The Duke's Mysterious Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  Chapter Six

  Every morning, the groom brought Molly for Viola to ride.

  She refused the repeated offer of another horse, remaining loyal to sweet Molly, who always nuzzled her hand for the apple or carrot Viola had waiting.

  At first, Viola attempted to traverse the length and breadth of the Vale Park acres, but soon discovered how impossible that was. She adopted a daily routine of riding along the same path.

  Her favorite route was the trail beside the river, then through the woods in a large semi-circle around the big house.

  Viola would dismount at the water’s edge, as she and Hugh had done on that first day. While Molly tore at the grass, she sat in the daisy-strewn riverbank and told herself she was merely admiring the view.

  Nanny had talked of the celebrated artists who had painted Vale House from this perspective. Some days, sunshine set the lake afire with dancing lights, and burnished the old stone of the house, softening and blurring its lines. At other times, clouds cast strong shadows, and threw the angles and curves of the building into relief, the lake reflecting the grey sky. On rainy days, mist hung over the water and enshrouded the house, lending it an air of mystery. She loved it here, but tried to guard her emotions.

  She must never think of it as home.

  She arrived back at the cottage. In her absence, a footman had brought an invitation to visit the library at Vale House.

  “What has prompted this?” she asked Nanny, failing to hide her excitement.

  Nanny smiled. “I told Hugh you loved to read and that you’d read all the books sent down from the big house. He felt you should choose your own.”

  After luncheon, with a rush of anticipation, Viola walked the two miles to Vale house. When she arrived, Porter showed her into the library, and withdrew. She wandered the length of the lofty room, the floor covered in a dense carpet patterned in browns and golds. High above in the ornate ceiling, she glimpsed the sky through a round window. Shelf upon shelf of tomes lined the walls. An iron staircase led to a gallery to bring the books at the very top into reach. While Viola searched the shelves with exclamations of delight, hours passed without her noticing.

  Viola slipped into the library most days, spending far too much time there before dragging herself away, conscious-stricken at arriving too late to help Nanny prepare dinner. Apart from Porter, she never came across another soul. She believed she had the magnificent library all to herself.

  Late one afternoon, the door opened below her while she was perched on the gallery caught up in the struggle between good and evil in Milton’s poem, Paradise Lost, and feeling a little guilty that the Devil seemed more attractive than God.

  She edged behind a decorative column as Hugh and another man entered the room.

  She began to rise to her feet, as the giant of a man put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Ye would be a fool to cross Prinny. Don’t think being who ye are will save ye from severe censure.”

  “The man’s a hypocrite, Jock.”

  Jock, a full head taller than Hugh, rubbed his hand through his fiery red beard. “Och. He’s the prince regent.”

  “That doesn’t justify treating his wife in such a damnable fashion.” Hugh threw himself down upon a leather Chesterfield.

  The big man joined him. “Aye, I’m afraid it does. The bill could be passed. There’s little you or anyone else can do to prevent it. You won’t get the Whigs to act. They fear persecution. You will end up with your fingers burnt. And for what? The woman’s a disaster.”

  “What’s good for the gander isn’t necessarily good for the goose, it seems,” Hugh said heatedly. “I felt outraged when Prinny refused to write and inform Caroline of the death of

  Princess Charlotte, her husband, Leopold had to tell her.” He folded his arms across his chest and studied a boot. “Caroline has asked me to chaperone her cause, and I’ve said I’m willing to do so.”

  “Be careful you’re not accused of being the father of that brat she has. Some say it’s her butler’s.” Jock smiled, but his voice held a warning.

  Hugh threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t deny I’ve been a lover of royalty, Jock, but Princess Caroline, never. Not my type. Or Prinny’s, apparently.”

  “It surprises me the woman is anyone’s type, but she has quite a reputation. The fact is, both of you have a history of dalliance. I’ll wager she’ll demand much more from you than you’ll want to give when she comes to England! And if the Milan commission should consider it opportune to draw you in, it would be extremely difficult to disprove.”

