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

by Henrietta Harding

  Together, the family paused and watched as Nelly dropped her hands. Her bottom lip quivered just one more time. She seemed to illustrate what everyone in the family felt. Even Christopher seemed sallow, dark.

  “We’ve only a bit of time left before the coach,” Henry offered finally, perhaps fulfilling his role as this father-figure, a man meant to keep track of his family and their whereabouts. Slowly, the family turned back down the path and padded the rest of the way towards the coach, which laid in wait for Bridget’s arrival.

  Bridget hugged each of them tenderly, taking an extra moment with her mother, who, she’d felt, had become merely a shell of herself in recent months. When she drew back, she peered into her mother’s eyes, wishing she could say all the things she wanted to. Wishing she could tell her how much it mattered to her that she loved Henry Cottrill, despite everything, despite his arrogance and his ability to put the family in near-ruin.

  Instead of this, however, her mother reached up and tucked a little curl behind Bridget’s ear and whispered, “Are you quite sure you don’t wish to marry Aaron, my love? He really would give you a nice life.”

  The comment nearly enraged Bridget. She swallowed, blinked, and whispered, “Mother, do you really think I should? After everything he’s done?”

  Her mother gave a light shrug and took a slight step back. “He could be very good to you.”

  “Mother …” Bridget trailed off, lost in thought. I cannot live in the “could be” of that world. I cannot live knowing that Aaron would be off drinking, gambling away our savings. I cannot give him children who he would eventually destroy with his temper. I cannot.

  But instead of saying these words, Bridget grabbed her things and gave a final nod to each of her siblings and her father. She spun around and passed her travel bags off to be stored. Then, she boarded the coach, with her eyes focused ahead. When she sat in her seat, she again stared straight ahead, willing herself not to look back. She didn’t wish to see the cries of her younger siblings, didn’t want to know her father’s sadness as she finally drifted away.

  However, her name rang out from Zelda’s lips, just as the coach cranked forward, and Bridget drew her head around and found her entire family waving their hands wildly, as though they might never see her again. Bridget’s eyes smarted with sadness. She pressed her hand against the glass and watched as her family faded into the distance until Bridget was forced forward, on a journey of discovery, of money, of a life she’d never dreamed of. How difficult it all was. And how terribly her heart ached.

  Chapter 2

  Oh, but wasn’t it marvellous to travel across the country? Bridget had only gone once to Bristol, and the trek up to Buckinghamshire took a full two days, with a brief interlude at an inn midway through the journey. She met another young woman named Gretchen on the ride, who was poised to visit her sick mother in East London.

  Gretchen had recently married a man who had an estate near to Bridget’s family’s house, although Bridget had never met the man personally. Midway through the second day, however, their conversation fell to the topic of Aaron Barlow himself. Bridget, shocked that the young woman knew him, gave herself away very soon.

  “You’ve lost all the colour from your face!” Gretchen said, drawing her hand over her lips. “I don’t suppose you know Aaron as well?”

  “He’s a friend of your husband’s?” Bridget asked, her voice catching in her throat.

  “Yes. Since they were children, I suppose …” Gretchen said. She adjusted her hands across her lap, seeming to digest what to say next. “When we were introduced, I was, quite frankly, a bit confused. My husband, he’s a gentle, marvellous man, and Aaron … Oh, but apologies if you are quite good friends with him! I know very little, and my husband tells me even less. Everything I’ve learned about Aaron I’ve picked up through the gossip of the surrounding villages and towns.”

  Bridget’s eyes scanned the horizon line. It was perhaps two in the afternoon, and they still had four hours until their arrival in Buckinghamshire. With every moment that passed, they drew further and further from Aaron, from her past.

  “He used to be quite a kind man,” Bridget whispered, her voice catching. “I have countless memories of the two of us. We were just children, and we played endlessly, laughing so loud I thought my smile might break my cheeks. But something shifted in Aaron …”

  Gretchen’s face turned down. “You’re Bridget. You’ve told me your first name. But not your second. You must be the Cottrill woman. Aaron has spoken about you to my husband. Stating that you’re his …”

  “You mustn’t hold anything back from me,” Bridget affirmed. “Anything that you say now will create a greater distance between myself and Aaron, in my heart of hearts. And this is what I want more than anything.”

  Gretchen’s eyes closed. Her hands shook a bit as she said, “He seems to think he has some kind of ownership over you. The way he described it, in my husband’s ears—it was preposterous. Almost evil. And …” Again, she paused, her hand splayed over her cheek. “I think it very brave of you to leave the situation in which you’d found yourself. Goodness, I don’t know what I might have done in your circumstances.”

