Bride for a Duke

by Bryn Donovan

  She gestured, not setting out to state anything, in case her voice break with unadulterated fright.

  He drove her to the focal point of the room. The prattle faded away as individuals went to watch their host with the new visitor. Abigail's heart beat wildly as she felt everyone's eyes upon her. She rather felt like she envisioned an entertainer would, making that big appearance for the absolute first time.

  "May I present Lady Clara Nightingale," said the duke, in an uproarious voice. "The little girl of Lord and Lady Nightingale, who live in London."

  Abigail took a full breath. She realized she should state something. She just trusted that her new elegant emphasize would arise, and not her own Cockney voice, which would in a flash double-cross her beginnings. "It is my pleasure, to make your acquaintance."

  They all viewed her, gesturing, or grinning. Abigail felt a rush of help clear over her. It had worked, for the occasion. Her new highlight had tricked them. Her knees felt so frail, it was a marvel she didn't tumble down entirely.

  * * *

  Abigail tasted the glass of champagne as she sat on the edge of a couch, visiting to a woman. She had never tasted champagne in her life. The air pockets stimulated her nose slightly.

  She respected the reddish-brown haired woman, who had benevolently requested that she sit close to her when the duke had presented them all. Her name was Mrs. Fredericka Colborne, the spouse of Major Thomas Colborne, one of the duke's most seasoned companions. The Colbornes had as of late got back from a long term deployment for the English armed force in India.

  "It is so cold here," the woman commented, shuddering gently. "I disclosed to Thomas that I had very failed to remember how chilly England is. I more likely than not become accustomed to the warmth in Jaipur, in spite of the fact that when we initially showed up, I expected that I could never adjust. India is so altogether different to our own reasonable, green isle."

  The woman had appeared to be substance to babble about her encounters in India, not needing a lot of discussion consequently. All that Abigail needed to do was gesture infrequently, which was an incredible relief.

  Her mind floated a little as Mrs. Colborne dispatched into a point by point portrayal of the Taj Mahal, which she and her better half had visited just two months back, examining different visitors, attempting to remember their names, in her mind.

  There were two different women sitting on the couches. A marginally more established woman, likely in her thirties, with nut earthy colored hair and a censure nose. Her name was Lady Eleanor Gillingham, the spouse of Lord Jeremy Gillingham, one more of the duke's old companions, from Oxford. She appeared to be benevolently enough, grinning at Abigail occasionally.

  The other woman was more youthful, presumably around her own age. Her name was Lady Abigail Browning, and she was a wonder, in reality. As thin as a reed, with an immaculate porcelain appearance, and sparkling dull earthy colored hair, looped around her head. Be that as it may, the woman's green eyes were consistently cool, when they ended up settling upon her. Abigail had felt the lady's antagonistic look, now and again, and asked why the woman appeared to be resolved not to affirm of her. Her weaknesses rose to the surface. Did the woman speculate something about her? Had she sold out herself, in some little way, that Lady Abigail had noticed?

  Her look floated to the men of honor, all actually chatting with the duke close to the thundering fire. They appeared to be sufficiently kind, in any event, looking at her respectfully, when they had been presented. There was Major Colborne, a slight man with a somewhat striking mustache. Master Gillingham, who was more limited than all the others, with rashly thinning up top sandy-shaded hair. Furthermore, a third noble man, Lord Percy Merchant. He was tall, nearly as tall as the duke, with straight chestnut-hued hair, and snickering dim eyes.

  Slowly, her look floated towards the duke. Her initial introductions of him were not decreased. He was the most directing figure among the refined men, with his ground-breaking fabricate, and roughly attractive face. Oddly enough, Abigail felt her heart animate as she observed him.

  He turned in that exact second, watching her. Their eyes met and held. She felt nearly charmed by that extreme, coal dark gaze. Bothered, she immediately turned around to Mrs. Colborne, who was simply completing her cheerful portrayal of India's most noteworthy landmark to love.

