Bride for a Duke

by Bryn Donovan

  He stared at her, appalled. He had heard enough now. The story had degenerated to the point that she was accusing his grandfather of all sorts of wild things. Of not only taking her ancestral home, but of murdering her parents as well.

  “You are a very good actress,” he said curtly, letting her go so suddenly that she staggered. “Is it blackmail that is your intention, then? Claiming that my grandfather is a murderer, and then wanting coin, so that you will not spread your foul rumours afield?”

  “No,” she cried, shaking her head, her eyes wild. “No, no, that is not my intention, at all! I am telling you the truth, as I now know it! I did not come here for any reason, other than to help my lady…I did not intend any of this!”

  “You are a liar,” he spat. “And an imposter. I want you out of my house. Tomorrow, at first light, you will leave Dudley House. I never want to see your face again….my lady.” His last words were laced with sarcasm.

  “Please,” she whispered, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket imploringly. “I never meant to hurt you. I have grown so fond of you, fonder than I was ever supposed to…”

  His heart was hammering in his chest. She looked so beautiful standing there, imploring him. He was enraged anew, to find that his desire for her had not changed with this knowledge of who she truly was, and what she had been intending to do.

  He despised himself for it. He had been falling in love with this woman. He had sincerely thought that perhaps she might even be the one to replace his precious Helena. He had finally been almost ready to move on with his life because of her.

  And she was a viper. A liar, and a slanderer. A lady’s maid, who had dared to impersonate her mistress. She was not who he had believed she was, at all.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he snarled, shaking off her hand. “At first light. If you are not gone by then, I shall drag you out of my house with my own hands. I promise you that.”

  She cried out, falling to the ground, so that her gown spread out around her, like a fan.

  He strode off, leaving her there. He didn’t look back at her, at all.

  Abigail walked to the window of the bedchamber, staring out at the garden below. It was still dark; not even a whisper of the sun about to rise across the sea. She had ordered the carriage to be ready to leave at first light the night before. Her trunks had been packed and were already on it. She just had to make her way down the stairs and walk out the front door. Close the door on Dudley House, forever.

  She bit her lip. No, not Dudley House. The house was really De Vere Lodge, had been known by that name for centuries before the duke’s grandfather had taken possession. In honour of the family that she had lost because of him, she would always think of it as De Vere Lodge from now on.

  Her hands were shaking where they gripped the windowsill. It was enough that she had finally unravelled the mystery of who she was. Coming here had been a gift; she would never have known, otherwise. What reason would she have ever had to come to Cornwall, and this particular house? She would have spent the rest of her life in London, completely ignorant as to what had happened to her family. At least – even though the story was so tragic – she knew, at long last.

  She sighed, turning away from the window, slowly putting on her white gloves. No, not her white gloves – Clara’s gloves. Everything that she was wearing belonged to her lady, and her time impersonating her was over now. Very soon, in a matter of hours, she would be back to being Abigail Clark, lady’s maid, and all of these fine clothes, and the grand life she had been living here, would fade away like a dream.

  Her heart clenched. The duke had not believed a single word that she had told him about who she truly was, of course. All that he could focus on was her deception, and the awful things she had told him about his grandfather. She didn’t know why she was so disappointed, still so despondent, that her heart felt as heavy as a rock in her chest. She hadn’t expected anything more, had she?

  Yes, you did, Abigail, a voice said in her mind. You wanted to tell him, to unburden yourself, and you wanted him to believe you. You wanted him to take you in his arms, and tell you that he still wanted you, even though you are only a maid.

  * * *

  She smiled faintly, feeling tears sting behind her eyes. It had never been possible between them. She had known it from the very start, when she had first laid eyes on him, feeling that strong pull of attraction to him. It had only deepened the longer she had been here, spending time with him.

  Perhaps in another world. Perhaps in another life.

  She would never see him again as long as she lived. She must go through the rest of her days knowing that she had hurt him terribly. She had hurt the man that she now knew she had fallen in love with, just by being herself, and telling her story. After all that he had been through, her heart ached that he must now have more pain, and that she was unwittingly the cause of it.

  She had gone straight to her bedchamber when she had eventually found the strength to walk back to the house, after he had left her on the cliff. He didn’t want to see her again before she left, so she would not force him to. She had stayed there, slowly packing her trunks over the rest of the day.

  Mary-Anne had brought food on trays to her, at luncheon and dinner, tearfully confiding that the duke had questioned her that morning, asking if she had been the one to give the attic key to Lady Clara.

  “I am so sorry, my lady,” she had said, looking ill. “But I had no choice, but to tell him…”

  Abigail had reassured her, with a heavy heart, cursing herself for involving the poor maid in this. “It is all right, Mary-Anne. It is my fault entirely, and I must accept that the duke is not happy with me for exploring, that’s all.” She paused. “He didn’t dismiss you, did he? If he has given you notice, I shall go to him right now, and demand that he not…”

  But Mary-Anne had reassured her, that while the duke had been angry with her, he had not gone so far as to dismiss her. Abigail had been almost weak with relief.

