"M'lady, Ms. Cauthfield often enjoyed reminding me that love and relationships are about a great many things, one of which is sacrifice and giving to your lover," Lord Beckham responded facetiously, tossing the groaning criminal into the carriage and slamming the door shut, sealing it by placing his rifle across the latches to the door. "Unfortunately, there's one sacrifice I won't make - even for a woman as amazing and as beautiful, as talented and intelligent, and as free as you," he teased.
"Come now, m'lord, was Pierre certainly that difficult a horse to get along with?" Lady Havenshire laughed. "I could teach you, you know. It's not quite too difficult a task. Particularly, I would imagine, for a man capable of trouncing an entire half-dozen bandits with only a long stick to help him."
"A half a dozen bandits couldn't dare stand up to the stubbornness of old Pierre," Lord Beckham grumbled. "I think I'll be riding at the head of the carriage instead. James?" The loyal butler mounted the front bench of the carriage, still wiping tears from his eyes; her smile absolutely infectious, Lady Havenshire hopped upon Shadow's back, sighing in satisfaction as her steed clopped to life excitedly.
"Are we making our way back to the Emerys estate, m'lord?" Nadia asked excitedly.
"No, unfortunately - I feel we have a few stops to make first," Lord Beckham responded.
"Where to, then, m'lord?" James asked, so full of pride at seeing his master broken from the stupor that had afflicted him for so long.
"Well, I'm certain the local sheriff would have quite an earful for these criminals we're hauling, don't you think James?" Lord Beckham asked.
"I think he'd have quite a few things to say to them, indeed," James agreed.
"To the sheriff's then?" Lady Havenshire asked.
"And I think a second stop off - at the church? It's quite lovely for weddings this time of year," Lord Beckham added with a grin. A crack of lightning flashed and thunder followed - the sound of rain striking distant leaves filled the air, and a conspiratorial smirk covered Nadia's face quick.
"I'll race you there," Lady Havenshire responded happily.
"I'm certain you'll win," Marshall quipped.
"As long as we have love, Marshall, we both win," Nadia said.
EPILOGUE
"My love," Lord Beckham said, voice full of concern. He tended to the fire in the Berrewithe Manor study; its warmth radiated out calmly, blanketing the refuge of knowledge, books lined along the walls, a familiar couch set opposite the roaring flames - the couch from the gamekeeper’s cabin, the couch he had spent his first intimate moments with Lady Havenshire upon. After Lord Havenshire passed, Nadia had the cabin demolished - but she could never part with that couch, or the memories of it, and had it carried forthwith to the Berrewithe estate, where she could appreciate it lovingly forever.
"Is something troubling you, Marshall?" Nadia queried, tilting her head in his direction as she lay upon the couch, enjoying the flicker and crackle of the dried-out logs set aflame.
"A great many things trouble me, love, though not necessarily all at once. I miss your father," he recalled painfully as he sat next to her, the old couch creaking beneath them. Reflexively he reached for his lover's stomach, rubbing it gently - he felt the roundness, the firmness beginning to show.
"I miss him, too, my love... but he'd be overjoyed to know soon he'll have a grandchild to carry on the family name... perhaps, if it's a boy, we could even name him for my father," Nadia added, smiling. "...that certainly can't be the only thought troubling you."
"I thought, the other day, on words you shared to me, before we married... of how our marriage, you thought, was meant to relieve my guilt over my... my sister," Marshall admitted painfully. "Perhaps it bore some measure of truth... that is, before I fell in love with you, perhaps, I hoped I could... do a little good, for this world. But I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever live a life worth earning my sister's forgiveness," Lord Beckham lamented, watching the flames of the fireplace leap and lick as his dearest love curled up next to him.
"When I said those things, I didn't quite mean them - or, I did, but I had the wrong ideas about you, m'lord. About your past," she soothed him. "I don't think I'm simply... a tool for you, not anymore."
