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

by Henrietta Harding

  She erupted from her chair and turned on her heel, rolling with anger. Before her father could answer, her arm swam back and smashed the door closed, and she rushed towards the staircase and stamped up and up, until she arrived, face-down, upon her mattress in the dark. Around her, she felt the flurry of servants, of Molly, even of her father, upon his return to his bedroom for the night. But she couldn’t move a muscle, such was her devastation.

  She’d loved Owen Crauford. She’d loved him truly and wholly, with the sort of power that she’d thought was reserved for the sort of miraculous, God-given love – the love written in the stars.

  And he’d rebuked her, made her feel an imbecile.

  Now she was forced to live out the rest of her days with whatever wretched man from the village or surrounding estates her father found for her. And she wouldn’t allow herself to complain. For surely, anything was better than such powerful emotion. Such love, it left one unguarded, at another’s mercy.

  She’d certainly fallen to ruin because of it.

  Chapter 24

  Beyond her immense anger towards Owen, she further had to stew in the fact that she’d been a horrendous friend to Tabitha, and Anthony had actively put her in her place, demanded more of her. She’d assumed, incorrectly, that she and Tabitha could push forward as forever friends, monstrously adventurous, evermore young.

  Now, outside Tabitha’s home once more, just a day after the unfortunate events at the Crauford estate, she felt prepared to apologise profusely, until Tabitha told her she’d annoyed her enough.

  The butler opened the door, his eyes glittering with intrigue. Rebecca wanted to demand why on earth he looked so tremendously pleased with himself. Did he expect still more drama as a result of her appearance?

  “Good afternoon, Miss Frampton. She’s in the parlour. Shall I alert a maid to fetch some tea?”

  “I suppose that’s up to Tabitha,” Rebecca returned. She tapped forward, to fall in line with Tabitha, who sat, uncomfortably, it seemed, on a parlour chair, stitching a little baby gown. Rebecca slotted her hands on her waist and waited, knowing full-well that Tabitha knew she awaited her. Tabitha strung the thread through the light blue fabric, the needle glinting. Rebecca’s heart thudded with annoyance. Would she really force her to wait in the foyer all afternoon, without raising her head?

  “And suppose it’s a girl?” Rebecca finally uttered.

  Tabitha halted her stitching and held her needle high. Her eyes flashed upward, connecting with Rebecca’s. A small smirk formed, although Rebecca knew, Tabitha didn’t wish to show it.

  “I suppose any girl looks rather good in blue,” Tabitha replied. Her voice flat, disinterested.

  Rebecca stepped inside the parlour, using this as a greeting. “You’ve hardly shown me anything you’ve sewn.”

  “As if you’d have any interest in such a banal, wifely task,” Tabitha said.

  “I have interest in whatever you like, Tabitha.”

  The words were so striking, so forward, that Tabitha actually lifted her entire head and blinked up at her friend. After a long pause, she said, “Would you like to sit?”

  Rebecca swept towards the chair beside her and placed herself at the edge, her hands on her knees. The little gown Tabitha had constructed, thus far, had been miraculous, so impossibly small, with lace and ribbon around the neck. Tabitha returned her attention to it, a suggestion, perhaps, that Rebecca was meant to speak.

  “I’m really terribly sorry about what occurred yesterday,” she began. “I know I’m ordinarily not in the position of… of grovelling like this. But I know what I did was wretched, especially in the wake of your new… condition. Your pregnancy. I must think of the baby before anything else.”

  Tabitha stopped once more. She stuffed the needle into a little pincushion and folded up the little blue gown beside it. She then drew her fingers together and turned towards Rebecca, with tears in her eyes. Her lower lip bubbled.

  “You know. I didn’t even think you’d come today to apologise,” she whispered.

  Rebecca’s heart lurched.

  “I just imagined that… that you’d decided to go on in your life without me. That you’d discovered what a dreadful bore I am. But you know, Rebecca, I’ve always been quieter than you. Slower. I love to run with you, to try to keep up. But now I have Anthony. I have the baby. Boy or girl, I have to tend to this. This situation is my newfound existence. And I want you here beside me, as much as you wish. But I cannot run off with you. Gallivant, as Anthony calls it.”

  Rebecca sighed. “I know. And I’m sorry to Anthony, too. I’ve been tremendously rude to him. It was very kind of him to send the carriage back to the Crauford estate. I don’t know how I would have made it back home without it.”

  “What happened yesterday, Rebecca?” Tabitha said finally, her eyes downcast. “You look like a shadow. Unsure of yourself. Lost.”

  “Those aren’t words I’ve ever heard attributed to me,” Rebecca murmured.

  “I know. Something must have happened,” she replied.