  The duke must have informed everyone that she was sick, or some such thing. Some excuse as to why she could not join the house party at meals or anything else. It had hurt her, but she wasn’t surprised. He had made up his mind that she was a liar, as well as so much else besides. An imposter. A thief, perhaps, and a blackmailer. Her character was so black in his mind that there could be no redemption.

  She turned back to the window. It was almost imperceptible, but the sky was lightening from a deep, navy blue, to indigo. Before her very eyes, a faint flush of orange was starting to glow, behind the ocean.

  First light was arriving. The sun was rising on another day, and it was time for her to go.

  She picked up her fringed tote bag for the journey. It contained a lace handkerchief, and her lucky charm. The earring, to match the one still lying in the old trunk, upstairs in the attic. Her heart clenched. The set would never be complete, but that hardly mattered. At least she knew, in her heart, what the truth was.

  She walked slowly toward the door. She was leaving this house, again. The first time, she had been dragged out of here, not understanding that she was leaving it forever. It had been the only home that she had ever known, and she remembered how much she had loved it. Her home by the sea.

  Pure luck had brought her back here for a second time. Or had it been fate? Had she always been meant to return? To confront her past, and finally know the truth of what had happened to the people she had loved the most in this world?

  Abigail took a deep breath, leaving the room, and walking down the stairs. Tears blurred her vision, but her step did not falter for even a moment.

  Her heart clenched. Such was the turning of the wheel of life. She had gained so much in her short time here, but she had lost something, as well. A chance at love, that had never truly been hers, anyway. As well as the good opinion of the man that she would never see again.

  She looked back at the house through the brightening light of the day, as the wheels of the carriage slowly turned, taking
her away.

  The turrets looked black against the rosy sky. The house seemed to be slumbering, as it had for centuries. Carefully guarding its secrets…or waiting, for those secrets to be discovered. Waiting, for the truth to finally come to light.

  Her heart twisted. Even up until the moment that the coachman had cracked the whip, she had wildly hoped that he would not let her go. That he would come running down those front steps, imploring the carriage to stop. That he would tell her that he believed her, and that he could not live without her.

  Tears ran down her cheeks, as she stared back at the house. It had been a futile hope. She was leaving behind this house, and him, forever. She was returning to the life that she had always known. There had never been a chance of anything different.

  The carriage rounded a corner. She caught the last glimpse of those turrets, black against the dawn of a new day, before they were gone forever.

  Chapter Eleven

  London, one month later

  “Abigail!” The clipped voice of the housekeeper, Mrs. Jones, drifted up the stairs. “You need to hurry with that laundry. A wash is about to be put on.”

  “I am on my way,” called Abigail, gathering the laundry in her arms.

  She ran down the stairs, almost tripping in her haste. It had been a busy morning, and she was behind in her chores. It was often the way these days, since she had returned to the Nightingale townhouse in London, after her brief sojourn as a lady in Cornwall. Mrs. Jones often scolded her, telling her she was away with the fairies, and that she better pick up her game, or else she would be looking for another position.

  She tipped the laundry into the basket in the washroom. Mary, the laundress, would be in to do it at any moment, but for now, the small room was deserted. She leaned against a wall, breathing heavily, lost in the past, as she often was nowadays.

  Clara had returned from Scotland without incident, meeting her at Aunt Prudence’s house, bubbling with joy about what a good time she had with her love. Abigail had not told her friend a single thing about what had transpired in Cornwall. There didn’t seem to be any point. She would carry her pain, and her grief, in her heart. She would lock it up safely, just like she had always hid the earring. It was hers alone, something precious, that could not be shared.

  Her lady had noticed her low spirits, of course, questioning her often. But Abigail had remained steadfast in her desire to keep it to herself. It would pass – it must pass. She would forget the Duke of Wycliff and carry on. But over a month had passed now, and her heart still twisted with love, whenever she thought about him.

  Perhaps it would never leave her. Perhaps that was her burden, and her punishment, for deceiving him as to who she truly was.

  The laundry door flew open. Abigail braced herself, expecting the laundress. But instead, it was Clara, staring at her in utter astonishment.

  “Abigail,” said her friend, her voice shaking. “The Duke of Wycliff is standing in our foyer.” She paused, gazing at Abigail. “And he is not here to see me. He has asked for you by name. What on earth is going on?”

  Abigail was trembling all over as she walked into the drawing room, her heart racing so hard it felt like a sprinting jackrabbit in her chest. Why was he here? Did he intend to chide her more, or accuse her of something else?

  Her heart flipped over in her chest upon beholding him. He was leaning against the mantelpiece with his tall, powerful frame. His unruly black hair was falling over his face, as it always did. He turned around upon hearing the door open, staring at her with those intense coal black eyes that had always unstitched her.

  She curtseyed low. “Your Grace.”