"No, of course not, but... there's some truth to your words, nonetheless. I've overcome so much from the past, with your help, love," Marshall breathed deeply, that contemplative brooding taking him again, his expression deep and stormy; the way Nadia remembered it being that first night they met. "I broke from hating myself - something I very well may have done for the very rest of my days, if you hadn't come to help me. And for that I can never express anything except endless gratitude."
"I love you, Marshall - of course I wanted to help you find joy, and break the cycle you'd found yourself in," she confided. "Do you feel you haven't gotten past the... terrible things that happened to your sister, because of this world we live in?"
"I just... I miss her, Nadia," Marshall said, sighing deeply. "I've set so much right about this world and this life I live, but... Leah is still somewhere, hurting; hating our family, our name, because of what happened to her. I don't know that that can ever be fixed. If I can ever do anything to earn her love again." A quiet knock on the door interrupted Lord Beckham's introspection; he lofted a brow as loyal James entered the study, speaking in a hushed tone.
"M'lord, I beg your pardon for the interruption, but... well, someone has come to see you..." Lord Beckham looked to Nadia, whose smile brimmed bright and wide.
"Who is it, James?" Lord Beckham asked.
"I think that's something you ought to see for yourself," James grinned, giving a coy wink to Lady Beckham.
"What manner of plot have you concocted between the two of you?" Marshall questioned harshly.
"You expressed angst over whether or not you'll ever have made up to your sister for what happened, hadn't you?" Nadia asked.
"Well... y-yes," Lord Beckham responded, dumbfounded.
"I've spent my time alone sending letters... asking questions to friends of mine, of ours. Looking for names, sending more letters, and..." Nadia reclined on the couch, yawning. "...if you want to know whether your sister has forgiven you, or if she still loves you... perhaps you should ask her yourself." Marshall's eyes widened.
"Wh... what?" Confused, the duke raced down through the hall, down the stairs, and into the foyer, where the doors sat open, light pouring through. The duke at first thought her a dream; a sight he had never expected to see again. Dressed quaintly, in a simple white gown with a blue apron atop it, her blonde hair long and shimmering in the sunlight. Marshall collected himself as best he could; he'd recognize that woman anywhere.
"Hello, Marshall," Leah said, her face bearing a warm smile. "I've missed you."
"Leah," he said, his voice cracking with joy. "...I've missed you too, sister. So much."
"I heard I'll soon be an aunt?" Leah asked embracing her brother, whose eyes filled with tears of joy.
"Yes, Leah, soon," he answered.
"I can't wait."
Desiring The Duke
By Virginia Vice
Chapter One
Anne Hatley sat by the side of the heavily carved, four-poster bed, holding her father’s hand. It felt so thin and frail, as if she would crack his bones if she squeezed too hard. It was not the strong, gentle hand that she remembered hoisting her onto her shoulders when she was a little girl. Those shoulders were still broad, but looked sickly and bony, and eighth Viscount of Roxborough appeared more a scarecrow draped in clothes than a man. His eyes still gleamed with intelligence and purpose, however.
“Ladybug,” he murmured, using his pet name for his only child, “the doctors think I will be done by winter. You must find a husband by then, else you will be passed over in the inheritance.” A wet cough shook him, cutting off whatever else he was going to say.
Anne grimaced as she watched her father work through the short coughing spell. And also at his words. In truth, she had little need for
him to continue speaking on the subject. They had had this discussion daily since he had fallen ill some months prior. The cancer had worked remarkably quickly, spreading out from his lungs, so the doctors said. There was little to be done but to make him comfortable, which mainly meant increasingly large doses of opium.
For several months, her father had refused to take the stuff, noting the addictive properties of opium, and not wishing to spend his final months on God’s Earth alternating between sleep and stupor. But now he took it daily, though not so much as he might have, for he always ensured his mornings left his wits unaddled as he attempted to tie up his affairs.
Of course, Anne had been running the day-to-day operations of the estates for quite some time as her father had eased her into the responsibility. He would wax on and on about the ruin that many ancient families had come to by not ensuring their heirs could generate income as well as spend it.
