The Duke's Mysterious Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  The bird called again. A male peacock strutted across the lawn, his elegant tail feathers spread out like a painted fan of vivid blues and greens. Its haughty swagger was a welcome distraction, until a horse and rider burst from a distant grove of trees, covering the ground fast. She held her breath at the sight of the high gate in the hedge barring his way, but the big horse cleared the gate easily. In minutes, the rider was below her, strong hands on the reins, sitting tall in the saddle.

  He dismounted in one graceful movement and glanced toward her window. She scuttled backward with the image of jet-black hair and broad shoulders. Curiosity got the better of her, and she peered from behind the curtain as he tossed the reins of the magnificent, chestnut stallion to a stable boy. “Make sure he’s well rubbed down, fed and watered.” His voice was deep and held an air of authority. He vaulted the steps and disappeared inside the house. The master of the house perhaps. And a perfect stranger. Her pulse raced in her throat and her head throbbed.

  Anguished, she turned, her hand to her forehead, and rushed to pull the bell sash, then caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.

  An untidy halo of tangled hair and a pale, gaunt face gazed back at her, wide eyes dark with confusion and terror. Panic closed her throat, making her fight for breath. Nausea brought tears to her eyes, and the face in the glass blurred, as unanswerable questions filled the vacuum in her aching head. Who was she? Whose house was this?

  A knock at the door made her stagger to the bed and cover herself with the quilt.

  “Come in.” Surely, she would now have an answer.

  A young servant girl entered with a dress draped over her arm. She carried undergarments, cotton stockings, a pair of garters, and thin black shoes.

  Mrs. Moodie has sent a gown for you to wear, miss.”

  “Who is Mrs. Moodie?”

  “She be the housekeeper, miss.”

  “Where are my own clothes?” She had no idea what she had last been wearing.

  The maid giggled from behind her hand. “They be men’s clothes. Do you not remember?”

  A hot rush of distress flooded through her and she shook her head. “Do…do you know who I am?”

  The maid shook her head. “No, miss. I only know they found you and brought you here.”

  “Where…did they find me?”

  “Lying on the road. Up near Molton’s Cross a pace.”

  She grabbed the back of the chair for support, digging fingers into the tightly woven cloth. “Whose home is this then, if you please?”

  “Why, this be Vale Park, miss. Everyone knows that. The Duke of Vale owns the largest estate in the county.”

  “Thank you for the gown.” She reached for it. The cambric was faded and worn thin in places from long usage. It would be far too big, but she was eager to be dressed. Once dressed, she might feel better. She accepted the maid’s offer to comb the tangles from her hair; but soon came to regret it as every tug brought fresh pain, more tears flooding her eyes. The maid obviously had no knowledge of such things and drove hairpins almost vertically into her tender scalp.

  “When you be finished your toilet, miss, the footman will show you the way to the master. He be breakfasting below.”

  When the maid left her alone, she pulled the nightgown over her head and forced herself to view herself again. Oh, I’m so thin! The thought came to her from somewhere deep within the recesses of her mind. There lay the answers to who she was, still maddeningly out of reach. She turned around, studying herself.

  Apart from a nasty yellowish purple bruise on her hip, her body appeared unblemished, but her hips were bony protuberances, thrusting against her skin. Snatches of recollection from the past days came to her, how she’d vomited into a bowl, and been eager to slip back into the sleep. She’d been fed soup at some point, but she had no idea when she’d last had a proper meal. She quickly donned the clothes, reacting with distaste to the stays and shabby chemise. At least they were clean.

  Her growling stomach drove her to hurry and pull the bell.

  Several minutes later, a lady of middle years in black appeared with a Châtelaine of keys jangling at her waist. Behind her stood a tall, fair-haired footman, resplendent in sky blue and gold livery.

  “I am Mrs. Moodie.” Years of bad humor or pain creased the woman’s face. “Good. I see you are dressed.” Her flat voice held a note of disapproval.

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Moodie.”

