The Duke I Once Knew Page 3

  Stepping to her side, Abby glanced out at the expanse of manicured greenery to the rear of the house. Since Rothwell Court sprawled on a low hill, the garden was terraced with wide steps leading down from one large section to the next. It featured stone pathways and geometric beds of pink and yellow roses, along with a variety of other blooming bushes. A fountain with the statue of a mermaid formed the centerpiece. There were arches hung with crimson roses and stone benches where one might sit and enjoy the flowers—though not today when a steady drizzle had soaked everything.

  Beyond the formal gardens, mist hazed the hills of the parkland. The blue of a lake could be glimpsed past groves of beech and oak, as could the roof of a faux Greek temple beside the water. Discreetly out of sight were the many tenant farms that provided income to the estate.

  A memory disturbed her. It had been on such a damp day that Mama had been thrown from her horse in the woods close to where her family’s small property adjoined the vast ducal lands. The fall had left her partially crippled and dependent upon the assistance of her youngest—and only unmarried—daughter. Abby had been sixteen, barely older than Lady Gwendolyn was now. She shuddered to imagine the girl suffering such a terrible accident.

  “I’m afraid your ride will have to be postponed,” Abby said. “The grass looks too wet and the trails will be muddy.”

  “Not even if I promise to hold Pixie to a walk? And if we go only to the lake and back?”

  It was the first time she had ever heard a plea from Lady Gwendolyn. The girl usually obeyed instructions without question.

  She looked so disappointed that Abby slid an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, darling, but you might catch a chill—or come to other harm. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  The girl smiled uncertainly. Abby knew that an embrace—however swift it might be—was overstepping her bounds as a servant. But it seemed a foolish rule when Lady Gwendolyn was so clearly starved for affection. The girl wasn’t used to being hugged by scores of nieces and nephews and other assorted relations as Abby was. Lady Gwendolyn lived virtually alone in this great house. Aside from the staff, she had only her aging aunt for company, and Lady Hester spent most of her time pottering in the garden.

  Of course, the wicked Duke of Rothwell never deigned to visit his sister and aunt. The rogue was too busy with his lecheries in London.

  Loath to dwell on ill thoughts, Abby said, “It’s time for you to write your daily essay. Afterward, you may go down to the stables and see Pixie.”

  Gwendolyn went willingly to the writing desk beside the window, sat down, and reached for a quill, holding it poised over the silver ink pot. “Please, what shall my topic be?”

  Since she still looked woebegone, Abby decided upon an easy assignment. “Perhaps you could write about what you see on your daily rides about the estate, including the farms.”

  “But I’ve never seen them.”

  “You haven’t ever visited any of the tenants?”

  The girl shook her head. “Miss Herrington preferred the parkland trails.”

  Abby found that to be remiss. Someday, when Lady Gwendolyn married, it would be her duty to provide care and comfort to all the inhabitants of her husband’s estate. “Then pray write in detail about whatever else it is you see on your rides. Make sure you use specific nouns and adjectives as we discussed earlier. I shall expect a minimum of five pages.”

  “May I write about Pixie, too? And include the stables?”

  Seeing Lady Gwendolyn’s dove-gray eyes alight gave Abby the odd sense of peering through a blurry window into the past. Although softer and more delicate, the girl’s features were a feminine version of her elder brother’s.

  Shaking off the disturbing observation, she said, “Yes, you may. In the meantime, I’ll look in the library for some books on the Roman occupation of ancient Britain for our history lesson.”

  As the girl dipped her pen into the inkwell and began to write, Abby headed out of the morning room and walked with swift, springing steps down a long corridor. She was pleased to see Lady Gwendolyn beginning to emerge from her shell. The girl had an inquisitive mind that only wanted a bit of nurturing. Abby felt confident the girl could benefit from her instruction.

  Proceeding along another passage, she absorbed the beauty of gilt and marble, the frescoes on the high ceiling. The walls featured soaring pillars, shell sconces, and classical busts on pedestals. She glided past room after room filled with exquisite fittings that were seldom used anymore. It had taken her most of the week to learn her way around the place.