  “They wouldn’t dare. Have sense man! Caroline lives abroad and it’s no secret I’ve been fully caught up with Aurelia for a year or more.”

  “’Tis true and common knowledge.” Jock raised his shaggy brows. “You sound as if it’s on the wane.”

  “Our relationship is at an end. She is an exhausting and demanding female.”

  Jock laughed. “And extremely handsome.”

  “Indeed, and quite aware of her charms and the necessary expenditure to keep them just so. I do not begrudge her money, but it’s so tiresomely time-consuming! To be honest, before long, I grow weary of them all.”

  “Well, you will dabble with the demi-monde,” said Jock.

  “And she’s French besides. British women are much easier to manage. They know their place.”

  Hugh grinned. “Not Scottish women from what you’ve told me. I doubt I’d desire a woman who is too easy to manage. But I take your warning in good part. My shortcomings aside, I must try to help the princess. I’ve given my pledge.”

  It was too late for Viola to declare her presence. She clutched the book in trembling fingers, hardly daring to breathe.

  Hugh’s hounds entered the library and rushed about, noses sniffing the air. She stilled, heart thumping and prayed they wouldn’t see her. The men had only to glance up to where she crouched behind the column, her gown billowing about her. Why had she chosen such an arresting color as apricot? Fortunately, the two men rose without a glance in her direction and left the room with the dogs at their heels.

  She crept from her high perch, book still in hand, and slipped from the room. Not until she walked along the lane to Nanny’s cottage did she begin to breathe more easily and think of what she had heard. So Hugh had a mistress. What was she like?

  French, and very beautiful apparently.

  Had his relationship with this woman ended because his betrothal was imminent? Or would he seek another mistress? She was not privy to the way these things were done, but this view of him changed him in her eyes. Her benefactor took on the persona of a rake. But a rake who would risk censure to right what he considered an injustice. She sighed, having forgotten all about Milton’s Paradise Lost. The Duke of Vale was far more intriguing.

  ****

  Several days later, Hugh and his secretary, John Fulman, worked through a pile of correspondence, his mind only half engaged. He had resisted the temptation to ride with Viola again, well aware that straying too often to Nanny’s cottage could make his life even more difficult than it already was. Felicity had returned home from London, and events were moving forward. When he had ridden over to greet her, their meeting had been surprisingly subdued. She had not been her irrepressible self. The announcement of their engagement was not far in the future, it waited upon the recovery of her favorite aunt from a malady, when she could be part of the proceedings. Once the knot was tied, the rest of his life, to all intents and purposes would be established. He took a deep breath and stabbed at the inkwell with his pen, while enduring a bout of inexplicable emotions, frustration, and something close to anguish at what might have been possible. He’d had years to adjust to his future; his inability to manage it now made him helpless and angry.

  Later in the day, returning to the house after his morning ride, he caught a glimpse of Viola riding across the bottom field near the river with the groom following. In need of a distraction, his plans forgotten, he turned his horse’s head. />
  At the sight of him riding towards her, Viola reined in Molly and waited.

  “Your Grace.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I gave up trying to see more of your land it takes me too far from the cottage. I follow the path we took on that first day.”

  “May I join you?”

  “Of course.”

  Breathing in the mossy, pine-laden air, Hugh tried to ease his tight shoulders. Viola made no attempt to engage him in conversation, as if she sensed he did not wish it. He glanced at her. She had blossomed in the time she’d spent at Vale. She would be perfectly at home in any society drawing room. A curious business, if he suffered impatience to learn more about her past, what must she be feeling?

  After a good gallop, their ride ended as it had before on the bank of the river. Hugh dismounted and threw his reins over a tree branch. He turned to help her down, enjoying the soft curve of her waist under his hands far too much.

  “I love coming here.” She gazed across the water. “The house is magnificent.”

