Dukes to Fall in Love With: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  “Thank you,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “Well, perhaps we have had conversation enough for this evening,” he said and seemed to have come to a very sudden decision.

  Isabella thought that they could not have been in the drawing room together for anything close to the two hours she had been expecting and wondered why he suddenly wanted to put an end to it.

  “As you wish,” she said and hoped she sounded neutral.

  She did not want to sound as if she was keen to escape his company. In truth, she was not altogether keen to run away. The Duke had been pleasant enough and their conversation more open than she had expected if a little awkward at times.

  He turned a little from her and looked towards the empty fire grate. Isabella rose uncertainly to her feet.

  “Should I leave?” she said quietly.

  “Yes, perhaps that would be for the best this evening.” She thought he sounded sad.

  “Then I shall bid you goodnight, Elliot.”

  “Goodnight, Isabella.”

  Chapter 7

  “My Dearest Esme,

  How relieved I am to be able to write you this letter. In the days before my departure from Upperton, I wondered if I would ever be able to correspond with you again.

  Let me first tell you that I am quite safe. Yes, I am now married to the Duke of Coldwell, and I am not content in that. But I am safe.

  You will have discerned that I did not make my escape to Ireland. Anthony had found the sailing timetable and watched me so closely that he caught me trying to leave in the middle of the night. I shall not write here what my father did to punish me. It need not be said.

  But he would not allow me to see or write to you after that time, judging that it was you who had helped me to plan the thing.

  My wedding day was quite the most uncomfortable. When I set eyes upon the Duke’s face, I am sorry to say that my courage and good manners departed, and I fainted away like a frightened child.

  In looks, the Duke is, indeed, a monster. Although I am bound to say that he is not in manners or personality. He is a man of some poise and thoughtfulness; at least, that is what I know of him thus far.

  I cannot say I yet know him well, nor have I looked upon his face since the day of our wedding. I have only to meet with him every evening for two hours. During that time, we talk in a very gloomy lamplight. The time of our meeting is adjusted daily, and I have come to realize that this is to accommodate for the ever lightening days as spring progresses.

  Furthermore, the Duke arranges things so that I might only look upon the side of his face which is not disfigured. The perfect left side of his face. And it is perfect, Esme. What a handsome man he might be but for the scars.

  And they are quite dreadful, my dear, so ruinous.

  I must admit myself relieved to discover that I have a good many freedoms here at Coldwell Hall. I am allowed to spend my days as I see fit and have even ridden around the estate on horseback, which I greatly enjoyed.

  The Hall is more like a castle, although not fully such. I mean that there are many architectural features which remind one of a fairy tale place or a medieval stronghold. It is a fine and impressive building, and the estate of Coldwell could hold Upperton within its walls almost ten times over.

  And it is not the dilapidated place that we two always imagined it to be in the telling of our stories. At least not all of it, but I shall return to that point later.

  The Hall and grounds are very well cared for, and there are so many servants here that I cannot think I have yet met but half of them.

  They are all pleasant and accommodating, and I have a most motherly, kindly lady’s maid. Her name is Kitty, and she is a little advanced in years for the task, but I like her very much, and she is exceptional in all ways.

  There, I have given you the bare bones of the thing. Enough, I hope, that you are not fearing I have been locked away in a dungeon by an evil monster.

  I have met with my husband every evening of the week I have now been here and find that I am growing accustomed to our meetings. I do not dread them as I did at first and can only hope that we shall be able to manage to live in this way contentedly.

  It certainly does not seem that he would wish for my presence any longer than the two hours and would, I am sure, actively avoid me at all other times.

  I only say so because of something which happened yesterday. Something so strange that I can hardly wait to write it all down.

  I had been intent upon a walk through the woodlands on the estate. They are vast and beautiful, and they form the greater extent of the vista from the windows of my own chamber.

  I had taken a very central path into the woods, for there are many, and was so enthralled by the beauty and the fresh air. It was so quiet, so peaceful, with nothing but the birdsong to accompany my silent footsteps.

  And so, when a figure suddenly appeared in front of me as I took a sharp turn in my path, I almost screamed. It was none other than my husband, and it appeared that he was as surprised by our meeting as was I.

  He stood stock still for a moment, and we were face to face. I had not seen his face in its entirety since the day of our wedding, and I am afraid to say that the horror of it struck me afresh. However, I am pleased to report that I maintained a level countenance and most certainly did not faint this time.

  As soon as the Duke came to his senses, he turned his head sharply away, leaving only his unmarked skin on view. And, at that moment, I felt most dreadfully sorry for him.

