A Wicked Duke's Prize: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Henrietta Harding

  When she cranked open the door, she heard the wild screech of the oldest of her sisters, Evelyn Haering – the wife of Ulrich Haering, a man whose father had arrived from Germany in the previous generation with plenty of wealth. Her shrieks were pointed toward the back garden. From where Rebecca remained in the foyer, she spotted two little blond boys scampering toward the back door, even as thunder shook the ground beneath them.

  “Come now! Right inside,” Evelyn cried. “Before you drench yourselves completely.”

  The boys, Oliver, aged five, and Peter, aged four, lurched into the back entrance, directly down the hall from where Rebecca remained. Their blond curls coated their eyes and they shook themselves like dogs, which in turn caused her sister to shriek once more.

  “My goodness! Have both of you been raised in the stables?”

  Peter chuckled. Rebecca’s heart jumped with the sound. It had been over a month since she’d gone to her sister’s to visit, as she found Ulrich dreadfully boring and the children an endless reminder of the life she was meant to live. Peter and Oliver’s blue eyes tore across the space between them, and Oliver leapt up, crying Rebecca’s name. Evelyn’s eyes then shot towards her, and her face performed a strange, acrobatic turn – once downward, the lips curled like her chin, then thoughtfully placed up, as though she wished to evoke a certain manner with this, her lacklustre, yet altogether too beautiful sister. Evelyn and Ingrid, her other sister, were both pretty, a certain fact, but they’d long touted Rebecca to be the true beauty. “If only Mother could see her,” Ingrid had once sighed at Christmas, yet another statement that had turned Rebecca’s stomach.

  “Have you collected them?” Mr. Frampton cried, bucking out of the parlour and turning towards his grandsons and his favourite daughter. Immediately, the air in the hallway smacked him about, and he spun to find Rebecca, her hands crossed near her waist and her hair wild and grizzled and churned back behind her shoulders from her ride.

  “Ah! It seems you’ve collected someone else from the road,” Mr. Frampton said. His eyes were dark, flat, almost, as though he was surprised, yet displeased to find his youngest daughter there. He stepped lightly toward her and bent low to kiss her on the cheek. His lips were dry, coarse, yet she forced herself not to grimace. “We didn’t expect you so soon!”

  It pained Rebecca to do it, but she forced a smile across her face and beamed at them. “Tabitha and Anthony had a busy day planned. I took an early leave.”

  There was a strange pause. It seemed clear to Rebecca that Evelyn had arrived to speak with her father about Rebecca’s arranged marriage and how, perhaps, they would ensure that this marriage went through. Her father and Evelyn exchanged yet another putrid glance, whilst Oliver and Peter trampled over themselves to rush to their auntie. Rebecca dutifully dropped down to hug them, yet soon found herself lost in their wild and volatile laughter.

  Although their mother formed a metaphorical grey cloud over Rebecca’s head, the children filled her heart with song, creating real laughter from the anxious stirrings of her mind. These children, although formed from a lacklustre arranged marriage, were curious and bright, collecting themselves around Rebecca for afternoons at a time to read and draw and ask inquisitive questions that, it seemed to Rebecca, they were too afraid to ask their mother.

  “Shall we sojourn to the parlour once more?” Mr. Frampton suggested.

  Outside the rain grew powerful so that when it landed upon the roof a roar formed, as though thousands of people were crying out from a great distance. Evelyn’s brow furrowed as she tapped down the hall and collected her children. “Oh, Father, I imagine that Rebecca will want to change and fix her hair prior to joining us.”

  Mr. Frampton’s furrowed brow matched Evelyn’s. “Oh? Is that so?”

  Together, they two of them peered at Rebecca as though she was a foreign entity, a person dragged in from the street. Rebecca drew her hair behind her ears and contemplated what to do next. She detested her sister for her propriety and yearned to teach her a lesson, if only so she didn’t find herself in similar situations in the future.

  She further had the thought that her sister desired these situations to create of Rebecca a sort of plaything. After all, when Rebecca had been small, Evelyn and Ingrid had had to execute their playful desires to be mothers upon their youngest sister. Perhaps this was part of the reason for Rebecca’s obstinance.

  “I don’t imagine that’s necessary,” Rebecca said, again broadening her smile. “I feel rather fine, if my appearance doesn’t bother either of you?”

  Molly appeared then, carrying a large tray of shortbread and tea. When she spotted Rebecca, she showed all of her crooked teeth and cried, “My dear! You’ve returned early. You must tell me all about the party.”

  “Darling Molly, you know how little there is to say about such affairs,” Rebecca said. She chose to follow the older woman into the parlour. Her father and sister and nephews scampered in after them. “It’s always just a bit of lifeless conversation. Someone attempting to better someone else. Women, nay, girls – wishing to be perceived as women – nodding dutifully to the men with whom they speak.”

