by Regina Darcy
“You cannot marry Lady Bentley,” he exclaimed through gritted teeth. “You barely know the woman!”
“Barely know her?” his brother laughed, an amused challenge in his eyes. “Well, that won’t last long. Once she is my wife, I fully intend to get to know her in every sense.”
“Very amusing,” Peter snapped, refusing to be distracted by humour. “Do attempt to be serious, Ainsley. For heaven’s sake, this is matrimony we are talking about! Your future duchess!”
Growing more irritated by the minute, Peter rose from the chair he had been sitting in and began to pace the room.
“Pray tell, what is your issue with her?” Ainsley asked with a sigh. “You haven’t even been properly introduced. Why will you not give her a chance?”
Peter rolled his eyes. He knew the lady well enough, possibly better than his brother did. Lady Bentley was the widow of a rich and distinguished landowner in the north of England. She possessed an impeccable reputation and a sufficiency of ‘blue blood.’ Even the most strait-laced hostess would have a hard time not accepting her.
However, none of that meant that she would make a suitable duchess. And a duke was not meant to rush into matrimony, not without taking sufficient time to ensure his bride had the pedigree, reputation and dowry befitting a duchess.
What Ainsley didn’t know was that Peter had, unfortunately met Lady Bentley on one occasion. A meeting best forgotten. He had no intentions of revealing to his brother the lady’s wanton behaviour given that Ainsley simply would not believe him.
“You are coming to the ball, aren’t you?” his brother queried, looking up at him with a tinge of amusement.
“After all, it will be the talk of the Season.”
“It is already the talk of the Season,” Peter replied tersely. His brother’s planned ball had become so infamous that word of it had reached London.
A gentleman preparing for a ball without being officially out of mourning—the gossip had been rampant. Peter shook his head. Their mourning period was only just over, and already his brother was intending to throw himself right back into society and all its pleasures.
“We have been writing to each other,” Ainsley continued, in that self-assured voice that so irritated Peter.
“She is quite delightful, Peter. I am sure you will like her.”
Peter froze, turning to face his brother. “So, the only things you know about her are from a handful of letters?” he asked, frustration colouring his features.
“I am sure she has presented herself as quite a pretty picture! She could be a professional strumpet for all you know,” he barked.
“Well you would be the expert on strumpets, wouldn’t you?” At the well-aimed comment, Peter locked his unyielding steel gaze on his brother.
The Duke was the first to look away.
They both knew why Peter spent so much time in London, at White’s, drinking and frequenting painted ladies. They also both knew that the Ainsley was in no position to judge.
“When are you going to stop being angry?” Ainsley asked, a little more gently. Silence descended. It was the first time either of them had come anywhere even close to talking about the issue that stood between them.
“What makes you think I am still angry?” Peter replied in a deceptively soft voice.
Ainsley looked at him steadily, his gaze turning a little sad.
“She is dead, Peter. There is nothing either of us can do about it. If you do not deal with this, then I can assure you, you will never be happy again.”
For a split second, Peter wanted to smash his fists into his brother’s face at the painful memory, but, instead, he clenched his fists and walked out of the room.
Anger pushed him to get away. Away from his brother’s mad choices and harsh words. Peter strode out the front door towards the stables to get his horse.
He had no intention of being in attendance when the future duchess arrived. He would leave that honour to his brother and their grandmother. He needed a stiff drink and a pretty girl, and he knew exactly where to get both. Soon the horse was saddled, and Peter was galloping into town towards The Fox Head gentleman’s club, his thoughts torturing him.
If he was honest with himself, more than anger was riding him. Six years ago, he had been betrothed to the most beautiful woman in the world—Miss Eleanor Jefferson. It felt like a lifetime ago.
He had lost his heart to her as a teenager and had been mooning over her for years. Unfortunately, so had his brother. At the time, Peter had thought that he had won.
Eleanor wanted to be with him, and her father had readily agreed to the arrangement. He couldn’t have been happier.
Even though he was only a second son and not the heir, Eleanor had chosen him.
Ainsley would inherit their father's estate, but their mother’s dowry, which consisted of additional land in Somerset, had been set aside for him. He had been a wholly acceptable and suitable match. Dreams of a wife and a house full of little ones filled his nights.
Darkness gripped his heart as memories flooded him. Memories of when he had gone to surprise Eleanor with an engagement gift he had sought especially for her—and how he had seen them, hidden in the gardens of her parents’ home. His betrothed in the arms of his brother.
They had been in a torrid embrace, like two star-crossed lovers. It was clear from their ardent affections that this was not the first time they had been together.
Stumbling back, he had hidden behind a hedge, eavesdropping on their conversation. Their betrayal left him devastated. The memory still lingered like a bitter taste in his mouth.
Shortly thereafter their father had died abruptly from a riding accident leaving Ainsley the title, and six months later he had married Eleanor.
Peter had chosen to leave almost at once, to spend his time in London. He could not bear to look on their marital bliss on a daily basis.
Only once had he confronted Eleanor. She had been apologetic and confessed she loved him still; actually, loved them both. Her words had made him even angrier, knowing that they were merely an excuse, a way to soothe her conscience.