  Rebecca pondered for a moment. How could she describe her greatest defeat? As the words poured from her lips, Tabitha listened with interest, her eyebrows low. When she was finished – describing how she’d explained to her father that she wouldn’t marry him – Tabitha suddenly threw herself towards Rebecca and wrapped her in a firm hug. The shock of it rolled through Rebecca’s body. She tucked her head against Tabitha’s shoulder and let out a low, horrible cry, one that alarmed her.

  “I know you truly loved him,” Tabitha said.

  “No! No, of course not,” Rebecca said, although her voice wavered.

  “I know you did,” Tabitha returned. “And it’s all right. Many women have got over heartache before you. And many will after.”

  Rebecca swept back for a moment, blinking away tears. She felt a sudden ache of anger. How was it possible that Anthony and Tabitha – a man and a woman who hadn’t once fallen in love, at least not in her perception – could possibly be allowed to spend their entire lives together, whilst she and Owen would never see one another again? What a dreadful thing, these rules of life.

  Rebecca stayed for about an hour. Tabitha brought out the tart that Rebecca had brought the previous day, which they hadn’t had the time to eat. Together, they tore into it, with Tabitha pointing to her pregnant belly as reason for her voracious appetite. Over time, Rebecca found a way to laugh, to tease. They spoke mostly of the baby, of the names Tabitha could possibly choose – of the joyful way Anthony would surely take to fatherhood.

  “I’ve heard it brings couples even closer together,” Tabitha said.

  “Anthony already looks at you like you’re the only woman in the world,” Rebecca replied. “It will be a remarkable thing, knowing one another in this way.”

  “You mustn’t mean it. Do you?” Tabitha asked, her voice hopeful.

  “I do,” Rebecca said.

  ***

  Although Rebecca felt oddly sluggish, slow from sadness, she returned to her father’s estate with a renewed sense of self. After all, as long as her relationship with Tabitha was solid, she felt she could press forward in her own life, albeit slowly, heavy, with the same thought rotating over and over in her mind. She would never see Owen again.

  Days swept on after that. Soon, it was nearly the end of June, and Rebecca hadn’t received a single message from Owen. She imagined him there in his grey and empty mansion, pacing the empty rooms. What on earth did he want? What was he waiting for?

  It had been two weeks since Rebecca had informed her father she wouldn’t marry Owen. To his credit, Mr. Frampton hadn’t yet brought up the issue. She was grateful for this, if apprehensive. When would he come back to her, insist that she see Owen again, fix whatever she’d done?

  Rebecca sat in the sunlit garden on a Thursday afternoon when she heard someone clear his throat from near the rose bushes. At first her heart leapt into her throat, assured that finally, finally, Owen Crauford himself had r
eturned to apologise, to tell her how much he truly did care. When she blinked up excitedly, however, she found herself gazing at none other than her very good and very old friend, Augustus. She ensured her smile didn’t falter at the sight. In fact, she overcompensated a bit and burst up, whipping her arms around his neck and crying, “Augustus! It’s been far too long.”

  Augustus seemed thrilled. He dotted a kiss on her cheek and said, “Look at her. Beautiful Rebecca Frampton, all alone in the garden. I can’t imagine why someone hasn’t yet painted this portrait of you.”

  “You’ll embarrass me, Augustus. Shall I call for some tea?”

  They sat together, a platter of shortbread before them. Augustus beamed at her, his eyes almost too aggressive, and Rebecca hunted about the back of her mind for something to say.

  “Tell me, Augustus. Have you courted any girls this season?”

  Augustus seemed unable to shake that ravenous gaze. “Of course not, Rebecca. You know that I’m a terribly honest man. Too honest, some might say.”

  “Does an honest man even exist?” Rebecca asked, chuckling nervously.

  “You see one before you, don’t you?” Augustus asked.

  “I suppose so,” Rebecca said, trying to keep her voice bright. “Pray tell. What brings you here to my beautiful, if entirely lonely home?”

  “I’ve been to see Tabitha, a few days ago,” he said.

  “Healthy as a bean, isn’t she? Our darling pregnant girl,” Rebecca replied. She was momentarily surprised, as she hadn’t suspected that Tabitha and Augustus spent much time alone without her.

  “Quite. Although I must say, our conversation drifted off to topics regarding… you,” Augustus said. He turned his eyes nervously towards the green grass between them, then continued. “You see, she mentioned that things fell apart with dear Owen Crauford.”

  Rebecca waved her hand. “Oh, darling, you know how it is with me and these things. I hardly notice these men, flitting in and out of my life. One engagement to the next. And wasn’t it what everyone said I would do, regardless? Find a way out of it. And I have.”

  “I know it’s a bit different this time,” Augustus insisted. “Tabitha told me you’re quite upset.”

  “Did she? She must have it entirely wrong,” Rebecca returned. “They do say those things about pregnant women, don’t they? That they forget things, are a bit off. Well, regardless, I must assure you. Everything is quite all right for me. I’m single once more. A twenty-three-year-old woman, very nearly at the end of the prime of her life.”