  "He has seen you, my dear," said the woman, her eyes glimmering devilishly. "However, at that point, how should he not, being the excellence that you are."

  "Who?" asked Abigail rapidly, not understanding.

  "Why, the duke, obviously," said Mrs. Colborne, sounding astonished. "You should understand that! You and Lady Abigail are the solitary single women in the room, all things considered." She inclined towards Abigail, dropping her voice an octave. "My Thomas trusted in me that His Grace welcomed you both with the end goal of picking a life partner. For what other reason would you both be the solitary single women here, and very obscure to him, when every other person has such long acquaintance?"

  Abigail felt her face flush. Clara had disclosed to her that her folks had looked for this greeting for their girl, so she could enchant the duke, with the view to a commitment. Yet, she had not understood that was the duke's goal, as well.

  She grimaced somewhat. In the event that Clara and Lady Abigail had been welcomed here for such a reason, for what reason did he appear to be aggravated by her being here? What's more, he wasn't approaching with the other woman, all things considered. Abigail had not seen him look at Lady Abigail fondly, nor approach her. The duke appeared to be substance to converse with his old companions, entirely.

  "I trust you may be mixed up," said Abigail to Mrs. Colborne. "His Grace doesn't look satisfied at all at my essence, nor enchanted by Lady Abigail, either… "

  Mrs. Colborne grinned somewhat. "That is only his way, my dear. James has sudden habits, and was never a woman's man, other than." She looked tragic, briefly. "He was unique, however, before the late duchess died. Thomas disclosed to me that he was once as gregarious and carefree as every one of them. Yet, I am anxious about the possibility that that the deficiency of his significant other, and infant child, filled him with a pain so ground-breaking he has never fully recuperated from it."

  Abigail scowled. "Why has he mentioned Lady Abigail and I come here, to Dudley House, in the event that he is still so connected to the memory of his late wife?"

  Mrs. Colborne moaned. "I don't know precisely, Lady Clara. Yet, my most realistic estimation is that he feels the time has come to proceed onward, finally." She stopped, looking at the duke. "He isn't getting any more youthful; he is in his mid thirties, presently, all things considered. What's more, it has been ten years, since his dear Helena was taken from him. It is quite a while to grieve."

  Abigail followed the woman's look, gazing at the duke. A rush of compassion ignored her as she observed him.

  Clara had advised her, obviously, that the duke had lost his significant other and infant kid numerous years prior, and had been odd since. In any case, she had not mulled over the reality by any means. She had been excessively bustling attempting to turn into a woman, and cons

  Chapter Four

  James Repton, the eighth Duke of Wycliff, moaned profoundly, whirling the liquor around in his glass, as he gazed into the flashing orange blazes of the fire, in his investigation. Reclining across from him was his closest companion, Lord Percy Merchant, who appeared to be in as intelligent a temperament as he might have been, according to the slight dislike his face as he tasted his own brandy.

  It had been a fruitful night, he assumed. The absolute first night that his home visitors had blended. The supper had gone easily, and thereafter, Lady Gillingham had engaged them all with her cultivated abilities on the pianoforte, before a large portion of the visitors had floated higher up for the night.

  He scowled somewhat, contemplating the two outsiders in the middle. Two young women whom he had never met. He had been worried that they would stand apart like so
re thumbs, in such a gathering. Afterall, he had known the entirety of his different visitors for quite a long time, and they were a very close bundle. Old companions, from Oxford college days. He had known Percy the longest, in any case, having gone to Eton with him, as well.

  His grimace developed. The two young women were the two wonders, as he had been persuaded. Woman Abigail Browning was a remarkable tease as well, nearly giggling at him, with her brilliant green eyes. Be that as it may, she left him cold, in spite of her flawlessness. She was too self-evident, too beguiling, here and there. He naturally realized that she had her eye on the prize; that she was a lot of resolved to turn into the following Duchess of Wycliff, regardless of whether she preferred him, or not.

