Bride for a Duke

by Bryn Donovan

  “We should leave,” he said abruptly, turning toward the door. “I have never liked it much up here.”

  His head was swimming with confusion as he followed her out, down the narrow staircase, and back toward the main area of the house. He could smell the scent of her perfume drifting toward him. His eyes lingered on the back of her neck; it was so very white, like marble. He suppressed an urge to reach out and caress it.

  She was so very lovely, and she was charming and clever too, now that he had spoken to her a bit more. But the truth was, he barely knew her. She was a stranger to him, a stranger that he had let loose in his home, trusting that she was an honourable person. Her actions today suggested that she had another side to her. A sly side… a sneaky side?

  He just knew that she wasn’t being honest with him about her motivations for being in the attic. But for the life of him, he could not work out what they could be. She had never set foot in Dudley House before this house party. Why had she been so curious that she had sought out a dusty and dank attic to explore, of all places, rather than the warmth of the library, or any of the other public rooms in his home? None of it made sense, at all.

  She was a mystery. A mysterious stranger, who he was forced to admit to himself, he was growing more and more attracted to. His heart stirred. But could he trust her? Was Lady Clara Nightingale everything that she appeared to be, or was there someone else lurking behind the surface of that beautiful face?

  He watched her carefully when they all sat down to dinner that evening, trying to ignore the lurch in his heart at seeing her afresh, in a simple but elegant white gown, her golden hair hanging in soft ringlets framing her face.

  She still looked rather pale. After he had escorted her from the attic, she had fled to her bedchamber, claiming a sudden headache. For the rest of the day, she had not made another appearance.

  But she was obviously in better spirits now. She briefly smiled at him, looking a little surprised to find her name card right next to his own, but she did not say a thing as she took her seat. He noticed that Lady Abigail’s mouth was tight, watching them from her seat opposite. He sighed. The lady was a little relentless in her pursuit of him; he knew that Percy was disappointed.

  He turned to Lady Clara. “I trust that you are feeling better, after your long rest today, Lady Clara.”

  She nodded, picking up her wine glass. “Very much better, I thank you, Your Grace. I must apologize again, for my careless exploration of your home…”

  He smiled tightly. “There is nothing to apologize for, my lady. You did not realize that there are certain areas that are out of bounds within Dudley House, I am sure.” He paused, watching her keenly, to gauge her reaction. What would she say?

  But she was in better control of her emotions now, than when he had confronted her in the attic. Her face remained impassive. “How many years has your family owned Dudley House, Your Grace?”

  He hadn’t expected that question. “I am not sure,” he said, feeling a little puzzled. “I do remember coming here as a child, so it has been quite a few years now.” He paused. “Wycliff Abbey is our ancestral seat, as I have informed you, and this house is merely one of a string that my family have accrued over the years.”

  “Your favourite, though,” she said, staring at him intently over the rim of her glass. “You mentioned that you have spent a lot of time here, over the years. What is it that draws you to the place, when you have so many other houses to reside in?”

  He hesitated. No one had ever asked him that question before. He hardly knew the answer, himself.

  “I suppose it is the location,” he said slowly. “It is so isolated, sitting on a cliff, so close to the sea…and I have desired isolation, above all things, in the past few years since my wife and child passed away.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. It was still so difficult even mentioning Helena and the child, even casually.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” she said gently, her blue eyes soft with sympathy. “A great tragedy. And did you live with your wife at Dudley House as well?”

  He shook his head. “Helena was not fond of the house,” he admitted. “She said that it was desolate, and it gave her the shivers whenever she stepped foot inside it.” He hesitated. “She preferred Wycliff Abbey. It was there that we lived out the few years of our marriage and it was where our child was born. But afterwards…well, I could not bear to be inside its walls, and Dudley House seemed to be calling to me, in some strange manner…”

  He picked up his wine glass, drinking deeply, appalled to find that his hand was shaking. He had not talked about Helena to anyone at great length, other than Percy, since she had died. He did not know what was compelling him to do so now. He could easily have fended off her questions in a brusque manner, as he usually did if anyone mentioned his late wife.

  Surprised, he found that he wanted to talk to her about it. Her calm, measured countenance was comforting him, in some way. Drawing him out of himself…almost healing him.

  “It has a presence about it, does it not?” she murmured, her eyes wide. “This house, I mean. It might just be the location, as you say, but it seems to me that much has happened within its walls. It has a long history that is almost tangible at every turn. Almost as if it is longing to tell its story.”

  James gazed at her steadily. “I suppose that all old houses have stories to tell. If only the walls could talk, as they say.”

  “Indeed,” she said, taking a long sip of her wine. “I would be very interested to hear what this house had to say, if those walls could speak. I wonder what secrets it might reveal.”

  “Secrets?” A slight smile played around his lips. “You are very dramatic, my lady. Do you imagine, perhaps, that the house has been a part of that long history of smuggling and pirating in Cornwall, that we talked about on the cliff?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, frowning a little. “Or perhaps, its secrets are of the people who once resided within these walls. The families that have lived here over the years.” Suddenly, she smiled. “Or perhaps I am just being fanciful.”