  He leaned against a tree admiring her. “I’m glad you approve.”

  “I’ll be sad to leave.”

  Why did the thought sour in his mind? It was obvious she would leave. She could hardly spend the rest of her life in Nanny’s cottage.

  “When you regain your memory you’ll want to return home.”

  She turned to him, her eyes shadowed. “I expect so.”

  “Do you worry that someone is missing you? A husband perhaps or a parent?”

  She huffed out a breath. “No. I don’t know why.” Her voice shook and a tear appeared on her cheek.

  Hugh didn’t know what to say. Her sadness was palpable.

  He reached out to her, and before he knew what he was about, enfolded her in his arms. She gave a muffled gasp against his chest. He held her lightly as he would a child, his hands impersonal, but his brain failed to fool his body. Worried she would detect his obvious ardor; he dropped his hands and stepped back. “I wasn’t attempting a seduction, it was merely comfort,” he said, lying through his teeth while her fresh womanly scent lingered.

  Her eyes had widened, but she nodded her head. “You are too kind.”

  His thoughts weren’t at all kind, they were filled with lust. “I haven’t heard from Bow Street,” he said, fighting to place them back on a safer footing before his urges got out of control and every remaining trace of good sense deserted him. “I shall send word the very moment I do.”

  “I appreciate it, thank you,” her voice was unsteady, and her eyes had darkened to deep violet. It was impossible for him to gauge her reaction. Foolish in the extreme to want to learn her thoughts, but right at this minute, he wanted to desperately.

  “I wished to thank you for allowing me access to your extensive library,” she said, her voice firmer, a smile lifting the corners of her lovely mouth. “I’ve so enjoyed it.”

  “I’m pleased someone is enjoying it,” he said, his voice brisk.

  “I’ve had little time to read of late.” His gaze roamed over her, appreciating how the sunlight brightened the cloth of her habit, the color of her remarkable eyes. Clever Nanny to choose it.

  When a lock of her hair caught the light, it turned the color of ripe corn against her creamy skin. He realized with a start that if she were dressed in jewels and a fine gown, she would be a diamond of the first water. The equal of any lady in London.

  Why on God’s Green Earth was such a woman here, living in his cottage.

  No wonder he was fighting his lust.

  He wanted to stay here and drink her in, but he didn’t trust himself. “I’ll ride back to the cottage with you and take tea with Nanny.”

  She bestowed her lovely smile on him. “Nanny is always delighted to see you.”

  He wanted Viola to be delighted too even though it was a pointless thing to wish for.

  Chapter Seven

  Rupert leaned forward in the worn leather wingchair, to stab a poker at the fire. The flames flared, turning his fair hair a halo of fiery gold reflected in the mirror above the mantle.

  With a mocking laugh, he rose to touch the row of pipes on the pipe-stand of the leather-topped desk, then wandered around the room looking at the bookshelves crammed with well -thumbed editions. He had done her a favor if only she would realize it.

  Always having her nose in books was not what life was about.

  She would never listen to him. As she grew more like a sleeping beauty, his determination to be the one to awaken her to earthly passion grew. She had not understood him. He had been too gentle, too passive. He should have persuaded her more forcibly, made her his, whether she agreed with it or not. She would have gotten used to the idea.

  He sighed, perplexed. He had plotted and planned, yet failed at the last hurdle to take what he wanted. Nothing would stop him next time. When he got her back, he would take her into his bed and that would be the end of this ridiculous farce.

  He poured the last of the claret and tossed the wine back in one gulp. The alcohol was finally doing its work; the pain ebbed.

  He planned to get ape-drunk tonight and was already two-thirds there. He didn’t want to remember the cozy evenings spent in this house, while she played the pianoforte. The rooms seemed so drab in her absence, the house an inhospitable, echoing place after most of the staff had left.

  He pushed himself to his feet and fell against a wall as he staggered to the open window. It was a perfect, summer night.