  He has asked me from the first not to pity him in any way, and I have tried not to do so. But at that moment, I could not help it. I was so struck by the idea that it must be a terrible thing not to walk freely about for fear of coming face to face with another. I thought how very limiting it must be, and I knew precisely how I would feel if it were my life and not his.

  And I felt so sad and desolate that I could not speak. We simply stood there in the most terrible silence, and I could not think what I should do.

  I continued to look at him, and I could see such a look of pain in his countenance, in the shining beauty of the one green eye I could see, that I wanted to cry. I felt I had caused it somehow, you see. Finally, at the moment when my mouth had opened as if ready to speak, the Duke turned entirely and continued on his way, not having spoken a single word to me. I turned cautiously to watch his departing back and saw that he did not look back once in my direction.

  He was striding quickly, that much I could discern, and I felt almost that he had wished to be away from me even more than I might have wished to be away from him. I felt so low that I wanted to call out after him, to give chase and tell him that I would not expect him to be a prisoner within his own four walls, never now coming out into his own beautiful grounds for fear of happening upon his wife by daylight.

  But of course, I did not. I could not do so for I knew that I had been truly shocked, once again, to see the angry red and silver skin.

  In the end, there was nothing for it but for me to continue along my path. I no longer felt at peace, and the birdsong did not sound as sweet to me as it had just moments before.

  Although not a word passed between us, I felt as if a good deal of meaning truly had. I still cannot say what that meaning is and further still cannot explain why it is that it has affected me so and made me feel so melancholy.

  I continued to walk, determined to shake off the feeling if I could. The woods are so vast, and I decided to walk into them until I was tired, anything to replace the feeling of sadness.

  After more than twenty minutes, the woodlands suddenly opened up into a little clearing. It was quite surprising to come upon the clearing in such a way. And not only that, but there was a building there, an aged stone building.

  I realized immediately that it was a building that I can see the very top of from the window of my chamber, a building which had greatly intrigued me for many days prior.

  It was a curious shape and in such a curious place. It
was a rounded tower, but not a slim one. Its circumference was wide and the tower itself very tall, its castellated uppermost reaches breaking out through the highest branches of the trees above.

  I studied the stone and realized that it was much darker and older than that of Coldwell Hall itself. I deduced that the broader tower had been in position much longer than the hall. It did feel very medieval, and I wondered if it served a larger building or castle that might have been there before on the site.

  I must admit, my musings greatly intrigued me and diverted me from my sadness. I began to imagine knights in armour and horses and men with bows and arrows standing high upon the battlements of the tower.

  I wandered here and there, trying to find footings of an older building, long fallen to the ground, but I could find none.

  In the end, I turned my attention back to the tower itself. There was a wide, heavy wooden door to it, and I approached in hopes of gaining entry. The tower was largely covered in a thick growth of ivy which snaked its way around the walls and seemed to have climbed into some of the narrow slits which served as windows however many hundred years ago. I looked up and imagined a bowman peering out before carefully aiming an arrow at the heart of an approaching intruder.

  It is true to say that my imagination still runs wild, my dear Esme, just as it did when we were children. But it is such a place, the estate of Coldwell Hall. Seeming to be so cut off from the world, its thick foliage and spiky hawthorns every bit as defensive as a moat and bailey. And yet, once inside, it is easy to find oneself quite enchanted.

  And that is it, Esme. That is exactly how I felt looking up at the tower in the middle of the woods. Enchanted.

  As I approached the great wooden door, I could see that it was in a poor state of repair. It was old, certainly, and eaten away to some degree also. I pulled it gently towards me and made my way cautiously inside.

  It was surprisingly light inside the tower, given that the windows were so very narrow. But there were many of them, you see, and the tower itself was so wide that it was a good deal brighter than I would have imagined.

  I looked up, thinking that I would easily be able to see right to the top. However, there was a stone ceiling above me, a platform, and stairs of a spiral nature leading up from the other side of the room.

  A breeze blew the door a little, and it began to close, not altogether, just an inch or so. I turned to look at it and could see that it was blackened. I then looked a little more closely around and could see that the stone walls were not simply dark, but that they were blackened also.

  There was much debris on the floor, although it was impossible to tell exactly what it was. I picked my way around it and headed for the spiral staircase. As I put my foot on the bottom step and looked upwards, I could see that the walls there were greatly blackened too.

  In fact, it was very black at the bottom but seemed to lighten as it progressed. Nothing more than the purest curiosity led me to take a few more steps, although I wish now that I had not.

  I could see that I was within reach of the first platform and decided to make my way to it. I continued up the steps and walked cautiously into the round-walled room.