As much as he hated to admit it, Ainsley was right. He was still angry. Irate, to be honest.
When was he going to stop being so furious? His love for Eleanor had died a long time ago, and still, he clung to this useless anger.
After presenting Ainsley with two beautiful children, Eleanor had passed away giving life to her third child. Peter had raged at his brother, for getting her with child so often and so quickly—but he had ignored him, as he always did. Her death had been hard for Peter to accept and it was then he had begun painting. A useless skill he was extremely talented at.
He painted Eleanor from memory, putting every detail he could remember into his work. It was his way of keeping her alive so that he would not forget her.
At one time, he had even gone so far as to suggest to his brother that a portrait of the Duchess might be commissioned, so that her children would have a keepsake to remember her, but Ainsley had brushed the suggestion away.
At the time, Peter had thought that his brother had been deeply in love with his wife, and too grief-stricken to respond appropriately, but now he was not sure. He could not understand this need to replace her with a stranger, only a year after her death. Had he misread the signs? Had his brother never loved Eleanor?
Furrowing his brows, Peter tried to push such thoughts away. He had tried to keep some semblance of a relationship with his brother, if only for the sake of their mother, but he was beyond tired of the pretence. He still wanted to tear his brother limb from limb.
Peter spotted the inn on the horizon and slowed to a trot. Jumping off the horse before it had to come to a standstill, he threw the reins to a waiting stable boy.
Exhausted by his chain of thoughts, he nodded to the doorman and strode through the door headed for the bar.
“A whisky, if you please,” he shouted to the bartender.
“Right away milord,” t
he barman replied, nodding as he recognised Peter.
“You do not plan to attend the Duke’s ball this evening then, milord?”
Peter snorted. “Balls are for fools.”
The barman chuckled. “Then we’ll make sure you have a good night here instead, my lord,” he grinned.
Peter tried to laugh, but the sound died in his throat. He sighed heavily. As the club girls started to move closer to the other patrons at the bar, Peter downed another whisky. He had no intentions of leaving the club before the bitterness he felt towards his brother’s marriage had subsided significantly and copious amounts of liquor would do just that.
FOUR
Arabella Cartwright looked about the English summer landscape in awe. The beauty of the area surrounding Bath was utterly breath-taking. They travelled deep into the northern countryside of Somerset until they turned onto a well-kept side road.
Arabella could see the top of the great house, but all else was hidden by oaks, maples, and a plethora of woodland forest. As they drew closer to the estate, she realised exactly how truly magnificent it was.
It looked strong, as if the centuries had left little mark upon it, and yet it had an eternal beauty that made it a part of the landscape. Arabella was not going to be bored here, that much was clear. She could already imagine exploring the surrounding area.
Arabella pushed her hair under her bonnet and straightened her dress. The cotton was a bit crushed, but she was hoping the vivid blue would complement her eyes and take attention away from her crumpled clothing.
The front door of the house swung open as the carriage pulled into the driveway, and Arabella watched as a stern-looking man walked out, followed by three children and a sea of servants. She swallowed hard.
He was as regal as she had imagined him. She watched as the children approached tentatively, with the older one holding the hand of the younger. The Duke carried the youngest child, which was quite a surprise to Arabella, given the peerages aversion to childrearing.
Perhaps it was a good sign. The Duke obviously cared for his children, surely this meant he would be a fair employer. She bit her lower lip. Now if she could only recall the children’s names.
The oldest child, who she remembered was called Elizabeth, abruptly decided to abandon her younger brother and rushed over to where Arabella stood. She gave the most beautiful little curtsy, before grasping Arabella’s hand.
“Are you going to be our new governess?” she asked with wide, hopeful eyes.
Arabella was instantly in love.
“Yes, I am,” she responded, her heart swelling as the child gave her a most beatific smile.
“And you will be David’s governess too?” Elizabeth asked, still staring up at her. “Catherine is still too little, I think. She stays with the nurse.”
Arabella laughed. “Yes, I would be happy to be David’s governess too.”
Arabella smiled once more, before looking up to see the Duke approach. She curtsied as best she could, with the child still clinging to her, lowering her eyes to the ground. Her heart was beating furiously, as she felt his eyes on her.
“Welcome to Warrington Abbey, Miss Cartwright. You are a highly anticipated guest, I must say. Although I am sure my daughter has made that abundantly clear!”
He laughed, making her immediately feel at ease. His smile warmed her heart.
“Thank you, Your Grace. It has been a lovely welcome,” Arabella replied, as she rose gracefully from her position.
“Very good,” he replied winking at Arabella, as the child in his arms leant out towards her. “It seems you have won my children’s hearts simply with your smile, Miss Cartwright. I believe you will be the answer to our prayers!”
Arabella inclined her head, hoping that this family would also be the answer to her prayers of finding a husband.
“This is Elizabeth, David, and my youngest, Catherine,” the Duke continued, introducing the children. “Now, off with you, my dears. Miss Cartwright will be in to see you in the morning.”