  Familiar sounds and smells assailed his senses, as a full, round moon sailed through the cloudless sky and turned the landscape a hoary silver. His ancestors seemed to mock him as moonlight revealed all that was familiar, the wild, neglected gardens, the horse paddocks and stables, and the silent woods.

  Was all this now his? He’d wanted it so much he’d been sick with yearning. It had made him do dreadful things to obtain it.

  And now, without her, it seemed meaningless.

  At the stables the next morning, his temples ached, but he was no longer so desperate. During the night, he’d convinced himself he’d find her, and was roused to continue his search.

  He gazed at his two henchmen, his voice tight with frustration at the sight of their dull expressions.

  “Go to London. Check all the coaching-inns and hostelries to pick up her trail. Do you understand me?” He flicked his riding crop in a menacing fashion that only two ruffians such as these would understand. “Dammit, she can’t have disappeared into thin air! If that fails, we’ll think of somewhere else for you fools to look.”

  The two men held their caps to their chests and nodded.

  They knew he would brook no excuses. They were to search until they found her, or it would be bellows to mend for them. The shorter of the two glowered at him with his mean, narrow eyes.

  No doubt planning to steal what he could from him when his back was turned.

  After his men scurried off, Rupert mounted his horse and rode hard across the fields for an hour. Returning, he slowed his mount when he caught sight of the brick house through the trees, smoke from its twisted chimneys drifting into the grey sky. As the empty manor grew closer, he fought to calm himself. She could not be dead.

  He flicked his whip. She hated violence towards animals. To get her back, he might manipulate her with that threat. He raised his whip again bringing it down hard on his own thigh, hating himself for his weakness.

  By the time he reached the house, he had reasoned himself out of his depression. He dismounted with satisfaction. It was her fault, not his. And when he got his hands on her again, she would suffer for it.

  Chapter Eight

  Several days later, Viola played a Mozart piece on the pianoforte in Nanny’s parlor to distract herself from the glorious feeling of being held in the duke’s arms. The door opened and he walked in as if summoned by her thoughts. Disconcerted, her hands faltered over the keys. She went to rise. “Nanny’s not here at present, Your Grace.”

 
; “Please, don’t stop.” He threw down his gloves, and settled in a chair.

  Viola sat and played the piece through to the end. After the last note died away, there was silence, but for the ticking of the mantle clock and the anxious drumming of her heart.

  “Superb,” Hugh murmured.

  “I had a competent teacher, I suppose.” She stood.

  He motioned for her to sit opposite him.

  “Who had a pupil with more than a modicum of talent, I think. Viola, the mystery deepens.”

  She frowned and looked down at her hands knitted in her lap. “How tired I’ve grown of hearing that.”

  He leaned forward and took her hands in his, which quite robbed her of breathe. “You must be. I am sorry.”

  She swallowed. “I seem to be of an impatient nature. I’m also a very bad hostess.” She withdrew her hands and rose. “I’ll arrange for some tea.”

  “You ladies are fonder of tea than I am.” His brown eyes were dark and unfathomable. “To hear you play again would please me far more.”

  “Any requests, Your Grace?” Relieved to put some distance between them, she went to sit at the pianoforte again. She flicked through the music while she fought to regain her composure. It was difficult for they were entirely alone. Courting the farmer’s son, Becky was away at the dairy, taking advantage of Nanny visiting a friend in the village. Hugh’s embrace had made her yearn for more, even though she knew he had done it out of compassion for her plight.

  He stood beside her, leafing through the pile of music books. As he leaned across her to prop one on the stand, she smelled his musky soap. When his leg stirred her skirts, her senses came alive.

  “Mozart. Play this sonata, if you will—a favorite of mine. I’ll turn the pages for you, shall I?”

  Swallowing nervously, she began to play, praying the music would calm her. It had always worked before. But it didn’t now.