  It was the only push that Bridget needed, the final confidence in her choice that she required to step out of the coach upon their arrival. Once she’d arranged for her travel bags, she stood, adjusting her hat, while Gretchen searched the sea of people for a sign of her mother’s stable boy. Bridget, too, had a carriage awaiting—had been told to find it at the far end of the coach station, on the right, helmed by a stableman named Colin. When Gretchen found her mother’s stable boy, she rushed back to give Bridget a final hug and to whisper in her ear, “You’re going to be all right.”

  Bridget carried her travel bags herself, down the long line of waiting coaches to find the very final one on the right. At the top sat a gaunt-looking stableman, hunched over, rubbing his palms together against the chill of the late April afternoon. His eyes found hers down below, and he bellowed, “I don’t suppose you’re the young governess I’m meant to be hunting for?”

  A feeling of fear overtook Bridget’s belly, her legs. She nodded and mustered up a small smile. “I suppose you’re Colin?”

  “That’s right,” Colin affirmed. He brought his wiry body down from the seat and snapped the travel bags into the belly of the carriage. He then assisted Bridget into the carriage itself, doing so as if he’d brought in countless women—all upper class—into that carriage, one after another, for years upon years. “I trust your journey was comfortable?”

  “Yes. Quite,” Bridget said, her voice tight with the lie. For how on earth could her journey have been anything but monstrously uncomfortable? Two days in a coach!

  “Very good. The Duke will wish to hear that himself. I understand he was a bit anxious, hiring a woman from so far away, what with all the possible women in the nearby city. However, your application seemed, to him, the best, I suppose. That’s the rumour snaking through the estate.

  As Colin spoke, he leaned into the carriage, the door still wide open, and beamed up at her with intense eyes. He felt oddly too close to her, although Bridget also had the sense that he’d spent the past several hours alone and waiting for her, and wanted to appease him. Perhaps the man was simply lonely.

  “How far is the estate?” she asked, grateful that her voice had a bit of strength to it.

  “About 20 minutes, I suppose,” Colin said. The twinkle in his eyes faded, and he sat back, closed the door, and hopped onto the driver’s seat. With a little, “Giddyup,” he shot the horses forward and eased the carriage around the still-waiting ones.

  Bridget leaned back in the carriage, exhaling slowly, grateful for a moment of privacy. She felt oddly mucky, fatigued, and her dark blonde curls didn’t fall correctly after a full day of travel. She yearned to ask Colin about the family, as she suspected people like Colin were the ones most in the know about any such high-status family.

  However,
she sensed that hollering up to him, asking questions, would have made things increasingly awkward. She kept her mouth sealed tight and gazed out the window, watching the moors flit past—long fields, glossy with newly bright green.

  Huntington Estate appeared on the horizon about 25 minutes after their departure, just as Colin had said. It was an enormous, dark and brooding mansion, there between countless walled gardens and enormous oak trees that flitted about in the breeze. Bridget’s eyes grew to the size of saucers as they approached. The carriage headed towards the stables, and when it halted, she found herself still frozen, gazing at the largest house she’d ever seen. It seemed improbable that this was now her home. It seemed better suited to an entire colony of humans, rather than just one family.

  Instead of waiting for Colin, Bridget flung the carriage door open herself and hopped down onto the soft soil. The space around the mansion seemed eerily quiet, although her ears hunted for any sign of birds or screeching children. Colin joined her, grabbed her bags, and gave her a half-shrug.

  “Do you want to stand out here staring at it all day, or would you like to go inside?”

  Bridget grimaced and stepped forward. Colin lurched in front of her, and together, the two snaked up the path towards the front door, where, just before they reached it, a butler drew open the door and delivered a deep bow. The butler seemed about 55 years old, regal-looking, with a long nose, and he introduced himself as William.

  “You must be Bridget Cottrill,” he said. His voice was deep and even, something easily fallen into. “Welcome to Huntington Estate. We’re pleased to have you.” He took the two travel bags and directed Colin back to the stables. When he cleared the porch, William closed the door and let out a little sigh. “You must excuse Colin. He means well, but I imagine that he wasn’t the most pleasant man to have met upon your arrival. I’ve explained this to the master, but it always seems that Colin is the one chosen for these affairs …”

  Bridget’s smile grew warm. She sensed her attitude shifting. “He was really quite all right. I’m just grateful to be here after such a long journey.”

  “Right. Well. Let me show you to your room so you can freshen up prior to meeting the family,” William said. He strode towards the large and royal-looking staircase, over which hung several paintings of people who had assuredly long-since died and left the Huntington Estate to their offspring. Bridget had hardly been within spaces such as this, and she felt as though she’d entered the pages of a storybook.

  “Your bedroom is closer to the servants,” the butler stated. “Just a floor down from my quarters, if you require anything from me.” He strolled down the second floor, eastern wing, and led her towards a corner door. Upon their arrival at the bedroom, they discovered a maid performing the finishing touches to it—fluffing the pillows, ensuring the blanket overtop was smoothed down.

  “Greetings, Mrs Rogers. It seems that our new governess has arrived, all in one piece,” William said.

