The Dark Duke. Margaret Moore
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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.
“My dear duchess! How distressed you must be!”
Adrian turned his head so swiftly in the direction of the main drawing room that a pain shot through his neck.
It was the Reverend Canon Lyton Smeech, the vicar of the local church. He had held that living for several years at the discretion of the duchess, and apparently he still felt beholden enough to fawn over the woman.
Adrian heard another feminine voice murmur a greeting, and thought he recognized it as Hester Pimblett’s.
A rare smile crossed his face. A most surprising young woman, Hester. Outwardly so timid and demure, obedient and pliable. But only outwardly, for it took no small inner strength to ignore his stepmother, and no small courage to enter the Dark Duke’s bedchamber, even if he was ostensibly asleep, given his reputation as a lascivious libertine.
Well, perhaps not courage. Perhaps nothing more than feminine curiosity. Or a passionate nature beneath the self-effacing facade.
He rose slowly. He had met that type of woman before, the kind who used the trap of sweet modesty to get a jaded cad’s attention. Once he got her alone, she would say they were acting most improperly, all the while pressing her lithe, shapely body against his. It was hypocrisy at its finest, and he knew hypocrisy very well indeed.
Another voice responded, that of a younger man. He wasn’t aware of any visitors expected today, which was not surprising really, considering his hostile relationship with the duchess. Who could it be?
Maybe it was someone to be avoided, like the Reverend Canon Smeech. Or maybe it was a gentleman with some interest in the quiet Lady Hester. There was a fascinating course of speculation, and one worthy of further investigation, if for no other reason than to provide some necessary distraction.
Adrian smiled grimly as he limped into the house.
“A, um, most trying surprise for you, I’m sure, Your Grace, the Reverend Canon Sraeech intoned pityingly.
“Nobody knows how I suffer,” the duchess responded plaintively. “Hester,” she snapped in an aside to her companion, “I need my fan!”
Hester, seated in a small chair to the right and slightly behind the duchess’s sofa, reached forward with the necessary article. The canon strolled to the windows, and Hester smiled at the curate who had arrived with the august clergyman, Reverend Hamish McKenna, who was looking decidedly uncomfortable. Whether it was because he was overwhelmed by the magnificence of his surroundings or not sure how to respond to the robust duchess’s claims of illness, Hester wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, he managed to smile briefly in response.
“Yes, nobody knows how I suffer!” the duchess continued. “Another scandal! The name of Fitzwaiter—which my son also possesses!—dragged in the mud. What is a mother to do?”
“Perhaps if you spoke with the duke,” Reverend McKenna offered gently, his Scots accent giving his words a slight burr.
The duchess looked startled, and Reverend Canon Smeech gave his curate a censorious look.
“It was merely a suggestion,” the reverend said helplessly.
“An inappropriate one,” the canon replied. “The duchess has no wish or need to sully herself by contact with the duke.”
Hester couldn’t help feeling sorry for Reverend McKenna. It wouldn’t be easy working with Reverend Canon Smeech, who was the type of clergyman who clearly considered the few needs of the wealthy of his parish first and foremost, and left the bulk of the work to his assistant.
“Did I hear someone mention the duke?” the nobleman asked as he strolled into the room.
Reverend McKenna rose in greeting, the duchess frowned and the canon bowed. “Your Grace,” he said with a smile. “We were not expecting you.”
“So I gather,” the duke noted as he continued toward the sofa and seated himself beside his stepmother. “We meet again, Canon Smeech.”
The duchess inched away as if the duke had a disease, Hester noted.
She also noted that he looked quite rested, his leg apparently caused him no trouble, his hair was considerably more tidy than the last time she had seen him, his clothes fit to perfection, and he didn’t seem to notice she was there.
Which should not be surprising or cause for dismay.
“My -lord, allow me to present Reverend Hamish McKenna, my curate, “the older clergyman said with an obsequious bow, and Hester had to stifle a smile. Obviously the poor canon didn’t want to offend either the duke or the duchess. “Your stepmother was telling us of your, ah, wound.”
“Was she?” he asked lightly. “Must have been a short discourse, since I have told her so little about it. Please sit down, Smeech. You, too, Reverend McKenna.”
Reverend Canon Smeech blushed at the duke’s lack of courtesy, and so did Hamish McKenna, from the roots of his red hair to the bottom of his freckled chin, as he sat on a chair opposite Hester, who gave him a warm and understanding smile. The duke’s overpowering presence was enough to cast a pall over the most mundane of conversations, a fact brought forcefully home when he glanced at her. He made her feel as if she had suddenly been put on display at the Crystal. Palace.
Adrian looked from Lady Hester, wearing the plainest of blue gowns and seated like some quiet little serving maid beside his stepmother, to the blushing young clergyman. Were they ordaining children these days? Surely this fellow was far too young to be in orders, Adrian thought, until Reverend McKenna smiled at Hester. Not so very young, after all. And what was he to make of her, so cool and composed? “I trust you slept well, Lady Hester?” Adrian asked.
“Quite well,” she replied with equanimity. “Did you?”
“Yes,” he replied, somewhat nonplussed. He began to wonder if he had imagined last night, when he thought she had come into his bedroom. Or maybe he had been dreaming, and he had pulled the bell rope to summon James, who had been dispatched to fetch his master a drink to soothe his restless sleep.
They all sat in awkward silence for several minutes, and Adrian did nothing to lessen the tension. He was well aware his stepmother was bursting to speak