  She clasped her hands together as Mrs. Moodie cast a critical eye over her. A malicious gleam lit her eyes as she took in the ugly, ill-fitting dress. “Come along.”

  “Might I have a girdle to raise the skirt?” she asked as she followed the housekeeper to the door. “’Tis too long.”

  “The gown is a trifle large,” Mrs. Moodie admitted, offering no remedy. “But will do.” She stood aside and motioned for the girl to follow the footman.

  To stay and argue the point with this fierce looking woman would delay her meal, so she gathered up her skirts and ran to catch up with the footman, who showed no inclination to treat her with courtesy and strode away down the hall.

  The house was a maze of confusing passageways. They passed spotless, well-ordered chambers. In the portrait gallery, framed paintings of family members hung in solemn splendor.

  Formidable men, handsome ladies and the occasional rosy-cheeked child. She didn’t know this family, did she? She would have liked to linger and examine the portraits more thoroughly, but without lessening his pace, the footman proceeded down a stone staircase. She held up the long skirts, fearing she would catch her slipper and fall to her death. Heart beating fast, she arrived safely on the paved floor.

  They entered a huge, flagged hall. Crossed swords, shields, and tapestries depicting scenes of hunts and battles decorated the walls. Armor guarded the doorways. A vaulted ceiling soared to a great height above them. Like the beat of a distant drum, the hollow echo of the footman’s shoes upon the stone seemed to keep pace with the pounding in her head.

  The footman charged through another doorway. Following, she blinked into sunlight in a central courtyard, the towering walls of the great house encircling them.

  Her breath caught in her throat. What did this powerful man, this duke, want with her? Her feet faltered on the path, but the footman was poised to re-enter the building through another door. As she ran after him, she lost a shoe. She bent and thrust the slipper back on, fearing she might lose him. She found him waiting before a pair of tall doors. His cold, impersonal glance swept over her before he knocked.

  A deep voice answered, “Come.”

  With a flourish, the footman threw the doors open, then paused. She realized with horror that he had no name with which to announce her.

  “The woman ye found on the road, Y’grace,” he said.

  She winced, burning with embarrassment and allowed herself to be ushered into the room. When the door clicked shut behind her, she felt strangely abandoned.

  After the austerity of stone passages, the breakfast room was warm and welcoming with the rich aroma of coffee in the air. A brightly patterned carpet covered the parquetry floor. The late morning sun sparkled on diamond-paned windows with a view of distant woods. She wished she was in those woods and not here.

  Anywhere but here, at this moment.

  The source of her discomfort rose from his seat at the table. He apparently rescued her. She did not recognize him. Would he know her? If he didn’t, what would he do with her?

  ****

  The young woman glided towards him like a duchess entering a ballroom wearing a diamond tiara. She appeared so confident and poised that it took him a moment to notice the appalling, faded gown, which hung from her shoulders like a set of ill-fitting curtains. Clumsy hands had dressed her hair. It hung in untidy strands about her face. He thought her eyes were brown, because they were so dark, but on closer inspection, they were blue and filled with doubt. No serene duchess here, merely a nervous young woman.

  �
��Vale. Welcome to Vale Park.” He bowed from the neck.

  “Your Grace.” She kicked the hem of the offensive gown with her foot and sank into an elegant and practiced curtsey.

  “My word!” Hugh exclaimed. “Is that frock the best my housekeeper could find?”

  The girl’s chin went up. “I believe so, Your Grace.” Her eyes flashed as if inviting him to comment further.

  How curious. Her manners and speech were impeccable.

  Perhaps not the servant’s hall after all. “Your name?”

  Her slender shoulders tensed. “It escapes me for the moment.”

  He raised his brows. “Well I’m pleased to see you’re feeling better. Have you had breakfast? Would you care to join me?”

  The gown gave clue to Mrs. Moodie’s disapproval, and she was right. The young woman could not stay here.

  She sat at the table, as Porter poured her tea.