  “Abigail.” His voice was clipped as his eyes assessed her. “I must admit, it is a shock to see you in a maid’s clothes. Even though I expected it, of course.”

  She rose, gazing at him. “Of course.”

  There was a strained silence, as they both gazed warily at each other.

  “Have you come here to gloat?” she asked eventually, unable to bear it any longer. “To assure yourself that I am as low as I told you I was?”

  He paled slightly. “No, I have not come to gloat…”

  “Then why are you here?” Her voice caught on a sob. “What possible reason could you have for following me to this residence?”

  He took a deep breath. “I hardly know why I am here,” he said in a low voice. “Only that I could not stay away for a second longer.”

  She gazed at him, not sure she was hearing correctly for a moment. “I do not understand.”

  He strode toward her then, his black eyes pinning her to the spot with their intensity. She gazed up at him, her heart pounding so hard it seemed to thunder in the silence. He was mere inches away from her, so close that she could feel his warm breath upon her face.

  His face twisted with some strong emotion as he gazed down at her. “I cannot forget you,” he said in a low, pained voice. “God knows, I have tried. I tried so hard…”

  She gasped, her eyes wide with shock. She opened her mouth to speak, but not a single word came out. It was as if her voice had been spirited away. Was she dreaming, that the Duke of Wycliff was standing in this drawing room in London, telling her that he could not forget her?

  “You told me to leave,” she stammered, overwhelmed. “You said that you never wanted to see me again…”

  He took a deep, ragged breath. “I know what I said.” He paused, his face twisting again. “And I meant it, at the time. I was so very angry with you, for the deception you had played upon me, and the wild things you were saying about my grandfather. I thought that I could cast you out of my home, and my life, without a second thought, and carry on as I always had…”

  Abigail was silent. Tears sprang into her eyes as she watched him wrestling with his emotions.

  He took another deep breath. “But it turns out, that I could not cast you out of my heart, no matter how hard I tried,” he continued slowly. “You haunted me, wherever I went in that house. The words that you spoke about its history. I could not look at anything within it in the same way. And so, I started my own investigation into the history of my home.” He paused. “At first, I told myself it was to prove you wrong, once and for all, and so justify my decision to send you away. But I discovered more than I ever intended to find…”

  Abigail felt a lump thickening in her throat. “What did you discover?”

  He smiled grimly. “I discovered that it was indeed owned by the De Vere family, up until 1796,” he said slowly. “I looked through the trunk in the attic, and called on the solicitor who had aided in the acquisition of the house, on behalf of my grandfather. He is a very old man now, but with sufficient financial incentive, he was persuaded to tell the whole story of what my grandfather did. How he cast out the De Vere family, to honour the old lord’s gambling debt to him…and how the young family, in the second carriage, that left the house that day, were never heard of again.”

  The tears started flowing down her face at his words. “I am so very sorry that your memory of your grandfather is tainted now, by this,” she whispered. “I never intended to hurt you…”

  His green eyes flashed. “I struggled with it,” he said slowly. “I still did not want to believe what he had done. But then, I started to remember something that I overheard, as a child.” He hesitated. “I remember him pacing the drawing room, in his cups, raving wildly about how she had to die, how the old lord had given him no choice… how he would have married her, and settled the debt, but was forced into revenge.”

  Abigail’s heart lurched. A rambling confession to what the old duke had done.

  “He never wanted me to play in the attic,” he continued, his face dark. “He knew what was up there. Why he kept all of it, in that trunk, is beyond me. Perhaps he wanted it there as a reminder, of her… of your mother, I mean. Perhaps in his own twisted way, he truly loved her, at least at the start.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Who knows?”

  The tears thic
kened, streaming down her face. It was such a tragic tale, and its consequences had rebounded down the years, in unimaginable ways. The man standing in front of her was as affected by it as she was. It was as if the ripples were still being felt, by that one stone that had been cast into a pond, all those years ago.

  “At least you know,” she said, her voice catching. “I would not have wished such pain upon you, but the truth always seems to come out, in the end.” She hesitated, her face twisting. “I have lost my whole family and can never recover them. But I suppose that at least I know, at long last, who I truly am, and I am grateful for that.”

  His eyes shone with pain as he gazed at her. “You have had such a hard life,” he whispered fiercely. “You should have been a lady of the manor, with all the attendant privileges. But my grandfather took all of that away from you, forcing you into a life of servitude. A life that should never have been yours.”

  She sobbed for a moment. “Yes, it has been a tragedy,” she whispered. “The loss of my family the worst part of it. But I have survived, which is what my mother wanted when she threw me out of that carriage that day. She gave me a chance at life, at least. Perhaps not the one I should have had, but a life, nonetheless.”

  He swore underneath his breath, taking her hands in his own, and squeezing them tightly. “Your mother did the right thing, my sweet Abigail. Yes, you have suffered. I wish I could take away all your pain, right the wrongs of the past, but I cannot…”

  She took a deep breath. “It is enough that I have found out the truth. It must be enough.”