Margaret Moore - The Dark Duke

“Oh, all right,” the duchess said ungraciously. “Mind you do not sleep too late.” With that, she turned and left, preceded by the dark-haired Maria.

As if I ever do! Hester thought, taking a candle and heading for the library. She had never seen the duchess so much as pick up a book or newspaper, let alone read one, so it was no surprise the woman had no respect for reading.

It was a fair way along the corridor to the darkly paneled library, a room the duchess never ventured into, and where Hester went when she wanted a few moments alone. It was quiet and a little solemn, like an empty church, but Hester liked it all the more for its aura of benign neglect

Barroughby Hall itself was an immense building, the work of several generations and several architects, each seemingly trying to outdo each other in the spending of the Fitzwalters’ money. Fortunately, the estate was a large one, too, and more than one of the dukes had been a wise investor in art and sculpture, as well as business ventures, so there was little fear of putting the family into bankruptcy.

By this time the house and grounds were magnificent. Built in a square, with an open courtyard in the middle reached through the imposing main entrance, the hall boasted a corridor nearly a mile long around the inside, filled with paintings and statues purchased in Europe. The ceilings of the main rooms on the lower level were all painted by master artists; even the hearths of the fireplaces were works of art. The large dining room would easily seat one hundred at an immense mahogany table. There were over fifty bedrooms, not counting those in the attic used by the small army of servants.

Other rooms in the house included the large drawing room, the small drawing room, the library, the duke’s study, two smoking rooms, a billiard room, the Tudor hall that formed the main entrance, the servants’ hall and the kitchen, at an unfortunate distance from the large dining room. Outside, there were the formal gardens, a large shrubbery, the carriage house and the stables, as well as kennels for the duke’s hunting dogs.

It was not a cozy place to live, yet it did have its compensations, not all of them architectural. Here Hester was not always being compared to her more attractive sisters, or made to wait upon her mother, who, believing herself sickly, was always in need of assistance and accepted Hester’s help as her due. The duchess also pleaded a weak constitution, but not nearly as often, and she seemed to appreciate Hester’s efforts a vast deal more.

In addition to that, Hester realized, there was now the exciting presence of the Dark Duke himself to make her stay here something out of the ordinary.

She reached the library, found her volume and headed toward the back stairs, which would be the fastest route up to her room. As she did so, she heard the servants still at work in the kitchen, talking and laughing among themselves as they completed their daily tasks.

Once upstairs, she paused in the corridor, realizing that one of the bedroom doors between where she was standing and her room, a door that had always been shut tight, was standing slightly open. Perhaps that was the duke’s room, and she would have to pass it by.

This notion filled her with a curious mixture of excitement and dread, until Hester told herself she was being ridiculous. Surely she didn’t expect the duke to lunge out of the room, grab her and drag her inside. The image was so…so romantically gothic that Hester had to stifle a laugh. As if she could ever be a heroine! Besides, with an injured leg, he could hardly be skulking about!

Emboldened, she confidently walked down the hall.

Nevertheless, her steps slowed as she came even with the open door. A low moan caught her attention. No one else was near, so she cautiously stepped inside.

The room was dark, for no moonlight penetrated the drawn drapes. She lifted her candle a little higher, noting the fine proportions of the large room and splendid furnishings.

Including the canopied bed, with the curtains open and the duke slumbering upon it, lying on his side, and turned toward the door. He certainly wasn’t a person to fear at the moment, she thought, smiling at her previous imaginings. At present he didn’t look like the cold, sardonic man of this morning, or the villain rumor and gossip painted him. With his hair tousled and his eyes shut, he looked like nothing so much as a mischievous little boy—although there was a sensuality to his lips that had nothing of the child about it.

As she watched, he moved restlessly, rolling onto his back and throwing one muscular arm over his face. One naked, muscular arm. At the sudden realization that he might be nude beneath the bedclothes, Hester backed away, ready to depart.

The duke moaned again.

Perhaps he needed help. Maybe she should fetch someone—but then she would have to explain her presence in the duke’s bedroom. She recalled hearing his valet’s voice in the servants’ hall downstairs. She could ring the bell for assistance and leave before the valet appeared. The servant might believe that the duke had summoned him.

Deciding that would be the best course, Hester moved farther inside the room, for the bell rope dangled near the head of the bed.

What if someone passed by? They would certainly see her light.

Hester blew out the candle, so that the room was in complete darkness. She waited for her eyes to get used to the change, then slowly began to make out the shape of the duke, and the bellpull.

She went slowly toward the bed and reached for the pull, hesitating for a moment as she looked down at the slumbering duke.

He shifted again, rolling toward her and exposing his powerful shoulder.

With a gulp, she yanked on the bellpull, then hurried from the room as quickly and quietly as she could.

When she was gone, Adrian Fitzwalter opened his eyes and smiled.

The next morning, Adrian sank onto the stone garden bench that was as cold and hard as his stepmother’s heart and stretched out his left leg. His limb was very sore, and although he believed Mapleton when he said that the wound was not dangerous, Adrian couldn’t help wondering when the devil he would be recovered enough to leave here, or at least go riding.

Still, he might as well take some time to enjoy the garden, seen far too little of late, and bask in the warmth of an unseasonably mild autumn day.

He slowly surveyed the flower beds, walks and shrubbery. His stepmother had been busy here, or busy giving orders at any rate. Very little of his mother’s garden remained. All was now formal and, to his mind, lacking any sense of natural beauty. He wondered what his father would have made of the change, and then decided that thought was a foolish one. His father would have said nothing, no matter what he felt. He had always been reserved.

Far too reserved, except on that one memorable occasion.

As for the “improvements” Adrian did not like, his stepmother could not live forever. When she died, he would put it all as it had been before his mother had passed away when he was ten years old, and his life had changed forever.

Perhaps it had not been wise to come to Bar-roughby, with all its memories. He should have remained in London, at least until Christmas, and braved this latest scandal, too.

Adrian forced himself to concentrate on the scent of the roses, and tried not to remember Elizabeth Howell’s tear-streaked face or the little body of her infant, robbed of life after a few short gasps, lying in the wooden cradle beside the narrow, filthy bed.

He leaned forward and rubbed his temples, as if he could rub out the memories. He had done all he could, knowing full well he could never make up for the loss of her honor, her happiness or her child.