  Not a servant. He’d bet his life on it. The young woman sipped the brew while he studied her face. Matthew was right about her delicate features. His gaze took in the absence of rings on her slim fingers. Might she have a husband somewhere?

  He realized he was staring and lowered his gaze to his coffee cup.

  “You’re not exactly what I expected.”

  “Might I ask what you did expect, Your Grace?”

  Delicate brows rose as if they’d just met at Almacks and he’d made an embarrassing faux pas. “I was hoping you might tell me.”

  “I would like to tell you. Very much.”

  Porter asked. “Your usual sirloin, Your Grace?”

  “It was overcooked yesterday, Porter.” Hugh turned to her.

  “Would you care for something to eat? Bread and butter, perhaps?”

  The girl’s stomach gave a loud protesting gurgle, bringing a flood of crimson to her cheeks.

  “Might I have a sirloin too? Thank you, Porter.”

  Porter’s well-schooled manner deserted him. A slight smile flickered over his face before he turned his back and exited the room.

  When the girl bent her head over her teacup, a lock of hair tumbled from its uncertain perch.

  “I beg your pardon,” she muttered uneasily, as her fingers went to rearrange the disorder.

  “Please don’t be concerned. I am quite used to a woman en déshabillé.”

  “Indeed?” Her eyes turned frosty and her hands stilled in their work.

  What was this? Disapproval? Hugh suffered a jolt of annoyance. He had never before been made to feel socially inept.

  This was the second time within minutes of making her acquaintance. He was further exasperated when he found himself attempting to repair the gaffe.

  “I have a sister,” he said, although for the life of him, he couldn’t recall Clarissa looking so…abandoned.

  “I see,” she said warily.

  He took another sip of coffee. Women of his acquaintance, apart from his mistress, were always so flawlessly coiffed and gowned, her rumpled appearance was deuced appealing. And although not at her best, she was undeniably pretty. Her hair was the color of pale ash, her facial bones delicately carved, and her mouth more generous than the current crop of beauties. No one could look severe with a mouth like that. Temptingly curved, it softened her face and held a promise of… Hugh put down his cup. What had gotten into him? Dark shadows lay beneath her fine eyes, their expression guarded. Did she think him about to pounce on her? He took himself to task. This young woman was in dire straits.

  He should send her to the servants’ quarters and forget the whole affair, and if she had a hooknose and sallow skin, he admitted shamefacedly that he would have. But it would be gratifying to see her dressed, as a pretty woman should be.

  Hugh puffed out his lips, annoyed. He considered himself a cut above men who were blinded by lust. He refused to be swayed by a pretty face.

  She watched him anxiously. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

  “Ah, more tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  A footman brought in a tray and served them. The girl picked up her knife and fork and tucked in. She ate neatly and very fast, finishing before him. Then she sat back with a sigh. “I was famished it seems.”

  “You were?” He couldn’t resist a grin. He was used to the dainty appetites of women, which he suspected were the result of fashion and the corsets they wore rather than their appetites.

  It was as if his smile released something in her. “Your Grace, I must thank you for coming to my rescue.” She relaxed a little with the food, and her eyes softened. “Your housemaid explained how…. The…the state I was in when I was found….”

  Unable to continue she gazed down at her hands. “I must confess I am exceedingly embarrassed.”

  “Then you may reward me by quenching my curiosity as to how this came about,” Hugh said.

  She sighed. “I wish I could. Try as I might, I cannot remember.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No, nothing.” The girl rubbed her temples with an unsteady hand. “I neither know who I am, nor how I came to be where you found me.”

  “Perhaps this may jog something in your memory? You were wearing it.” Hugh took the jeweled locket from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the table before her.

  “I don’t recognize the piece.” She eyed the locket, but did not pick it up.

  He watched her carefully. “Take a look inside.”

  She hesitated, her fingers curling around it reluctantly, before doing as she was bid. After a casual glance at the ruined likeness inside, she placed it back on the table, and pushed it away with a finger.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could say this helps, but it doesn’t.”