  He stirred in his seat, gazing at her intently. She looked so lovely beneath the candlelight, shadows falling across the delicate collarbones beneath her neck. So lovely, and so enigmatic, with her talk of secrets and stories within these very walls.

  Lady Clara was an enigma, he realized. A woman who had many layers, wrapped around her like veils. As soon as he thought he was starting to get to know her better, another layer would emerge, confounding him anew.

  He leaned toward her, as if she were pulling him gently by a thread. He almost felt bewitched, as if she were weaving a spell around him. A spell that he was powerless to stop himself from becoming ensnared within. He shivered slightly, feeling as if his very skin was more alive than it had been in years.

  Beautiful. Mysterious. Dangerous?

  He knew that he must be on his guard with her. For he realised, quite suddenly, that he was already half in love with her.

  Chapter Eight

  Abigail tossed and turned in her bed that night, unable to sleep. Eventually, she conceded defeat, getting up and padding over to the window and opening the heavy curtains. There was a window seat here, and she could sit and gaze out at the gardens, and the sea in the distance.

  The other night, she had wandered down the hallway and watched the full moon through a large window. Tonight, the moon was waning; no longer full, it resembled a broken white plate. She gazed at it dreamily, lost in contemplation for a moment. She had always loved the moon. Even as a little girl, she had watched it from the narrow windows of her maid’s quarters, dreaming that her mother and father might return one day, and fetch her back.

  Her eyes filled with tears. That day had never come, of course.

  Her mind was whirring, so many thoughts chasing each other, one after the other. The painting of the family. The matching earring. The mystery of who that family was, and who she was. The shock of the duke discovering her in the attic, and his anger.
He didn’t trust her anymore now. She could see it, in his face, every time he looked at her.

  She had been surprised, when she had gone down to dinner, to discover her name card next to him. She thought he would have placed her as far away from him on the table as he could manage, after the attic. She thought he would want to have as little to do with her as possible now.

  And even though that realization had twisted her heart, she had thought it was probably for the best. She mustn’t get any closer to him. There had been so many reasons already to try to keep her distance from him, but now there was another one. The mystery of what her connection was to this house, a house that belonged to him.

  But he had wanted to talk with her at dinner. And even though she could still see that wariness in his face, there was also still the light of admiration in his eyes when he gazed on her. A fact which Lady Abigail was becoming increasingly annoyed by, judging by the sour looks she had given them all evening.

  It was all so very confusing. She didn’t know what to do about any of it.

  She felt as drawn to him as he obviously did to her. Was she falling in love with him? Was that the reason for his magnetic hold over her, when she was determined to keep her distance? She simply could not think of another reason. She had never felt this way around a man in her life. It was terrifying, as well as glorious.

  But who was the Duke of Wycliff? What role did he play, in the mystery of who she was, and why had she found the other earring in an old trunk in his attic, matching the one she had possessed since she was a little girl?

  She cautiously questioned him about the house at dinner, seizing the chance to perhaps find out something about its history. But he had been vague, and supposedly did not even know how many years his family had owned the house for. He claimed that it had been in the family since he was a child, but he was ignorant of all else about it.

  She frowned. Was he lying, or deliberately misleading her?

  She had tried to draw him out with talk about the secrets the old house must have but he had looked merely puzzled. He either did not know the history of the house, and why that trunk filled with random items from another family was in his attic, or he wasn’t telling her. She would not find out any more information about it from him.

  Abigail sighed deeply, gazing at the moon. There must be another way to find out what had happened here. She simply must know why that trunk had been placed there, and what had happened to the De Vere family. But how?

  Mary-Anne had told her that she knew nothing about the history of the house, and her family had lived here for generations. Surely, if there was some kind of scandal, or tragedy attached to the house, it would be common knowledge among the locals. Even if it had happened many years ago, it would still be a story that was handed down.

  But apparently, the maid was as ignorant about the house as its master.

  Her eyes were burning with weariness now. She had to try to sleep. Tomorrow she would think of another way to try to solve this mystery. She only had another week as Lady Clara Nightingale, before she had to go back to London, and resume her life as a maid. Only a week in which to find out how she was connected to this place, before it was too late, and her chance was gone, entirely.

  Her heart twisted. And only one more week, before she would never set eyes on the Duke of Wycliff again.

  Mary-Anne was silent as she brushed her hair the next morning. Abigail saw her looking at her in the mirror from time to time in an odd way.

  She had not had a chance to talk to the maid after her return from the attic yesterday. For some reason, Mary-Anne had not returned to get the key. And another maid had attended her last night. When she had questioned the girl, the maid had claimed that Mary-Anne had taken ill and gone back to her own home in the village to rest.

  Abigail studied her in the mirror. The maid didn’t look sick at all. But she was very quiet and subdued. Almost as if she did not want to talk to Abigail at all.

  “I hope you are feeling better, Mary-Anne,” she said eventually, to break the silence. “Agnes said that you had to return home yesterday, as you were feeling unwell.”

