

  Annabel wanted to repeat her previous answer, but bit her tongue. After some more prolonged conversation, Elinor left to see about dinner, and Annabel moved to the small library that was nestled near the front doors. She sat, paralyzed, hands folded in her lap, dreading both leaving and staying. The thought of being painted by Sir Edward, her image captured and framed, gave her chills. Again, she closed her eyes and in her mind surveyed the Adamson painting, but this time, the naked woman that Lord Donovan was ravishing was her, his hands fondling every part of her, and her hands roaming free across his taut body. The chill eased, and she grew warm, and a small smile crept upon her face.

  These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the sound of pounding hooves.

  There was a knock at the door, and Annabel’s warmth vanished a
s if a window had let in cold chill. Surely not Sir Edward? But whoever had arrived had ridden, and Sir Edward was known for his magnificent carriages. Perhaps, then, he was in a hurry, perhaps his need of a wife had forced him into a less comfortable mode of transport? She dreaded the announcement, dreaded Charles coming to find her and leaving her alone with that man – indeed, any man – for that purpose. Any man other than Lord Donovan. That was the only man she wanted to be alone with – first, she wanted an explanation for his silence. Then, she wanted compensation for his absence.

  The footman answered the door, and though the tones were muffled, she distinguished two voices aside from his. They sounded familiar. Then she heard Charles descending the stairs in rapid fashion, and he inadvertently announced the unexpected visitor with barely concealed shock.

  “Lord Donovan! To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”

  “My pardon, Charles, but I have only just arrived back in England, else I would have sent Matthews here with a note to say I would be paying a visit…”

  Annabel had burst through into the entrance, her heart pounding. “Lord Donovan,” was all she could say, as she gazed upon his features lovingly. There he was, his broad shoulders framed against the light from the door, his eyes keenly looking into hers, his chest rising and falling from the exertions of the ride over. He was unkempt, with stubble on his chin and upper lip. Her passion arose over her anger, and her cheeks grew hot. “It is a pleasure to see you once again.”

  He looked deeply at her. Then he smiled, a smile that looked as though it mingled both happiness and relief. “Miss Fletcher, you cannot know what pleasure it gives me to see you.”

  She went to step forward to embrace him, but this was not the time, nor the place. “So, you have been abroad?” She moved closer to him at a steady pace. He, too, moved closer to her.

  “On the Prince Regent’s business. His Majesty gave me a task just after the ball I hosted at the start of the season. One cannot – and does not – say ‘no’ to royalty.”