  On her first day here, Lady Gwendolyn had taken Abby on a tour of the mansion, which had been built by the girl’s grandfather, the eighth duke. They’d spent an entire morning tramping through cavernous drawing rooms, formal apartments, sitting rooms, and galleries. Holland cloth swathed the furniture in dozens of bedchambers in both wings. The ballroom was so vast that it seemed all of Linton House surely must fit into it.

  In the previous duke’s time, there had been frequent parties, especially during the long summer months when the nobility escaped the heat of London. Abby had liked to watch from a hidden vantage point in the woods. Purloining an old spyglass that had belonged to one of her brothers, she’d gawked at the ladies and gentlemen promenading in the gardens. And she had dreamed of someday having the chance to enter the ducal palace.

  Her wish had been granted, though not in quite the manner she had envisioned as a romantic girl, when she had known the young scion of the ducal dynasty. But there was no sense in dwelling on regrettable ancient history when she meant to enjoy her stay here.

  Her family had been distraught when she’d returned to gather her belongings the previous week. While packing, she had been subjected to more pleas and scolding from her sisters and brothers. Clifford in particular had been critical and angry, although he could hardly forbid her.

  She was, after all, fast approaching the venerable old age of thirty.

  The memory of their disapproval brought a lump to her throat. Having always been the nurturer and peacemaker, Abby felt uncomfortable in the role of rebel. She thought about her family often, and wondered if Freddie had overcome his colic, if Lucille had reminded Clifford to take his gout medication, if James had found someone else to copy over his sermons. If only they could understand that although she loved them dearly, she yearned to see beyond the cloistered existence that had constituted her life until now.

  As she descended a side staircase, the air had a hushed stillness, the only sound the tapping of her shoes on the marble steps. Before going to the library, she had one detour to make in answer to a summons delivered earlier by a footman.

  The rich scent of loam enveloped her as she entered the conservatory. A light rain pattered on the domed glass roof, and the fronds of several tall palm trees brushed the high panes. On this chilly day, smudge pots with glowing coals kept the large room noticeably warmer than the rest of the house. A jungle of exotic plants filled the air with their pleasant perfumes.

  At the far end of the tropical paradise knelt a stooped brown figure. Abby made her way toward the gnome, who was humming tunelessly while digging in the dirt. “Good afternoon, Lady Hester.”

  The rotund woman swiveled on her knees, and a clod fell from her trowel onto the slate floor. A russet turban sat askew on a mop of wild gray curls. She squinted her nearsighted blue eyes. “Hallo?”

  Abby dipped a curtsy. “It’s the new governess, my lady.”

  “Ah! You’re one of the Linton daughters, I recollect.”

  As the elderly woman struggled to her feet, Abby lent her a hand. “Yes, I’m Abby, the youngest.”

  “Indeed! Your mama and I were launched the same season. Margaret married, but I never did, thank goodness. I vow, I should far rather manage a garden than a husband!” Cackling, Lady Hester attempted to brush the dirt off her soiled gloves. “I must say, ’twas a gift from heaven when you arrived last week. I was at my wit’s end trying
to keep dear Gwen entertained. Why, the cheek of Miss Herrington, to run off on scarcely a moment’s notice!”

  “I daresay she had little choice since she’d received word of a family crisis.”

  “Crisis, bah! It was more likely she went off with her lover. She was forever with her nose poked in one of those marble-covered gothic novels—and receiving missives from who knows whom!”

  “Perhaps from one of her relatives?”

  “Oh, I think not. I know the look of a woman in love. These past few weeks, she was all starry eyes and silly smiles.” As she spoke, Lady Hester tenderly stroked a stalk of striking purple flowers. “Now, what do you think of my most magnificent plant?”

  “It’s lovely.” Abby spoke absently, still a bit startled by the woman’s assessment of Miss Herrington’s departure. “Is that a lady’s slipper?”