  He tasted his liquor as he mulled over the other youngster. Woman Clara Nightingale, with her sparkling brilliant hair, and enormous blue eyes. There was no uncertainty about her magnificence – he had known about it from the second she had ventured out of her carriage. Also, there was something different, in her way, that interested him. A lowliness, that he had never found in a woman. She was not coy, at all. Indeed, she was by all accounts somewhat frightened of him, staying away from him, any place possible.

  He moved in his seat, contemplating the woman. Truly, he was certainly captivated by her. In any case, when he began to picture her in his psyche, the recognizable despondency and blame shot through him, covering it entirely.

  "What are you contemplating, old chap?" asked Percy unexpectedly, breaking in on his dream. "You are for all intents and purposes frowning into the fire."

  James murmured profoundly. "Simply the standard thing, old buddy." He battled, briefly. "Pondering how disillusioned Helena would be with me, for thinking about another marriage… "

  Percy put down his glass, gazing at him. "That is gibberish, and you know it," he stated, in a firm voice. "Helena would not resent you a possibility at satisfaction once more. Truth be told, she would push you towards it, saying that you should not leave your life alone a holy place to her."

  James frowned. "In any case, that is simply it, old chap. What possibility of joy could I have, with some other lady?" He swallowed his cognac, feeling the fire hit his veins. "Furthermore, it appears so… inhumane, welcoming those two youngsters here, only with the end goal of maybe getting drawn in to one of them. So altogether different, to simply normally experiencing passionate feelings for Helena and needing to wed her, when I saw her across that dance hall, each one of those years prior… "

  Percy murmured intensely. "Wycliff, you are the cause all your own problems," he stated, in a tormented tone. "For what reason do you trust it should occur similarly, as it did with Helena?" He delayed. "It has been ten years, man. Too long to even think about living as a priest, grieving her. You have made the best choice, in welcoming those two young women here. Keep in mind, we have talked about it, ordinarily. The requirement for you to proceed onward, and bring forth a beneficiary, for the duchy."

  James frowned once more, bringing down his cognac in one swallow. A beneficiary. That was all that this was about, truly. Locate a young woman, who ideally would demonstrate fruitful, and give him the beneficiary he so urgently required. So he didn't kick the bucket an elderly person, compelled to cut up the duchy to removed relatives.

  It had been drummed into him, since he was a simple chap. His own dad, and his granddad, addressing him about it. The duchy was all. Also, they all had their obligation, to protect it, to give it to their oldest child. The main obligation of all. His eyes loaded up with tears. He had once had a child, obviously. A lovely kid, who had never at any point drawn a breath. The child that his dearest spouse had kicked the bucket bringing forth, attempting to furnish him with that valuable beneficiary. He had named the kid Augustus, after his granddad. In any case, Helena had been too powerless to even think about night understand what her lone youngster's name had been.

  Life wasn't reasonable. He had sorted that out quite a while ago.

  He had been resolved, this time, to at last proceed onward. Percy had pestered him to welcome some qualified young women to this local gathering, and he had hesitantly done it. However, his heart wasn't in it, by any stretch of the imagination. For what reason would he be able to simply be left alone, in his home by the ocean, and miss her for eternity? He wasn't harming anyone, was he?

  But even as the suspected slid into his brain, he realized he was harming somebody. He was harming himself. For Percy was correct – Helena would not need him to be carrying on with this unusual half-life, every one of these years after her passing. She would need him to proceed onward, to attempt to live once more. She would not need him to grieve her until the end of time. He held the vacant glass firmly. He realized that, somewhere down in his heart. So for what reason was he actually struggling attempting to establish it?

  "Let us proceed onward," said Percy, watching him intently. "Do you have an inclination, for both of the youngsters that have gone along with us?" He stopped. "They are both as excellent as we have been persuaded. Woman Abigail appears to be the more fiery of the two, I should state. Woman Clara is hesitant – I could scarcely get a word out of her at dinner."

