A Damsel for the Daring Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  James could hardly think in a straight line; he closed his eyes and tried to picture the two women as if side-by-side, wondering if there was truly any resemblance. After all, since one was dressed as a lady and the other as a lady’s maid, it was hard to reconcile the two as sisters.

  “This is rotten,” James said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “Rotten, perhaps. But clever, do you not think?” The Duke raised his eyebrows, and James could hardly believe that the man was expecting praise for his hateful slyness. “Anyway, I can see that you have had the most dreadful shock, my dear boy, and I think it best that you take a little time now to think about it from every angle, to look at the thing properly, and to come to your own conclusion that there is only one course of action. You must break all ties with that woman and, furthermore, you must cease to make your little trips to the east. I cannot risk you continuing in this courtship behind my back. I do not trust you, you see.”

  “You do not trust me? That is rather ironic, is it not?” James said and rose to his feet.

  He knew he was unable to stomach another moment of his father’s company, and he would have to leave the room before he was provoked into an action he could only regret.

  As much as he despised his father, the Duke had been right; he really would have to look at the thing properly and decide what move to make next.

  Charles Holt had hovered in the wide corridor for almost twenty minutes. He knew that James Harrington was in the study with his father receiving the news that had been entirely the fruit of Holt’s own labours.

  He hoped that the meeting would be brief, for he did not wish to happen upon any of the household servants whilst he lurked suspiciously.

  But he did not want to make himself scarce either, for Charles Holt did not want to forgo the opportunity to look into the face of the man whose world he had just been instrumental in shaking to its foundations. Charles had worked hard for this moment, and he would have it. He would have it, and he would enjoy it.

  As always, it did not occur to Charles to examine his own behaviour. He did not wonder if he was motivated purely by envy, for it did not matter to him. He did not see his own flaws, only a lifetime of injustice that had seen a sarcastic fool of a young man as an heir to the Duchy and himself a simple attorney.

  Charles was the cleverer man, and he had just proved that. He had proved it to himself, and now he wanted to prove it to James Harrington. He wanted him to know who had truly brought him to his knees, even if he did not say it.

  After a few more minutes, Charles was rewarded for his patience when he heard the Duke’s study door creak open.

  He straightened himself up and began to walk slowly along the corridor in that direction as if he had simply arrived himself and was making his way to his client for instruction.

  James walked out of the study without closing the door behind him. His shoulders were down, sagging a little, and Charles Holt’s own spirits began to soar. So, Lord Harrington really did love the Honourable Miss Charlotte Cunningham. Somehow, it made his own little victory all the sweeter.

  James had his head down as he approached Charles; he was clearly deep in thought. But that was not good enough for Charles; he wanted the man to raise his head and look into the face of the clever attorney who had defeated him.

  Thinking that his moment would never come, Charles Holt loudly cleared his throat in a bid to gain James Harrington’s attention.

  His little ruse worked, for the noise seemed to bring the Duke’s son back into the here and now. He raised his head immediately and looked directly at Charles.

  Charles did not speak, not even to say good morning as he ordinarily might. He simply smiled, a slow, satisfying smile.

  James Harrington’s eyes widened just as the two men passed one another, and Charles knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had silently conveyed his victory to the young man he so despised.

  Chapter 18

  Charlotte had spent a good deal of time and effort on her appearance for the charity reception at Hanover Hall. With the help of Ruth, she really did look her best, and her excitement at the idea of seeing James again had made her radiant.

  She had fully expected to see James already in the large drawing room at Hanover Hall when she and her father arrived. After all, he had been due to reach Hanover in the afternoon, at least that was what his message had said, and so she was surprised not to see him there.

  Hector was busy for the first hour or so, greeting guests and introducing the charitable ladies whose event he was hosting.

  Four very fine women, women of good works, were doing their very best to encourage the rest of the guests to promise a little money here and there for their own small enterprise to help the poor of the area.

  Ordinarily, Charlotte would have been pleased to have listened to them speak, to marvel at their unstinting efforts, and to beg her father to make a promise to part with a little money so they might achieve their aims.

  But her worry was overtaking her, and Charlotte could hardly concentrate at all. She wanted to speak to Hector, to find out why it was that his guest had not yet come down from his chamber. Assuming that his guest had arrived at all.

  And if he had not arrived, then where was he? If his father had kept him back again with some social engagement that he had thoughtlessly forgotten to mention as had been the case already, surely James would have written to her. He had written to her on two such occasions, and she could see no reason for him not to do so if it had happened again.

  It was not in James Harrington’s nature to be thoughtless; she was sure of it. She could not think him guilty of failing to attend an engagement without bothering to let her have some notice of it.