  “Oh, nothing so common! Rather, this is a dendrobium orchid from the wilds of Malaysia. It has taken me a full year to coax it into bloom. Should you ever wish to purchase one yourself, I highly recommend contacting Loddiges Nursery in London.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Abby desired to be polite, but conscious of the time, she prompted, “You summoned me?”

  “Did I? Hmm, I seem to recall there was something important I needed to tell you.” Frowning, Lady Hester wiped her gloved hands on her apron, leaving dark streaks on the white linen. “Oh, fiddle, it has slipped my mind, so it cannot be of any great importance. But it shall come to me in due course, you may be sure of that!”

  “Might it concern Lady Gwendolyn’s studies?”

  “Goodness, no. I should rather leave all that to you, my dear. I haven’t the least interest in such dull faradiddle. Have you seen my trowel?”

  Her gaze had been darting around in perplexity, so Abby picked up the implement from the floor. “Here it is.”

  “How very obliging, Miss Linton. Such a delight that you’ve come to stay with us. By the way, have I mentioned that I remember seeing you here fifteen years ago?”

  “Here, my lady? I’d never been in this house until recently.”

  “I meant outdoors. I was in the garden tending the roses on the day of Cordelia’s funeral, and I saw you meet my nephew at the edge of the woods. The poor lad was distraught over his mama’s death, and you were patting his hand and talking to him. You struck me as a kind, warmhearted girl.”

  Lady Hester turned back around to fuss with her prize orchid. The resumption of her happy humming signaled the end of the conversation.

  Abby walked slowly out of the conservatory. She was stunned to learn she had been spotted with Max. Except for that one time, they’d always taken care to rendezvous at their secret glade in the forest, away from judgmental eyes that would disapprove of the ducal heir befriending a provincial nobody.

  Well. What did it matter, really, after all these years?

  Absolutely nothing.

  After the abrupt departure of Max and his family on the day following the funeral, she had come to a slow, painful epiphany about his true nature. The tales of his wild debaucheries had trickled back from London. His wicked exploits were fodder for the local gossip mill, his sins so boundless that it was doubtful he even remembered the girl he’d met one summer in his youth.

  Nevertheless, during her interview for the post of governess, Abby had taken care to convince Lady Hester not to solicit his permission in writing. His aunt had been so keen to escape back to her garden that she’d readily agreed that he wouldn’t mind his sister being tutored by a woman who hailed from a local family of excellent repute. The subterfuge was harmless, Abby reasoned. The Duke of Rothwell probably didn’t even care to know the name of his sister’s governess, anyway.

  But there was no sense courting trouble.

  Her confidence high, she headed down another passageway to the library. There, she stepped inside the spacious room and breathed in the blissful scent of books. The masculine décor featured wine-red walls, a large writing desk, and a number of mahogany tables with cabriole legs and ball-and-claw feet. A globe of the world sat atop a carved pedestal.

  She would have loved to curl up in one of the leather chairs to read. But if she didn’t hurry, Lady Gwendolyn would wonder at her long absence.

  The task of finding one particular work among thousands of volumes was daunting. In perusing the shelves, however, she realized that the books were arranged by subject matter. There were sections devoted to botany, philosophy, mathematics, biographies, languages, poetry, and literature.

  In a far corner of the room, she discovered the history books. The shelves at eye level abounded with familiar titles, including all thirteen volumes of Hume’s History of England. The lower shelves held studies of the ancient classical world.

  Given the gloominess of the day, Abby had to crouch down in order to read the tooled-leather spines. Here were Virgil, Cicero, Gibbon’s Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. She was particularly thrilled to discover a new series, The History of England: From the First Invasion by the Romans to the Accession of Henry VIII. How Papa would have loved to have read it!