  Instantly, I could see that the place had been set up well, although everything within was old and somewhat blackened. It looked to me as if it had been played in by children more than anything. It was not set as a living abode as such, but it had many little comforts in it.

  There was an old armchair on the far side of the room, much eaten by moths and layered with dust. There was a small wooden table, very much in the same state of repair as the chair, and it lay on its side in the middle of the room.

  As I walked around, I began to realize that this tower must surely, at some point in its history, have been on fire. The very idea made me shudder, and I instantly thought of my husband’s scarring. That he has been burned is very clear to me. I could not help thinking that he must have been burned in this place, in this tower in which I now stood.

  I wanted to leave; I desperately wanted to leave, but I could not. Something urged me further on into the room, to make my way across and look more closely. It was then that I saw it and almost gasped. There, just at the foot of the ruined armchair lay a doll. Its clothing was ruined and tattered, as was its hair, but its porcelain face was curiously without a crack, dirty but otherwise perfect, staring up at me blindly through the brightest hand-painted blue eyes.

  The whole scene gave me the most awful sense of fear and sadness, and I was struck by an urge to suddenly run away. I hastened back to the mouth of the spiral staircase and, in my haste, almost pitched forward and fell. I steadied myself but was greatly shaken.

  Managing to gather my nerve, I walked slowly and carefully down the steps and back into the ground room.

  I looked again at the walls and felt sure that the fire, whenever it had taken place, must surely have started there. The walls were so black and the debris, as I have already said, unrecognizable. Perhaps the flames could not make their way so easily up the spiral staircase, finding nothing but cold stone; stone that the fire could not feed upon.

  When I left the tower and pushed the door closed, I felt very relieved. I wanted to escape the dark feelings and race out through the woodland.

  I hurried and put much distance between myself and the tower in a few short minutes and, when I finally regained the morning room and its safety, I was truly relieved at last.

  It is only now as I write that I link my meeting with the Duke on that path and the smoke-blackened tower. Surely, Esme, he must have come from that place? Or at least walked past it on his way back towards the Hall.

  Was that why I had seen such a look of sadness on his face? Could it have been a visit to the tower which had given him such an air of desolation that I could almost feel it? After all, he has already told me himself that he has lived long enough with his injuries that he is not so affected anymore by the repulsion of others.

  Really, I cannot get to the bottom of it at all, and all that there is left for me to do is to await this evening’s customary meeting in the drawing-room.

  I cannot lie; I am made very nervous by the prospect. I feel now as if I have intruded in some way, happened upon something I do not quite understand. And, despite the Duke telling me that I am free to move about where I wish, I cannot escape the feeling that I have made an error in visiting the tower.

  I shall end now and tell you in my next letter how it all progresses. It is my sincerest wish that you are well and happy and that you shall find time to return my little correspondence. I miss you more than I can tell.

  With much love,

  Isabella.”

  Chapter 8

  In the end, Isabella had not seen Elliot in the drawing room that evening. Kitty sombrely brought her the news that His Grace was a little unwell and had thought to cancel their meeting that evening lest he part with some germ or other that would bring her low.

  “Oh dear,” Isabella said, not believing the explanation for a moment. “I do hope he is soon recovered.”

  “I’m sure he shall be.” And for all world, Kitty looked a little uncomfortable.

  At that moment, Isabella was certain that the Duke was not ill and, what was more, she suspected that Kitty knew it very well. She fought hard against a desire to ask, to see if she could shed some light on the thing.

  Of course, the idea that the Duke might well be suffering some sort of melancholy could not be avoided entirely. She drew to mind the look on his face and the blackened walls of the old tower. More than anything, she wanted to ask Kitty about the tower. And yet things were still so new, she had been there but a week, and she knew she could not be so bold as to request such information.

  Also, Isabella could not escape the feeling that she had, in some way, added to his misery. Perhaps he regretted allowing her the free run of the place. He might even have assumed that she would not go so far as to enter the tower, or maybe he had not even thought of it. If only she were
not so in the dark about it all; if only she had at least enough information to avoid causing any sort of offence or upset in the future.

  After all, she still had not settled entirely, despite her determinedly cheerful tone in her letter to Esme, and she did not want to add to that feeling by blundering into making a mistake.

  “Is the Duke not to take any dinner at all?” she said, wondering if he might truly be unwell.

  “I think it likely that he will take a little something in his room later, Your Grace.”

  “Then I am to amuse myself,” Isabella said with a smile. “Perhaps I will take my own meal in the dining room tonight instead of sitting here in this room. Do you think that that would be possible, Kitty?”