But that was the crux of the problem. Anne was not legally her father’s heir. At least, not for the Viscountship and the Hatley family estates. No, those by law and custom must be inherited by the oldest son, or barring that, the husband of the oldest daughter. Having no siblings, that meant Anne had a duty to marry, else the lands and titles her family had earned and enjoyed for generations would devolve to some distant cousin, of whom she barely knew anything. She would be left with a modest sum to eke out a modest middle-class life unless she managed to marry a man of appropriate social standing before her father’s death.
Given Anne’s widely acknowledged beauty and intelligence, coupled with the well-run estates and titles of the Hatleys, she should not have lacked for suitors.
Anne was utterly opposed, however, to a husband who would assume control of the estates she operated outright, to say nothing of a creeping dread that she would be relegated to frippery and balls and overseeing nothing more than the household staff.
As if reading her thoughts, her father struggled to sit up in the bed. “Ladybug, I know you are not eager to marry quickly, and it breaks my heart for you not to have the time to find the man who would treat you as you should be treated.” He swallowed with visible difficulty. “But the time for choosiness has passed, and God has not seen fit to deliver the man you imagine you want. It is time to make the best of the possible choices. Otherwise, you will end up a spinster in a modest cottage, when you should be Viscountess of Roxborough.”
Anne could not help frowning at her father. “I would rather be free and bereft of titles than to become imprisoned by marriage to a man who thinks a woman’s place is knitting socks by the fireplace,” she sniffed. At twenty years of age, she was old enough to think herself wise, and still young enough to be bold. It made for a tempestuous combination.
Smiling as if he knew that very thing, the viscount squeezed her hand in return. Maybe today would turn out to be a good day and he could at least be taken out to the garden for some sun. “I blame myself. I spoiled you with attention and raising you as I would have a son. But I so wanted you to have the strength of your mother. She was made with a spine of steel, that woman. The most remarkable I’d ever met.” He chuckled lightly to himself. “I am just glad that no other man saw that quality for the asset it was, so that I could scoop her up.”
Anne simply smiled at the old man. She could barely remember her mother. Her father spoke of her as if she were an angel – fierce and proud and loving – but as she’d grown older she’d learned that not everyone shared her father’s opinion of the viscountess. It had nearly shattered her world as a girl to find that other girls were taught to be obedient and provide entertaining conversation rather than how to increase the yields on their tenant farms or to inspect the books her family accountants kept. But it had made her even closer to her father, who insisted she learn the same skills that a brother would have.
His sharp sapphire eyes met her own pale emerald ones. “Your happiness comes first. But I also care that you are not shut off from what is rightfully yours. Please at least spend effort tomorrow at the Earl of Carteret’s dinner party. Maybe Providence will see to delivering a man who is worthy of you.” Sighing, her father closed his eyes. “Now, let me rest, Ladybug. I feel as though this will not be a good day after all.”
Kissing her father’s wasted hand tenderly, Anne ignored the twin tears working their way down her cheeks. Leaving him to sleep despite the midmorning hour, she quietly padded across the thick scarlet rug to the door.
Chapter Two
Lawrence Strauss, the fifth Duke of Amhurst, made his polite withdrawal from the young lady attempting to engage him. The drawing room was large, even by the standards of his own sprawling estate homes, and the Earl of Carteret was not shy about being ostentatious in both the size and quality of his surroundings. There was nary a furnishing that lacked gold leaf or intricate carving. And even the pieces that did – such as the inlaid marble chessboard that a pair of lordlings were dawdling over in an attempt to appear sophisticated – were crafted to the highest standard. Even the great black-marble fireplace, large enough for three men to stand in abreast if they were short enough, boasted a fire from exotic, scented woods. In the summer heat, it was entirely unnecessary, though it certainly served its purpose to demonstrate that the earl could quite literally afford to burn wealth.
Lawrence found the scent cloying and the display wasteful, though. He was not a man to attempt to live as commoners did, but he was also not one for extravagant displays of wealth simply for the sake of the display. It screamed insecurity in one’s status to attempt to reinforce it in such a way.