  James gazed hard at his companion. "She hushes up, practically shy," he said gradually. "Be that as it may, there is something in particular about her which interests me. I should concede, I was very struck by the woman, from the second that I originally laid eyes upon her. Furthermore, she has a delicate, practically savvy air about her, as though she has known incredible difficulty in her life… yet I would barely realize how such a woman might have… ."

  Percy's eyes glimmered. "That is empowering! Her habits are flawless, as well. Painstakingly so." He delayed, briefly. "Would I have your consent, at that point, to maybe court the Lady Abigail, since you have not liked her? I should state, she has enchanted me, totally. Only something in her grin… "

  James chuckled. "You have my approval to attempt your hardest, old chap. However, I have an inclination that Lady Abigail may be somewhat of a fortune tracker, with me as the prize. She may be hesitant to point lower than a duke and acknowledge a noble as an admirer. Simply a doubt." He stopped. "That is another explanation I am interested with Lady Clara. She appears to be absolutely honest, and certainly not out to intrigue me. It is fairly invigorating, for a respectable man with my title."

  Percy grinned gradually. "All things considered, it is settled, at that point. I would not like to seek after Lady Abigail without your approval, thinking about the conditions." He scowled marginally. "I trust that she will be open to me, and not be resolute in quest for you, as you guarantee. A man can dare to dream, I guess."

  James gestured, watching his companion cautiously. By one way or another, he imagined that Percy was in for grievousness with Lady Abigail. He knew the sort of woman she was; he had met many like her, throughout the long term. In some cases, they were so tireless in their quest for a specific courteous fellow, they would break their own hearts and reject admirers they even had better affections for. All for the sake of hoisting their station in life.

  He trusted he wasn't right. Percy merited an affection coordinate. His old companion had sought numerous women throughout the long term, and had been near a commitment with one, yet it had failed to work out, at last. His companion had been sorrowful. Be that as it may, Percy was one of life's interminable hopeful people, and he had recuperated rapidly, brushing himself off.

  The fire was consuming low at this point. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was after 12 PM. They ought to resign, since he had at last had the truly necessary private talk with his closest companion. Since he had at long last conceded, so anyone can hear, that he was to be sure pulled in to one of the young women who hosted combined their get. He pondered Lady Clara Nightingale once more, briefly, prior to standing up.

  * * *

  He was strolling down the long, dull corridor, towards his bedchambers, when he saw development, somewhere off to the side. Baffled, he quit, backing
up.

  There was a woman, remaining at the long window, looking up at the moon in the night sky. A full moon, pearlescent in shading, so brilliant that it shed light through the window, enlightening her totally. His heart began to pulsate somewhat quicker. It was Lady Clara.

  She was wearing a long, white robe, which followed the floor behind her. Her hair was free as well, tumbling down her back, similar to a drape of gold. Her hand held the windowpane, and he could obviously see the vibe of delight all over as she gazed at the moon, as though she had seen nothing so wonderful in her life.

  His heart was crashing in his chest, presently, as he viewed her. He had thought her excellent previously, in the shrewd garments she had worn today – particularly the lavender silk evening outfit, which had increased the shade of her eyes – however it was nothing contrasted with seeing her now.

  She was stunning to such an extent that it nearly hurt to watch her.

  A lovely young lady, with her brilliant hair spilling down her back, and her unadulterated articulation. The delight in her face at a particularly normal sight. The number of women did he realize who might take up at a particularly inconvenient time, simply to ponder the moon in the night sky?

  But at that point, her face changed. Somehow, it grew sad, as if a great weight was pressing on her. She held something in her hand, which she looked down at now, her eyes misting. For a moment she gazed at it, her eyes almost caressing it, before her hand closed firmly around it.

  He breathed deeply. He couldn’t make out what was in her hand that had made her so sad, but his heart lurched, in a strange way, almost as if that thread of sadness was reaching out to him.

  He felt like he was rooted to the spot, like he could gaze upon her, forever.

  But then she turned away from the window, walking swiftly, obviously intending to return to her bedchamber. Hastily, he pressed himself against the wall, behind a large mahogany dresser, willing himself not to breathe.