Not Quite a Duchess: A Sweet Victorian Gothic Historical Romance (The Boston Heiresses Book 1)

by Ava Rose

  Anna stared at him in disbelief. “Aren’t you afraid of dying alone?”

  “Loneliness is an old and familiar companion, Anna.”

  “I pity you,” she said, and her low sad voice vexed him.

  “What are you going to do about it?” he mocked. “You are a problem-solver. Tell me how to solve my problem.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Penforth.”

  He was beginning to like it when her eyes flared. The flash of spirit both amused and beguiled him.

  He bowed his head. “My apologies, Your Grace.” There! That should further rile her.

  The small velvet pillow flew through the confined carriage space and collided with his face. He fell back in his seat, laughing.

  He, Penforth Armstrong-Leeds, was laughing. When was the last time he’d laughed? The recollection of such an event was beyond him. He tossed the pillow back at her, making sure he did not throw it with too much force; and two pillows came back to him…with some force.

  “You were being gentle,” she accused, laughing with him.

  “I am a gentleman.”

  Their eyes held for a long moment, and her face softened as her pert lips curved up into an alluring smile. That feeling he’d erstwhile dismissed returned, challenging him to unmask it, reveal its truth.

  “So tell me, why don’t you believe in luck?” Pen asked more to squelch that bothersome feeling than to sate his curiosity.

  “I grew up alone and during that time, all I ever wanted was a sister or brother to share my adventures with. My mother had gotten with child four times and lost them all. The fifth time, it took, and we all got very excited. She gave birth to a boy.” Her thick lashes came down to conceal the pain he saw briefly in the depth of her eyes. “He died after three months. My father had no male successor, at least not a direct one. His title and everything entailed was meant to pass to a male cousin. After my dear brother’s death, Father applied for permission to pass the title to me. Luck has had very little play in my family’s life, Pen.”

  “I am sorry, Anna,” he said solemnly.

  “Perhaps it is not healthy, but I hold onto Libby to somehow fill the void of being alone.” She laughed a little. “I could marry, but I’d rather not if that is my sole motivation to seek a partner.”

  In some ways, he and Anna were not very different. Though she was not afraid to let the people she cared about know how she felt and that made her more courageous than him. He respected her for that.

  “You are not altogether intolerable,” he said.

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  He smiled. “I think it is.”

  “You are in dire—”

  The carriage jolted and Anna lurched forward.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Anna’s breath stuck in her throat when she was thrown from her seat. Pen threw out his arms to catch her, but she landed on top of him.

  “We must have hit a rut in the road,” he said.

  Their closeness was dizzying and he looked quite comfortable, as if he was used to being in such situations.

  “You can let me go now,” she croaked.

  He grinned the grin of a libertine and lightly stroked her cheek with a finger. The feather-light touch sent a wave of sensation through her body, dulling her senses to everything else.

  “I am not holding you,” he murmured, his voice deep and decadent.

  When he brushed her hair from her face, she knew she had to get away. She didn’t trust her own mind with him this close.

  Think, Anna.

  The carriage gave another jolt and this time, his arms did encircle her—around her waist, to be precise—and she stopped breathing altogether. She watched, entranced, as his face drew closer and his dark eyes softened. It was as if she could feel his thoughts, his intentions; they were almost palpable.

  Anna wanted to give in to him, she really did, but Penforth was not a man to be trifled with. She would find herself in pieces if they went down this path. Summoning some much-needed willpower from deep within herself, she pulled out of his embrace and pushed herself off him.

  “Forgive me,” he said quietly after a moment.

  She nodded.

  The remainder of the journey was made in silence. It would have been more bearable if they had never had that moment. Tension thickened the carriage space and Anna felt like she was sitting on pins. Every now and then, she’d steal a glance up at him but would only be greeted by his profile, for he continued to stare out the window.

  He didn’t seem happy about what had happened, which made her feel worse. One did not regret something unless they perceived it to be bad. Her own reaction to him in the past had always unsettled her, but she had never actively disliked feeling this way, until now. The brief tenderness in his gaze and the softness of his touch meant nothing if he ended up regretting his actions.

  Lately, despite her aggravation at his condescension, she had found herself yearning to know more about him; to get closer to him. But clearly, Pen didn’t reciprocate.

  “We’re here,” he said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts.

  Anna stared out the window. They were approaching what appeared to be a stage station, a crossroads connecting different parts of Massachusetts. She already had a bad feeling about Sir Anthony, but seeing the place he’d asked Libby to meet elevated Anna’s consternation.

  “What manner of man asks a gently-bred lady to meet him in a place like this?”

  “One with nefarious intentions,” Pen replied grimly, a vein working in his temple.

  When the carriage stopped, he turned to her, his demeanor grave. She knew what he was going to say before he said it, and she was tempted to put a finger up to his lips and stop the words.

  “You must—”

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said. “I will not agree.”

  “You didn’t hear me out,” he complained.

  “I don’t need to.”

  “I do the things I do for your safety, Anna.”

  “Well, I appreciate your concern. But don’t you think I will be safer with you than alone here?”

  “The coachman and footman will remain here with you. I’ll give them a pistol for protection.”