But then, he was likely not the intended audience. The earl had only recently inherited, and was still without a wife. The young man made no secret that he was available, at least in principle, and had encouraged any number of families with particularly beautiful daughters to present them to him for the summer season. Lawrence doubted the man was ready to settle down, though, judging from his boasts at their mutual gentleman’s club in London. The man was downright shameful in how he bedded women and then bragged in the lowest manner about it without even the sense to hold back the woman’s name to protect her reputation!
No, Lawrence was only here because it would not do for the earl to have invited a bevy of young ladies and no men. He was simply on the list because he was not seen as a rival for whichever girl or girls caught the earl’s eye tonight.
The duke had to admit that there were quite a few lovely women here, including the creature he had just left by the open window looking consternated that he had slipped away. Every one of them were well-bred and educated in literature and the classics, ensuring they would make a wonderful wife and perhaps in time a wonderful mother. They were the cream of society.
But despite being unwed himself, Lawrence was by not widely considered unavailable. Twenty-eight and never having been known to have courted a woman, there were increasingly whispers about his tastes being in a different direction. That was, of course, untrue. But Lawrence could just not fathom that he could be the husband any of these women would deserve. And having seen his own parents’ loveless, often adversarial marriage, he refused to marry until he was sure that he was ready. He would never have been able to live with the disappointment he saw daily in his mother’s eyes when he was a youth, not if it had been directed at him for husbandly failure. He would not be his father.
“You have to talk to someone eventually, you know,” came the amused voice of his friend Charles. The man was slightly older than Lawrence, but still not the Earl of Southshire, as was his eventual birthright. Given the power and wealth wasted upon the young – such as their host, the Earl of Carteret – that irked him to no end. He was at least a baron in his own right, having that far lesser title of peerage come down to him through his mother’s sister, whom had never managed to produce a child. His mother had happily abdicated the title to him when he’d reached majority, as she was still the Countess Southshire with or without it.
Despite the age and rank difference, and the not-
insignificant fact that Charles was married with a pair of small sons of his own and a third child on the way, he and Lawrence were fast friends, having grown up on neighboring estates. Charles and his wife, who rarely went out at this late stage of her pregnancy, were half the reason Lawrence had accepted the clearly insincere invitation to the night’s events.
“It would be selfish of me to monopolize the girl’s time and lead her on when I have no intention of pursuing her,” murmured Lawrence, raising the crystal goblet in his hand to his lips. The wine was perhaps the only thing in the room that seemed of poor quality. The earl’s estates produced vast amounts of mediocre wine. English wine never was very good.
Charles stroked his beard – neatly trimmed with his upper lip bare, the latest in London fashion – with one hand, pretending to muse philosophical. “Ah, but tis better to have loved imperfectly than to have never loved at all!” He flourished his arm mockingly before laughing through a deep drought from his own goblet. Charles never cared much for the quality of drink, so long as he felt its effects. The slight pink already showing around his cheekbones suggested this was not his first cup. Hopefully dinner would begin before the man had too much.
Shaking his head, Lawrence didn’t reply. Truth was that he was lonely. But it was impossible to shake the deep-seated fears that he would turn out to be a philandering, spendthrift drunk like his father once he’d settled into a marriage. No, it was best to maintain the discipline he’d built into his life. He couldn’t disappoint anyone if no one cared for him.
Adopting a more serious tone, Charles gave him a sympathetic look. “I’ve seen the way you look at these fine young ladies, so I know you’re not sly, Lawrence.” He gestured with his goblet hand around the overlarge drawing room. Men and women were scattered around it in knots of three and four and five, some joking, some deep in serious-looking discussion, some sharing activities such as the two men who had finally settled in to play at the chess board. Brushing absently with his free hand at his double-breasted frock coat, Charles continued. “Maggie and I are worried about you, Lawrence. You are a better man than I, but look how happy I make Maggie!” He grinned somewhat foolishly. “Maggie says it would be a waste for you to remain a bachelor forever. Even if she has given up trying to match you with someone herself, she thinks you should give it a go with someone.” He took another swig of what looked to be a nearly empty goblet now. “Besides, she says you will be a bad influence on the boys as they grow older if you mope on about how perfect a man must be before becoming married.”
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