Ignoring the complaints of his eldest daughter, the Duke fixed her with a stony gaze, whilst handing his youngest daughter to an older lady, whom Arabella presumed to be the nurse. Eventually, the children retreated indoors, leaving Arabella standing with the Duke, who began to meander back towards the house.
“I must confess, Miss Cartwright, I hope you are not inclined towards vapours at changes in circumstances.”
“Pray tell, what changes in circumstances?” Arabella asked, glancing up at him. Was she not to be the governess after all?
“There is a ball hosted this evening,” he explained, glancing over at her. “My mother intends to join us.”
“Oh?” Arabella replied, wondering what was coming next. A governess would never attend a ball.
“She will require a modicum of care,” he continued, keeping his gaze fixed on the house. “She recently had a fall from a mare in our stables. I was hoping you would attend, simply to bring her a glass of ratafia when she requires it, and the like. Nothing too strenuous, of course. When she chooses to retire, she may require your assistance to exit the ballroom. That is all.” He looked down at her, his face a little flushed as though he realised he was asking a little too much of her. “I trust you have something appropriate for the occasion?”
Arabella knew not how to respond. She seriously doubted she owned anything appropriate for attending such a gathering. “I am to keep to the shadows?”
He laughed. “No, not in the least. So long as you can keep my mother in sight, feel free to enjoy yourself.” He must have seen the concern in her face, for he added. “I will have the staff bring you a selection of gowns. I am quite sure something will fit you.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Arabella murmured, feeling quite off balance. It was one thing to arrive at the Duke’s estate and meet his children, but quite another to be expected to attend a ball the same day!
“Let me present you to the staff.” Smiling, he went about the business of introducing the staff at Warrington Abbey to the new governess.
Once the introductions were finished, they walked through an exquisite hall into a salon which overlooked a flower-filled garden and beyond that a lake. In a chair was an older woman, which the Duke introduced as his grandmother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Ainsley.
“Your Grace,” Arabella murmured, curtsying deeply.
The lady’s keen eyes assessed Arabella, as she rose from her curtsy. The Dowager Duchess’s hair was beautifully arranged on top of her head, and although her locks were white and her face lined with age, her visage still held traces of the aristocratic beauty she had once possessed. She held out her hands, delighted to receive her son.
“You are looking well today, mother,” the Duke said, kissing her hands.
Waving away his compliment, the lady kept her sharp eyes on Arabella. “My dearest boy, I see you have in tow Miss Cartwright.”
“Yes, mother, I have indeed.”
The Dowager Duchess smiled. “Let me have a look at you, then,” she said, beckoning Arabella over.
Arabella, feeling a little like some prized possession on display, drew nearer and curtsied.
“Very good, my dear,” the lady said with an approving nod, as she looked her over. “I am sure you will do very well here. Welcome to Warrington Abbey.”
FIVE
Arabella selected a beautiful light-blue gown from the selection on her bed, wondering where on earth the Duke had found such exquisite pieces. She desperately hoped that it was not his deceased wife’s clothes, for that would feel very strange indeed.
Her heart pounded as she walked towards the drawing room, preparing to enter the ballroom. She hoped the Dowager Duchess would accept her presence without complaint.
However, the drawing room was empty.
Panic stricken, Arabella attempted to find her way towards the ballroom, following the sounds of music and conversation. Were the Duke to discover that she was not with his mother, she might
face severe consequences. The last thing she wanted was to fail on her first day at the Abbey.
She had heard from the chatty maid, who had been sent to arrange her hair, that the Duke’s ball was the most anticipated event of the Season. This meant the cream of the ton were in attendance. Arabella was under no illusions that she would find a suitable gentleman amongst the peerage but, having never been a debutante, this was as close as she would ever come.
The ballroom, despite its grandiose size, was crowded, and she squeezed in as best she could. She already felt out of place. A governess ought not to be a part of such a gathering, and Arabella hoped the servants would not take badly to her elevated status. Her discomfort increased. The ladies and gentlemen she was currently mingling amongst would have looked down their noses at her if they knew her position in the household.
But right now, none of that mattered. If she did not find the Dowager Duchess, she might find herself thrown out on her ears! To her utter relief, her eyes landed on the lady in question, who looked quite the vision in her spectacularly ornate turban and matching gown. She was busy laughing with a few friends. Her eyes darted briefly to Arabella.
Arabella sighed, she had a feeling that the Dowager Duchess was not particularly keen on her son’s arrangement. She glanced around the ballroom. It was decorated with wreaths of flowers, its windows opening onto the garden. The orchestra was playing the most exquisite minuet. It was a splendid gathering, the melody made Arabella sway. She began, for the first time that evening, to feel more than fortunate to have landed employment as governess. Yes, more than fortunate—utterly blessed. Indeed, the Heavenly Father worked in mysterious ways.
Arabella looked around, glancing at the Dowager Duchess once more, biting her lower lip. She longed to dance, but she had not one acquaintance in the room. Suddenly her feeling of euphoria was replaced with a wave of intense loneliness.
“Go enjoy yourself,” came a voice in her ear. “I am perfectly all right.”
Arabella jumped, turning to face the Dowager Duchess, who had apparently walked over to her whilst she had been lost in thought.