  “You are a bully.”

  His jaw dropped.

  Without waiting for him—or his approval—she flung open the door and stepped down from the carriage. Glancing up briefly at the overcast sky she realized rain was coming, but that hadn’t stopped the bustle of activity at the crossroads. Stagecoaches carried passengers and mail, as well as private and hired carriages that all conveyed people to their respective destinations. Stage stations took in weary travelers, and teams of exhausted horses were exchanged for fresh ones. It was quite a remarkable sight, and Anna felt her spirits lift. One or more of these people could surely give them their next clue.

  "I am a bully?" Pen asked, alighting from the carriage.

  Anna rolled her eyes. "Why are you surprised?"

  "I don't recall making you do something you didn't want to do."

  Anna chuckled wryly. "You have been managing my life since that dreadful soirée. If that is not bullying, I don't know what is."

  "I apologize," he said.

  Her mouth dropped open and then closed. He'd ended the argument with a simple apology.

  During the lull in their conversation, he took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow. "Come."

  The Blue Hunter, the place mentioned in Sir Anthony’s missive, was the grandest of all the structures at the crossroads. The inn occupied a central position, with those people scurrying in and out of the Tudor-style building looking similar to Anna and Pen. Was this where the crème de la crème of society rested, on their travels? She pulled the edge of her toque down over her face, bending the feather to try to form a disguise.

  “That flimsy plume cannot hide your face. You are a popular woman, easily recognizable.” Pen, whose eyes were almost completely concealed by his low-sitting derb
y, remarked.

  Why does women’s fashion have to be so complicated? Why could I not wear a hat such as his?

  Arm in arm and with Anna’s head down, they entered the Blue Hunter and went straight for a pale, gaunt man behind the counter. Anna thought he looked like a figure one might find in a Mary Shelley book; stooped and skeletal, with greasy hair and sunken eyes. He straightened his black coat that hung loose on his bony shoulders and turned bleary eyes at them, blinking slowly.

  “Welcome to the Blue Hunter,” he drawled. “The finest establishment at the Cambridge crossroads.”

  Anna wondered how many times he’d had to repeat that phrase today.

  “We’re not looking for accommodation. We’re looking for someone. May we speak with you privately?” Pen got straight to the point.

  “Of course, Sir.” The man bowed his head. “Please come with me.”

  They followed him down a dimly lit hallway to an elaborately furnished salon that smelled faintly of tobacco. This place, too, was dimly lit.

  “Would you like to be seated?” he offered.

  “No, thank you. We will not stay long.” Pen retrieved Libby’s portrait from his coat pocket and showed it to him. “Have you seen this woman?”

  The man’s slender fingers closed over the picture, and he raised it to the single ray of light filtering in through the window to examine it. He took his time studying the picture before giving it back to Pen.

  Anna’s intuition told her the man knew something. Why else would he take that much time examining the picture?

  “No,” he said, very slowly. “I am afraid I have never seen her.”

  The breath she’d been holding in anticipation gushed out in frustration.

  “Have you received a guest named Sir Anthony Hart?” Pen asked.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “May we speak to your colleagues?”

  “Employees,” he corrected. “I am the sole proprietor of this establishment.” Anna was unable to tell if he was affronted by their assumption of him being an employee or not. His tone was as flat as could be.

  “Right.”

  “No one comes in or goes out without my knowledge. There has been no Sir Anthony Hart here.”

  “Well, then, thank you for your time.”

  “And good luck in your search,” he said, almost pleasantly.

  When they exited the inn, Anna huffed out an exasperated breath. “Where to now?"

  Pen did not reply immediately. His eyes raked the scene as he seemingly considered what next.

  “That innkeeper seemed to know more than he was letting on,” she prompted, eventually.

  Pen nodded. Finally, he said, "Let's check that place." He pointed with his chin toward a white building with green shutters and purple and yellow flowers in planters hanging on the windows.

  It was one of the buildings flanking the Blue Hunter with a sign above the entrance that read, Two Billed Duck. While the former was more likely the place a man of Sir Anthony’s rank would stay, this one obviously catered to the lower classes. Even so, Anna, realized, it should not be entirely ruled out.

  A memory constricted her throat and she swallowed against it, taking a deep breath to calm herself.

  Pen tugged her close. "Are you all right?"

  "I just remembered one of Libby’s and my antics."

  They had been in England two years prior, visiting Anna's relatives, and had been traveling through London. One of the inns they'd stopped at was called the Swan With Two Necks. Anna and Libby had imagined an actual swan with two necks, triggering a laughing spree that had lasted the whole night. They'd laughed at everything and nothing when they should have been sleeping. And the sherry they'd had at dinner only fueled their folly. This had seen them nap throughout the next day's journey.

  If Libby saw the Two Billed Duck now, she'd no doubt burst out laughing, saying, "Who names these places?"

  A shiver ran through her, from the roots of her hair down to the tip of her shod toes.

  Pen squeezed her gloved fingers. "We'll find her, Anna."

  They had to. She couldn't bear any other outcome.

  The Two Billed Duck was a busy place with people milling about, and though everyone went about their own business, Anna could feel curious eyes on them when they entered.