  But if he had not done so, if he had not been thoughtless, then what else could explain his absence?

  For an awful moment, her mind was filled with an image of his overturned carriage somewhere on the road from the west to the east. Could that be the explanation? Could her beloved James be lying helpless somewhere, hurt and unable to continue his journey? Or worse.

  Charlotte felt immediately nauseous and suddenly wished with all her heart that it was nothing more than thoughtlessness on James’ part. Anything but the horror that had leaped so readily to mind.

  Either way, she knew she must speak to Hector at the earliest opportunity. And to that aim, she immediately excused herself from her father’s company, and leaving him in conversation with one of their neighbours, she hastily made her way over to Hector.

  “Forgive my intrusion, Hector,” she said as she gently laid a hand on his arm.

  Hector looked at her and smiled before turning back to the charitable young lady he had been in conversation with for some minutes.

  “My dear Miss Myerson, would you excuse me for a few moments?” Hector said warmly. “And when I return, I should very much like to introduce you to the Earl of Morley. He is a very charitable man, and I think that he will find you quite charming, my dear,” he added by way of compensation for his abrupt departure.

  “I really am so sorry to interrupt, Hector,” Charlotte said as she took his proffered arm and allowed him to propel her to the furthest corner of the drawing room. “I did not mean to be so rude, but I am desperate to speak to you.”

  “My dear Charlotte, I do not think you at all rude,” Hector said with his customary broad smile. “But you must tell me what is troubling you, for you look quite pale.”

  “Tell me, Hector, has James not yet arrived? I must admit that I am allowing my imagination to take hold of the reins at the moment, and I am fearing that he has met with some catastrophe en route.”

  “Oh, I see,” Hector said and nodded thoughtfully. “I must admit, I had wondered a little something of the same myself. But I received word from a messenger just minutes before I began to receive guests this evening. James is perfectly safe, my dear, you need have no worry on that account.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Charlotte said and bre
athed a little more easily. “But did he say what has kept him away? And a messenger? Is that not rather unusual?”

  “It was a very simple message, Charlotte, and I am afraid that I cannot read anything into it. He simply states that he will be unable to attend today and forwards his apologies. He does state that he will contact me more fully within the next few days. I daresay he sent the messenger because he did not want either of us to worry as we clearly both have done.” Hector smiled, but he looked a little uneasy.

  “I see, well, thank you,” Charlotte said, wanting to ask more but knowing that she very much risked making a fool of herself if she did.

  If that was as fulsome as the message to Hector was, then no amount of questioning would provide the answers she was looking for.

  And why had James only sent a messenger to Hector? Unless, of course, he had sent one to Thurlow Manor, and she and her father had already left by the time he arrived. Or perhaps he simply assumed that, given she was to be at Hanover Hall that night, she would get to hear of his message from Hector anyway.

  Now that Charlotte was relieved to know James was safe, other questions began to flood her mind and make her uneasy. Something felt very strange to her, and yet she could not quite put her finger on it.

  When he had previously sent letters to make apologies for not being able to attend, Charlotte had felt crestfallen but had soon recovered, especially with Ruth’s help.

  But there seemed to be something about this sudden message that gave her the deepest feeling of disquiet. And now she had an evening to get through when all she wanted to do was to return home in the hopes of discovering that James had sent a messenger there too. All she wanted at that moment was to know that he had considered her, not left her to wait and wonder.

  All Charlotte really wanted, in truth, was to know that she was important to him.

  Some days later, James sat in his chamber reading and rereading the letter he had received at breakfast. He had immediately recognized Charlotte’s beautiful handwriting on the envelope and had quickly stowed the thing in his pocket before his father appeared at the breakfast table.

  The moment his father had come striding into the room, James pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. He had no intention whatsoever of remaining at the table and sharing a meal with the man who had managed to ruin his life so completely and with so little effort, seemingly.

  “Not eating?” his father said in a bluff and amused tone as he sat down heavily in his chair and immediately began to layer his plate with undercooked bacon.

  “I have eaten,” James said and began to walk from the room, pleased that he had at least managed to hide the letter in the moments before the Duke had made his entrance.

  “I shall let you have your little mood, my boy.” The Duke sounded patronizing, and James thought he hated him more than ever. “But things will return to their old ways soon enough. You will forget your young lady in the east, and you will soon turn your mind to the more important task of finding a suitable bride. But in the meantime, I will humour your sensitive little ways.”

  James did not turn back, not trusting himself to answer without taking some other, somewhat more physical, revenge upon his father.

  He closed the door behind him and hurried away upstairs, the sound of the Duke’s laughter seeming to follow him as he went. What a truly despicable man he was!