  “Oh, but you looked so beautiful when you left,” Molly said, settling the tray upon the table between the sofas. She adjusted several of the cakes, so that they appeared almost artistically arranged. Rebecca knew this was the way Evelyn preferred it. When the house held only Rebecca and Mr. Frampton, Molly didn’t take such precaution. “I’m sure you must have stumbled into some sort of lively conversation, hmm?”

  Rebecca now felt the eyes of her father and sister upon her. They perched at the edge of each of the sofas that faced one another, whilst Rebecca remained standing. She suddenly felt as though she was a part of a play.

  “Don’t muddle her mind, dear Molly,” Evelyn said, her brow arched. “It’s only just been arranged. She will marry Owen Crauford.” Her eyes became cat-like, as though she wished to assume such strength and prowess over Rebecca.

  Rebecca flashed a stellar smile. “Funny you should mention Owen Crauford.”

  “Why is this?” her father said, his voice blustery.

  Outside, the wind performed similarly, smashing against the windowpane as the rain splattered on.

  “Well, in fact, the very same man – Owen Crauford – appeared at the party last night,” Rebecca said.

  Her father smashed his palms together in excitement. Evelyn shifted on her cushion. The boys, to their credit, rushed to the window and peered out, uninterested. They made little noises to match the thunder, the wind, the rain.

  “That’s wonderful,” Mr. Frampton blurted. “The two of you were allowed a bit of time together – chaperoned, of course. I told Evelyn all about the match. She approves heartily, don’t you, Evelyn?”

  Evelyn clicked her tongue. “Of course. Father knows best, as you know. But tell me, Rebecca. You must have known that he would be in attendance at that party.”

  “I really didn’t, Evelyn,” Rebecca replied.

  “And yet, you’re always up to something, aren’t you? When it comes to these men. Gregory. The others. My, my, there’s been such a list of them now that I scarcely remember their faces or their names.”

  “I really can’t tell if that’s a compliment,” Rebecca said. She reached down and grabbed a piece of shortbread and nibbled at the edge. Slowly, Molly backed out of the room, as though she assumed her own invisibility in this moment. Rebecca was jealous of her ability to slip away.

  “Take it however you wish, Rebecca. You always do,” Evelyn said.

  “What a jagged way to speak!” Rebecca said. “Fascinating. Shall we dig into the reason why you’re really here?”

  Evelyn’s eyes dropped to their father, who seemed to wish to cower near the ground. She seemed to think twice about what she said next. She was sharp-tongued, eager to belittle anyone – even their father, if the time called for it.

  “You’re really here because you wanted to craft a plot with Father to ensure t
hat I didn’t mess up my engagement, aren’t you?” Rebecca said, not waiting for an answer.

  “Not precisely, Rebecca. Not everything is about you, you know,” Evelyn said.

  “But the way you said it, Evelyn. The way you said I must have surely known that he would be in attendance at the party. How cruel of you, really, Evelyn!”

  “That isn’t what I meant,” Evelyn said, her eyes stormy.

  “But you did!”

  “Girls, please…” Mr. Frampton said. He drew his palms together and blinked at the floor. “I didn’t wish for any sort of chaos to erupt between you. I only wished to… to ask for Evelyn’s advice.”

  “And yet I’ve shown no sign of fighting you regarding Owen Crauford have I, Father?” Rebecca demanded. She drew her chin higher, yearning to blare that Owen, in fact, didn’t wish to marry her, just as much as she didn’t wish to marry anyone by arrangement. Yet, of course, that seemed too heavy an admittance. It cast her in a negative light as well.

  For honestly, who on earth wouldn’t wish to marry her? Had she grown mould behind her ears?

  “I’ve expressed my worry about you, darling sister,” Evelyn said. “If this goes on much longer, what will become of you? Have you not wondered?”

  “Wondered if I won’t come out looking precisely like you?” Rebecca said. “With a husband I don’t readily like and two children and these enormous affairs and – and a sister I must look after, or else I’ll grow entirely too bored of my own existence? Yes. I’ve worried that I will become rather too much like you.”

  The words were rash, yet they echoed truth. Evelyn’s lips remained in a flat line. Her father’s face, turned toward the ground, spewed words, “My goodness. My dear. Oh no.”

  Suddenly, the children grew bored of their theatre at the window. They rushed to the tray of shortbread and collected several and then crouched next to their grandfather, casting crumbs to the ground.

  “Very well. I understand how you feel,” Evelyn said, her nostrils flared. “And I recognise that my sons and I aren’t welcome here, in this house you’ve chosen as your forever home. But dare I say, dear sister. You’ve put an enormous burden upon our father’s shoulders. All day, all night, he worries about what will become of you. I hope you’ll think of him, of our family, before you act so rashly this time.”

  Evelyn shot up from the sofa and swept towards the doorway, barking for her sons to follow. They performed like dogs, trampling after her and casting crumbs as they went. Still, Mr. Frampton remained on the sofa, seemingly unable to move. Before Rebecca could muster the strength to speak, Evelyn had alerted the butler to have a carriage prepared. The wind had calmed. It was now safe enough to embark.