  Rebecca meant the words as a joke, and even offered a brief laugh.

  But Augustus’s eyes became like daggers. He leaned towards her, tilting his head. It seemed he knew her too well. He could see directly through her. What was she to do? Could she continue on in this lie?

  With a rushing feeling in her stomach, Rebecca met his gaze and said, “To be honest with you, Augustus. I’m not quite sure how I allowed him to deceive me so.”

  Why shouldn’t she be truthful with Augustus? He was one of her oldest friends in the world. He’d been there, a shoulder to cry on, a friend to laugh and gossip with, through it all – and why should now be any different? Augustus nodded in understanding and then moved closer to her, seating himself next to her on the bench. His hand found hers, another motion of comfort, and he whispered, “There, there,” as though words could ever be enough. Rebecca let out a small, brief sob, then turned her eyes to the ground, embarrassed. After all, she’d yearned only to be flippant about her emotions, yearned to deceive even herself about her loss. Wasn’t that how women drew themselves through disaster? There was an element of self-deception in all things.

  “Owen seems a rather cruel man to me,” Augustus said, his voice low. “The fact that he allowed you to get away only proves that his intelligence is lacklustre at best.”

  “You pity me. I feel it,” Rebecca whispered. She sniffed, drawing her hand across the edge of her eye to collect a runaway tear.

  “No. How could I ever pity the great Rebecca Frampton?” Augustus said.

  Rebecca was suddenly conscious of just how alone the two of them were, out in the garden beneath the sun. Although their friendship should have been enough of a reason for her to dismiss this feeling, something lurked beneath Augustus’s tone of voice that told her something else. When she glanced his way, his eyes grew increasingly urgent. His hand, over hers, squeezed still harder.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Augustus,” Rebecca murmured. But of course, memory of the previous few weeks flooded her. Hadn’t she heard Tabitha and Anthony discussing the fact of Augustus’s adoration for her? And truthfully, hadn’t she sensed it, as they’d danced and he’d attempted to tuck her tighter against him, to whisper in her ear how beautiful she looked.

  “You’ve been tireless in your pursuit of a worthwhile and happy life,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “Nearly every other woman I know across the county, across London itself, falls in line with whatever her father wishes. They don’t blink at arranged marriages and assume them to be their lot in life. And thusly, they live out their existences like shadows, unable to reach for what they want. Unable to demand what they need. All except you, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca knew better not to interrupt this strange soliloquy. She pressed her lips tightly together and swallowed and waited, eyes enormous, as a man she’d always perceived to be one of her greatest friends finally, finally stepped over the line.

  “You must know how I’ve loved you over the years,” Augustus said, his voice urgent and low. “Since we were teenagers, I looked at you as the pinnacle of womanhood. Goodness, you made me laugh, Rebecca. Of course, you also enraged me far more than any other girl. My moods were so volatile, as a result of any reaction with you. I think my father even mentioned it early on, perhaps aged sixteen, when, after I’d caught you flirting with Randall Scott, I threw one of my father’s fine scotch glasses across the room and it smashed into thousands of pieces…”

  “I hardly remember Randall Scott,” Rebecca said, giving a strained laugh.

  “Well, I obviously do,” Augustus said, his smile widening. “I didn’t confess what I truly felt to my father, of course. He insisted that I halt my ties with you, as you made me far too emotional, but I simply couldn’t get enough. Which brought us through our late teenage years and now into our twenties. I’ve watched you every step of the way, flitting from fiancé to fiancé. And now, I find you here alone, in your garden. A tragic figure. And the very woman I wish to marry.”

  Rebecca’s heart lurched. Augustus flung himself to the ground at her feet, his hands atop her knee. “Marry me, Rebecca. All this past chaos with Owen has made me realise, I cannot be silent about my heart any longer. I will be good to you, Rebecca. I know you, inside and out – know what makes you laugh, what makes you cry, and I will build a beautiful life for you, one that you can be happy with, in your own unique way.

  “I’ve known I wanted to marry you from the very beginning. And now, I want to seize this chance. Your father adores me. My family has a great deal of wealth. Our children would be prosperous and well-educated, and all of our friends would certainly look upon us as a beautiful match. Even Tabitha mentioned that she’d always assumed…”

  Rebecca’s eyebrows cut low at the mention of Tabitha. “What did she say?”

  Augustus seemed to sense he’d dipped into inappropriate territory. “Nothing. Only that…”

  “Please, darling. Tell me,” Rebecca murmured, then gripped his hands hard, disallowing him to lift from his surely uncomfortable position with his knees on the ground.

  “Only that she thinks you perhaps couldn’t find happiness with anyone. So it might as well be me – someone you know well and respect already. Someone who could give you what you need,” Augustus continued.