  Just as she pulled out volume one, the approach of voices out in the corridor penetrated her absorption. She paid little heed at first. In so large an establishment, the servants waged an endless war against dust and tarnish. She had heard an earful of laments on the topic from the housekeeper, Mrs. Jeffries, a righteous woman who had been pleased to welcome the vicar’s sister into the household and hadn’t needed much coaxing to sit down for a cozy chat over a pot of tea and a plate of Cook’s plum cake.

  Abby had made a point to befriend her fellow employees. Although she had been born to the gentry, it was not in her nature to lord over those of lesser birth. She liked hearing their stories, learning about their lives, partaking in their joys and their sorrows. Most people just wanted someone to listen to them.

  The voices grew louder. A man and a woman.

  As they entered the library, the click of the closing door sharpened her attention. Servants had no need of privacy while they tended to their duties. She quickly noticed two anomalies to their conversation: the flirty tone of it and also their use of the refined speech of the upper class.

  “Have we given them the slip?” It was a lady’s voice, high-pitched and frolicsome. “Oh, darling, I do believe we’re alone at last.”

  “So it would seem. Though it is hardly good manners for the host to disappear and leave his guests to fend for themselves.”

  “Then perhaps you should find a way to entertain at least one of your guests.”

  A deep chuckle resounded. “I’m always happy to oblige a lady.”

  That voice.

  A bone-deep shiver suffused Abby. She knew that caressing male baritone. It came straight out of the vault of the past. It had figured in her dreams at a time when she had been young and vulnerable.

  Max.

  No. No, it could not be him. It simply was not possible. Except for a brief visit to bury his father a decade ago, Rothwell had not set foot in this house in fifteen years. Nor had anyone mentioned an imminent visit. Surely Lady Gwendolyn or his aunt would have been all atwitter over such a rare event.

  Panic scrambled Abby’s thoughts. Her heart thumped so hard she felt light-headed and short of breath. She was mistaken. She must have misheard an exchange between servants. Her mind was playing tricks only because she had thought of him recently for the first time in ages.

  And yet …

  Still in a crouch, she turned around only to find that a large table blocked her view. She raised her head ever so slowly to peek over the edge.

  At the opposite end of the library, a couple stood locked in a passionate embrace. The woman was a ravishing creature with blond curls, a shapely figure in a cream gown, and pale arms that were entwined like twin vipers around the man’s neck. His hair looked thick and dark and attractively tousled. He was facing away from Abby, so that she could see only broad shoulders in a claret-colored coat, and powerful legs in form-fitting buck
skins and black boots.

  She had a moment’s giddy respite. It wasn’t him. He was not the boy of her memory. This man looked too muscular, too self-assured, too potently masculine. Her Max had been gangly and awkward.

  Then he turned slightly, his hand supporting the woman’s back as he lowered her onto one of the library tables. Leaning over her, he traced his fingertip along the generous bosom revealed by her scandalously low décolletage. He muttered something in a jesting tone, something that made his lover playfully slap at his chest.

  In that instant, Abby had a clear view of his profile. Her brief hope shattered under a jolt of reality. She would know those distinctively handsome features anywhere.

  It was Max.

  He was really here.

  She melted back down out of sight. Another tremor rippled through her. Thank goodness for the concealment of the table and this shadowed corner. It wouldn’t do to be spotted by him, not when her thoughts reeled in a tizzy.

  What on earth had brought him back to the Court without any notice to his family or the staff?

  The answer didn’t signify. All that mattered was that he had come. And he had brought one of his lightskirts with him. Or perhaps more than one, for according to their conversation, there were other guests in his party. Abby envisioned a harem of trollops fluttering and fawning, fulfilling his every whim.

  She shook her head to dislodge the distasteful image. One thing was certain. He had changed utterly over the years, in both appearance and in character. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him at first. She hadn’t seen Max since he’d been sixteen to her fifteen.

  No, not Max.

  He was the Duke of Rothwell now. The boy she had once loved was gone forever. Perhaps he’d never really existed. His warmth, his tenderness, had all been a sham. That long-ago summer, he had been practicing his wiles on a naïve girl in preparation for the more sophisticated temptations of London.