  Rebecca sat on the sofa her sister had recently left behind and stared forward, listening as the carriage cranked out over the dirt and then retreated into the distance. Finally, her father sighed and stretched his hand out to wrap around Rebecca’s wrist. His eyes were heavy when they met hers.

  “I want you to know I really am proud of you and who you’ve become,” he murmured. The words seemed hardly likely. In fact, to Rebecca, they reeked of falsity. But before she could answer, he forced himself to stand and then ambled out of the room. He crept down the hall to his study and then whipped the door closed behind him, as though the wind had caught it and slammed it too hard.

  Rebecca collected several shortbreads in her palm and padded up to her bedroom, where she sat in her closed-off silence and reflected on the previous hours. Although she would have never admitted it to anyone, she simmered in the ache of loneliness and wished only to recite her feelings to someone.

  Strangely, she imagined citing the conversation she’d had with Evelyn to Owen himself. He would have surely chuckled. “We mustn’t let them get into our heads, dear Rebecca. We aren’t to marry. Arrangement is outside the bounds of our reasonable minds. Always keep yourself first, as I do.”

  Chapter 9

  Mr. Frampton avoided Rebecca for several days after the incident with Evelyn. Rebecca took the time to read in the garden, to ride on horseback, to steam in her room, her head a flurry of panic and fear. She detested the grey feeling that had overtaken the home and wished she could rectify it. But the only real solace she could gift her father took the form of her marriage to Owen.

  Three days after Evelyn’s appearance, there was a knock at Rebecca’s bedroom door. As Rebecca had been taking her dinners in her bedroom, she popped up to open the door for Molly, yet found her father standing there, a strange, formidable shadow between herself and the hall. He looked strangely sallow, his cheeks hollow.

  “May I come in, Rebecca?” he asked.

  Rebecca swallowed. “Of course.”

  She cracked the door still more to allow his entrance. He perched at the edge of her bed, looking strangely like a child, and informed her that he’d met with Neil Crauford once more regarding the engagement. Again, Rebecca’s stomach took it upon itself to twirl itself into knots.

  “How is he?” Rebecca finally asked.

  Her father finally drew his chin up. “He’s rather well. He seemed up on the gambling table, a rare sight indeed. Regardless, we discussed the impeding engagement and we believe it’s necessary to meet once more for continued conversation. This will give both you and Owen more time to get to know one another.” He clicked his tongue and added, “I know that an arrangement like this goes outside of your comprehension of yourself. But understand this, Rebecca. Countless women – nay, most I know – have been involved in a similar affair. The fact that Neil Crauford and I wish to allow you and Owen more time to get to know one another, it’s really more than most parents would allow.”

  Rebecca yearned to roll her eyes, yet she kept them straight ahead, her nostrils flared. “Thank you, Father. I appreciate this. When will Owen and his dear father arrive?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, for lunch,” her father returned.

  “Marvellous. I’ll wear my best dress,” Rebecca said.

  Cheered, as though he felt all had cleared between them, Mr. Frampton rose once more and swept his hand over Rebecca’s shoulder and gave a light squeeze. “Good! Then, please join me at the dinner table tonight. I can’t bear to eat there alone yet another night.”

  Rebecca held in the reminder: that if she was paired off with a stranger in another home, he would have many more lonely nights.

  ***

  The following morning, Tabitha appeared in the parlour. Rebecca had thrown herself into a book, her eyes catching the tiny letters of the old tome. Tabitha had sent no word since Rebecca’s departure several days before, and Rebecca sensed a rift between them. Now, her eyes fluttered up to see her friend, her hands latched around a little tin. Her eyes looked sombre, wounded.

  “Rebecca,” Tabitha began.

  “Tabitha?”

  Tabitha floundered towards the sofa and sat beside her, the tin smashed against the fabric of her gown. Her lower lip bubbled. “I’m terribly sorry about the other morning. I felt so strange, attempting to juggle the two of you like that, as though I wasn’t certain when to speak and when not to. Anthony yearns so desperately to get to know you, and I wanted some sort of… of magic to appear between you. Of course, I was incorrect. You had a wretched time. But I felt sure I would see you the next day, or perhaps the one after that, and still you didn’t call on me. Rebecca, really and truly, I require nothing from you.”

  Rebecca flung herself around Tabitha, so that she hugged her friend tightly against her. Tabitha nearly dropped the tin. Throughout the previous days, Rebecca had ached with such loneliness, such sorrow, that she’d made it up in her mind that nobody – not Tabitha, not Evelyn, not even Augustus – could find her endearing or worthwhile.

  Now, with Tabitha before her, she felt renewed, and apologised about her rash departure. When she drew back, her eyes blinking back tears, Tabitha thrust the tin towards her and peeled off the top. Within, sat a perfect raspberry crumble.