  The moment he was in his chamber, James opened the letter and read it at once. He did not even sit at his writing desk but stood in the middle of the room as he took in every word.

  “My Dear James,

  I was very sorry not to see you at Hector’s charity reception on Saturday. I must admit to you that I was rather frightened in the beginning, thinking that some accident or other had befallen you on the way.

  But Hector put my mind at rest in that regard by telling me that you had dispatched a messenger to make your apologies for the evening. I was a little upset to discover that no such messenger had been dispatched to me, but perhaps you thought that one messenger would do very well for the two of us.

  I do not mean to argue with you, James, and most particularly not in a letter. But I am bound to say that since the evening of the ball on the Earl of Morley’s estate, I have not seen you once. You know the reason why that ball was so very important to me, and I shall not lay it down on paper for I would hope that it would be important to you too. At least important enough for you to remember it.

  I cannot help thinking of another conversation we once had when we met in Wolverton Woods so many months ago. We had both aired our suspicions that the other was simply playing a game. I had truly wondered then if you were showing such interest in me because of the competition and the lively conversations which had passed between us before. But you very quickly convinced me otherwise, not least because you claimed to suspect me of something similar yourself.

  But now, when I look back on it all, I wonder if I was just being foolish. I wonder if you did not manage to convince me a little too quickly. And worse still, I cannot help thinking that the moment we shared at Lord Morley’s ball was simply the culmination of your efforts to win the little game.

  If I am wrong in this, then I apologize wholeheartedly. But it has been so many weeks since I last saw you, and I think you will forgive me if this is nothing more than my own imagination taking over where it ought not to.

  Above all things, James, I should very much like to hear from you at least. I should like to know that I am wrong in my painful little assumptions, but if I am not, I should like to hear that also. Whatever it is you have to tell me, James, let it be the truth and nothing else.

  I have the greatest hopes of seeing you again, but if that is not the case, I should like to hear that from you.

  Regardless, I hope that this letter finds you in good health.

  With fondest regards,

  Charlotte.”

  Finally, James sat down at the writing bureau. He immediately took out a sheet of paper, determined to right back to her that moment. But then he stopped and looked down at the blank page, his sudden realization that he could not respond to her giving him the greatest feeling of helplessness and agitation.

  He knew that he could not tell Charlotte that it had just been a game. It would have sealed the whole thing off, that was for certain, but it was the gravest lie, and he would never have her think that he had used her so cruelly.

  It was clear that the kiss on that night had meant as much to her as it had, in truth, meant to him. James knew that he would never forget it for as long as he lived, and every time he replayed it in his mind would be a moment of the most exquisite pain.

  No, he could not lie and tell Charlotte that he had never loved her, for he knew he would never love anybody else. But neither could he tell her the truth. How could he?

  James really had thought the whole thing through, just as his father had suggested that evil day in his study. And the Duke had played his hand very well indeed, for there was no move that James could make that would give him a moment’s happiness.

  He could not explain the truth of it all to Charlotte, for then she would know everything, and the bond between father and daughter would be lost forever.

  In his weaker moments, James blamed Lord Cunningham for it all. If the man had not been so foolish as to father a child with another woman, then his own father would have no threat to hold over him.

  But he knew that he was diverting blame away from where it ought really to land; the Duke. Whatever Lord Cunningham’s reasons for his behaviour all those years ago, who was James to be the judge of them? He knew nothing of Lord Cunningham’s life, certainly not in the years when Charlotte had been no more than an infant.

  And he had seen enough of the man to know that he truly liked him. The baron had accepted him with an openness that no other father might. He did not look at James as the son of the Duke, a young man who would undoubtedly bring favourable circumstances to Thurlow Manor if he chose to marry Charlotte Cun
ningham.

  He had never pushed, never enquired, never angled. Lord Cunningham was always himself; pleasant, agreeable, eccentric. All in all, he was not a man whom James would easily upset.

  And if he did, where would it get him? If he was honest with Charlotte and told her everything, every injustice of it, how would that help his cause? Charlotte and her father would still run the risk of the Duke making their private circumstances known if their courtship continued. And the fact that Lord Cunningham had taken the child of his affair into his home would make both him and Charlotte pariahs in society.

  No young lady faced with that sort of decision would ever decide to marry and to hell with the consequences. She would undoubtedly do what she could to protect her father, even if her relationship with the man were utterly destroyed.

  And of all things, it was that which truly stopped James uttering a single word. He knew that Charlotte’s mother had died when she was young and that her father meant the world to her. He had, in this short friendship, quickly realized that he was witnessing a very special bond between father and daughter, and he knew that he could never, ever do anything to break it.