  The maid reddened. “I started to feel a little queasy, my lady. But I was as right as rain this morning, after a good night’s sleep. Thank you for your concern.”

  Abigail sighed. “Mary-Anne, what is wrong? Are you angry with me for making you take me to the attic? Is that it?”

  The maid paused, mid-stroke, in her brushing. “I guess I got a little scared,” she said, in a small voice. “I knew that the master was looking for you, all over the house. And I saw him coming down from the attic with you, his face full of thunder.” She hesitated. “I was scared that you were going to tell him that I had led you there, told you about the trunk…”

  “Mary-Anne, I would never do that,” said Abigail, frowning. “I promised you that I would not tell, and I didn’t. You are not in trouble, your position in this household is safe.”

  Mary-Anne bit her lip, relief flooding her face. “I know that you said that. But I thought he may have insisted. He may have asked how you got the key…”

  Abigail shook her head. “It is all well, I assure you.” She hesitated. “Mary-Anne, I know that you told me you know nothing about the history of this house, but is there anyone who works here who might? Someone who has been here for many years, perhaps?”

  The maid continued brushing her hair. “Mrs. Jameson, the cook, has been here the longest,” she said slowly. “But even she has only been in service at the house for fifteen years. The duke’s family owned the house when she started.”

  Abigail slumped. There must be a way to find someone who knew about this house. Someone who had knowledge of the family who had once lived here, and why some of their possessions would have been stored in the attic. But if all the servants had only served the current family, then how was it possible to discover anyone with that knowledge?

  She bit her lip, thinking deeply. The local villagers might know. But how could she talk to any of them about it? She couldn’t very well just knock on random doors, asking if they had any knowledge of Dudley House. They would think her very strange, indeed, if she did that.

  She took a deep breath. “Mary-Anne, is there anyone you know who used to work here? Someone older, who has retired, perhaps?”

  The maid frowned, thinking. “I might know someone,” she said slowly. “Old Mr. Allen, who lives in the cottage on yonder cliff. I remember my mam telling me that he was a gardener here, in the old days.” She paused. “But he is very old and odd, my lady. Way past eighty, and crabby with it. He lives alone, and does not like visitors overmuch. You might not be welcomed, if you try to see him.”

  Abigail’s heart flipped over in her chest. “A retired gardener? Are you sure?”

  Mary-Anne nodded cautiously. “That is what my mam told me, but I do not know if he served the family who used to own the house. I do not know much about him at all. As I said, he keeps to himself. What they call a hermit, or a recluse. He don’t much like company, my lady.” She took a deep breath. “He might come at you with a musket, for all I know, ordering you off his land.”

  “Can you show me where he lives?” She waited for the answer, barely able to breathe.

  Mary-Anne sighed, putting down the brush. “Come to the window with me.”

  Abigail followed the maid to the window. Mary-Anne pointed to a cliff on the other side of the cove. She could just see a weather-beaten old cottage at the very top. “He mans the lighthouse, when the light keeper is away, or sick,” she said. “You must follow the trail along the cliff to get there. A brisk walk, but you could probably get there within twenty minutes.”

  Abigail nodded, feeling excitement bubble up in her chest. This was a definite lead. She could go walking straight after breakfast. The sky was clear, and the sun was bright in the sky. She would tell the duke that she was going on a walk by herself, and it wouldn’t even be a lie.

  “My lady,” said the maid, looking
at her curiously. “Why are you so interested in the family who used to live here? Is it truly just because you think you have visited here as a child?”

  Abigail stared at the maid. She wished she could tell Mary-Anne the truth about herself. That she was not Lady Clara Nightingale, but rather, a poor orphan who had been abandoned as a child. A maid just like her, who just might be on the cusp of discovering her background, the missing pieces of the puzzle to who she really was.

  For a moment, she was tempted. It would be so good to speak to someone about it. But then she stopped herself. Mary-Anne would be shocked that she was impersonating her mistress, and there was no guarantee that she would not tell the other servants. Word could get back to the duke, and then what would happen to all of Clara’s carefully laid out plans?

  No, she simply could not risk it. The burden was hers alone to shoulder. The mystery was hers too. A mystery that she might be one step closer to solving now that she had discovered that someone who used to work here, many years ago, was only a brisk walk away.

  Chapter Nine

  A cold breeze whipped the ribbons of her bonnet behind her, as Abigail made her way down the path, away from Dudley House. She was on her way toward the cottage at the top of the other cliff, that Mary-Anne had shown her through the window. Making her way to Mr. Allen, who used to tend the garden at the house many years ago.

  She had made her excuses at the breakfast table, telling anyone who would listen that she intended to go on a long walk by herself. The duke had looked at her oddly but had not challenged her. She had half-expected that he might offer to accompany her; her heart had been in her mouth as she gazed at him. But no, he had simply wished her a nice walk, before turning away to talk to Lord Gillingham. Abigail was surprised to find that a small part of her was disappointed that he had not requested it.