  Studying her troubled face, Hugh could detect nothing of guilt in her demeanor. Or was she a consummate actress? “Did you notice the coat of arms engraved on the back?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes. “The crest means nothing to me.”

  Whatever she was, he found her dignity touching. Could she be a lady’s maid who had learned refinements from her mistress? He rejected it as ludicrous. Having a lush and vulnerable young woman here in the house was dangerous, for her, and for him.

  “The doctor said you may be befogged for a while. You can’t stay here. It wouldn’t do at all. I’m unmarried, and there is no one suitable to act as chaperone.” He tapped his fingers together. “Now what’s best to do?”

  ****

  Silent, the duke turned the locket in his long fingers. Did he believe her? She wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. He didn’t appear about to take advantage of her vulnerable position. Her panic at finding him to be a perfect stranger eased, aided by the tea and the hot food. She discreetly studied him from beneath her lashes. The light from the windows rested on his thick, black hair, brushed back from a widow’s peak, and revealing a touch of red. On her way along the portrait gallery, she’d seen paintings of several family members with raven-black hair.

  “Nanny Bryant has long been a member of this family,” he said. “She prefers her independence and lives in a cottage on the estate. A modest house, but comfortable. You are welcome to stay with her until you recover. I can take you to her after breakfast. I’ll send a note to alert her to your arrival. What do you say?”

  “I would be grateful. That’s exceedingly generous of you, Your Grace.”

  Her heart beat a little faster. Strong dark brows and high cheekbones made him appear uncompromising. His sculptured lips hinted at a passionate, adventurous nature. She remembered him jumping his horse over that gate. His high-bridged nose had a haughty caste, the perfect epitome of a duke.

  But when he’d smiled his brown eyes warmed, making him appear younger, more approachable. Perhaps it was the mention of his old nurse.

  “Then, I’ll do so now.” He rose. “Please have more tea if you wish. Porter will be happy to serve you.”

  He left the room. At the thought of finding sanctuary, she sagged. Exhaustion spread through her, turning her limbs leaden.<
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  How tense she’d been, how ready to fight him had he offered her something less agreeable. Although the offer of his protection for her favors was highly unlikely, considering the way she looked.

  She almost smiled and wondered at the wisdom of her fighting spirit asserting itself. Had she no thought to the consequences?

  She might have been tossed out onto the road. And then where would she go? She knew nothing about herself. The thought made her heart bang against her ribs. Had her behavior condemned her to a life of shame? Why had she done such a thing? Might she have been driven by something so shocking, she’d abandoned all hope of a respectable life? If only she could remember. But trying made her head ache more and worse, she trembled with a sense of dread.

  Chapter Three

  A few hours later, the duke drove her in his phaeton. The summer sun warmed her back, as they bowled along a lane and cut across the top of a hill. A valley spread out below them in a patchwork of green fields and hedgerows, dotted here and there with the vibrant red of the dog rose.

  In different circumstances, she might enjoy this. Bouncing around in the open carriage made her head ache again, and she gritted her teeth yearning to crawl back into bed. She clung to the plain straw bonnet Mrs. Moodie had provided for the trip. She had sent the nightgown as well wrapped in brown paper.

  The duke glanced her way. “All right there?”

  “Yes, thank you. This is remarkably kind of you. I’m admiring your skill. You drive your phaeton to the inch.”

  “A good vehicle. It suits me.”

  “The Phaeton was named after an ancient Greek. The son of Helios, wasn’t it? He borrowed his father’s chariot and would have set heaven and earth on fire with his fearless driving, if Zeus hadn’t slain him with a thunderbolt.”

  The duke’s eyebrows rose. “Then it’s to be hoped the skies remain clear for us today.”

  She glanced at the azure sky strewn with wisps of cloud like cracked old china. “Perhaps you should slow down a little,” she said. “Cum f′ eriunt unum non unum fulmina terrent.” The knowledge came from somewhere. She stared at him, surprised.