  The woman seemed late-50s, early-60s, perhaps, with shockingly white hair and round cheeks. She turned her eyes to Bridget and smiled softly, tilting her head. “Goodness, aren’t you beautiful?”

  Bridget’s cheeks burned. She stepped forward and removed her hat. “Thank you for preparing my room, Mrs Rogers.” She curtsied and turned back to watch William drop her travel bags on the floor.

  “I must attend to other duties, Miss Cottrill,” William said. “I trust that this suits you?”

  “Of course,” Bridget said. Her voice wavered a bit, but she ensured to maintain her smile. “Thank you for your wonderful welcome, William.”

  William’s feet creaked down the thick wooden floorboards as he swept back towards the foyer. Mrs Rogers kept her steady gaze. “Oh, darling. You really do look quite exhausted.”

  “It was a two-day trip,” Bridget said. She kept her chin high, resenting that she looked so fatigued. “I’ve never travelled so far from home.”

  “I expect so. I haven’t taken a trip like that since I was a girl myself,” Mrs Rogers said. She cackled and added, “As you can imagine, that’s been quite some time. Now, darling, let’s unpack your things, shall we? And you’ll need to freshen up to meet the Duke and Duchess, and, of course, the children. You’ve worked as a governess before?”

  “No …” Bridget said, feeling her cheeks burn yet again. “I’m quite educated, however, and always suspected that this sort of position would be well-suited for me.”

  Mrs Rogers paused and gave her a look, one that Bridget found difficult to read. “And you didn’t think to marry, have children? I’m sure many women your age are doing just that, aren’t they?”

  Again, Bridget was forced through thoughts of Aaron, the life she’d assumed for so long she wanted. She cleared her throat and said, “Unfortunately, there weren’t any men that I really wished to spend my life with.”

  Mrs Rogers gave a rueful chuckle. “I see. You’re one of these fashionable girls who wish to follow their heart? In my day, a woman married whoever wanted her first. It was an act of safety. It ensured that you had someone to care for you, for your children. We didn’t have the time to think about whether or not we wanted it …” She placed her hands on her hips and tilted her body a bit, arching her brow. “But I suppose you’ve found your own way to care for yourself, haven’t you? A governess position.”

  Bridget felt a bit slack-jawed from this woman’s seeming insistence that she understood Bridget’s mind, her reasoning. Her mind raced, hunting for something, anything to say, something to assure Mrs Rogers that she wasn’t some idiot, youthful girl.

  “Anyway, here. Your room, all ready for you,” Mrs Rogers said. She spread her arms wide and gestured to the spotless room, with its large windows that reflected back a gorgeous view of the gardens below. “I dare say you won’t have much time to spend here, but it really is one of our more fantastic rooms.

  The furniture is largely antique and has been a part of this house for over 100 years. The paintings are all mostly of the Duke’s great aunt, a truly beautiful woman who died when she was no more than 25 years old.” Mrs Rogers gestured toward the portraits near the water basin, a beautiful raven-haired woman with cat-like green eyes and a mysterious smile.

  “How dreadful,” Bridget murmured.

  “Truly,” Mrs Rogers said, almost disdainfully. “Huntington Estate is filled with ghosts like her. Not to say it’s actually haunted. Just that it’s seen countless families, countless deaths. It seems to pile up with memories.”

  Bridget stepped back, feeling the weight of these stories. How could she possibly fit in this world, not knowing anything about it?

  “But the children. They’re quite all right, aren’t they?” Bridget asked. “I’ve come all this way, and I know very little. Only their names. Kitty and Andrew. Aged six and eight, respectively.”

  “They’re just children. Not so difficult. Occasionally too loud, too messy. Quite bright, though, I’d say.” Mrs Rogers sniffed and turned back into the hallway. “Dinner will be served in an hour. I know that the Duke and the Duchess and their children plan to meet you at that time. I advise you to freshen up.”

  Suddenly, Mrs Rogers whipped forward, grabbed the door, and drew it closed. Left alone again, Bridget dropped on the edge of the bed and splayed her hands over her cheeks. A small sob escaped her throat. When she blinked back up, she gazed into the green eyes of the great aunt’s portrait, so long dead. Had this been her bedroom? Would Bridget ever know anything about her, beyond her death and her beauty?

  Bridget could imagine why Mrs Rogers had treated her in this manner. After all, the woman had surely been a part of Huntington Estate for decades, had seen the various tides, the new employees come and go. She probably assumed Bridget not up to the task; perhaps she assumed that no woman could possibly be.

  There was no way Mrs Rogers could have known how pointed her comment about the potential of marriage and family truly was—how it drudged up inner sadnesses and aches that Bridget didn�
�t wish to endure.

  She simply had to keep her eyes forward, not give Mrs Rogers or Colin or even William any sense that she wasn’t “up” to this life. She had to prove herself.