  A man behind the counter beamed at them as they approached. His eyes did a slow assessment, causing him to beam wider.

  "Welcome to the Two Billed Duck. How may I be of service?" Not giving Pen or Anna any chance to speak, he continued. "Our establishment boasts the finest chambers, made for our best guests." His smile grew wider. "Guests like yourselves. And of all the stage stations here, we provide the finest dining experience. May I interes—"

  "We're here for none of that," Pen cut him off. "We need to speak with you privately."

  The man swallowed as his eyes darted from the commanding man towering over him to Anna.

  He leaned forward and asked in a whisper, "May I ask what this is about?"

  Anna heard Pen growl out an expletive. He was obviously losing patience.

  The innkeeper swallowed again and lifted the counter flap for them to pass. "This way, please."

  He led them into a back room that looked like an office.

  "We are looking for someone." Pen got straight to the point once again, showing him a portrait of Libby. "Have you seen her?"

  The man stared at the portrait for a long time and Anna clutched Pen's arm in anticipation.

  "I haven't seen her, sorry." He gave Pen back the portrait.

  Anna didn't want to be disheartened. There were still two more stage station inns to check.

  "Let's go," Pen said, steering her toward the exit.

  An idea illuminated her mind. "Wait." She turned to the landlord. "Have you by any chance heard of a Sir Anthony Hart?"

  Recognition flared in his eyes and Anna held her breath. He knew something.

  "A man bearing that name spent a night here four days ago. He left at noon the following day saying he would return."

  "And has he? Returned, that is?"

  He shook his head. "He has not."

  "What does he look like?" Pen asked.

  "He has light-colored hair, similar to yours, my lady. He had gray eyes. And a scar on his temple, right across his brow. Good-looking chap."

  "Any other details?" Anna asked.

  "He was finely dressed. Not as good as you."

  It was not a lot of information, hardly enough for them to track him down, but it was information, nevertheless.

  Anna fished out some coins from the purse in her pocket and pressed them into his hands. "Thank you, Mr..."

  "Abernathy. Ronald Abernathy." he supplied.

  "Thank you, Mr. Abernathy."

  He beamed beatifically, as though he'd just been promised heaven.

  "You gave him money," Pen remarked when they stepped out of the Two Billed Duck.

  "Is that a bad thing?"

  "On the contrary. That was nice of you."

  She smiled. "I think he valued the appreciation more than the actual coin."

  He paused and turned to look at her. There was that tender look again. "You're very intuitive, Anna."

  She could feel the heat his words evoked rising from her neck up to her cheeks.

  "Thank you," she murmured, turning her face away from him.

  The next stage station—The Explorer—looked much like the Two Billed Duck, but was busier on the inside. Getting the attention of the landlord took some time. They did not elicit any information from him. The last stage station—the Blue Blocks— yielded the same result as the previous one.

  Dejection weighed heavily on Anna's shoulders by the time they left the Blue Blocks. She'd thought Sir Anthony's description and Libby's portrait would get them somewhere, but it didn't. They were back to where they had started and it was late afternoon already.

  "What now?" she asked Pen.

  He looked about determinedly. "We as
k the carriage drivers."

  Anna let out a breath and nodded. There were many carriages and many drivers. "Shall we begin?"

  The first driver was hard of hearing, making communication difficult.

  "I've never seen her," he shouted. "What did you say the man looked like?"

  Anna stared about nervously. Keeping this matter under wraps was important, not just to save Libby's reputation, but for their ultimate success in finding her. Her captors could be anywhere, and they could be alerted of the search which might make them change their course, and subsequently render Anna and Pen’s progress useless.

  In what could only be deemed an asinine performance, Anna described what Sir Anthony looked like, pointing at the gray sky to indicate the color of his eyes and her light-colored hair to confirm the color of his, then pointing at a horse’s tail to describe a queue. The driver stared at her as though she had lost her mind. Only after he’d received a dramatic description of his scar did the driver show any hint of comprehension.

  “Oh, I drove him,” he said, spreading his lips into a grin that revealed a missing front tooth.

  Anna felt hope begin to blossom.

  “Where did you drive him to?” she asked quickly. He did not understand her, so she had to yet again demonstrate.

  “I dropped him at that stage station four days ago. Didn’t see him again.”

  The growing hope recoiled and shriveled.

  "He doesn't have anything new, Pen.” Anna choked on a sob.

  He took both her hands in his and gave them a reassuring squeeze. "I know, but we have to continue. If he has passed through here, something about him is bound to turn up. There's a chance that Libby did not come here. Let's make finding Sir Anthony our priority." He tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. "It's going to be all right, Anna. I am here."

  I am here. She needed that, his presence, his support...his attention, too.

  Anna yearned for his attention, and she didn't know what to do to stop that feeling. Denial had led her nowhere and acknowledgment had only caused aggravation.

  They'd just turned to locate the next driver when they heard a beckoning hiss from the nearby alley. They ignored it and carried on, until suddenly, something grabbed Anna's sleeve. In a motion so quick it was almost a blur, Pen pushed Anna away and placed himself between her and the supposed attacker.