The Duke's Heartbreaking Secret: Historical Regency Romance

by Kate Carteret

  And all she wanted to do as she held him was to provide that same comfort in return. She wanted to hold him tightly, to keep him tethered to this earth and lend him whatever strength she had. Whatever strength he might need to get through the unknown.

  “Forgive me.” He whispered into her hair, his breath warm and strangely sensual given the moment.

  “There is nothing to forgive.” She said in a whisper, her eyes closed as she enjoyed what she knew to be the last moment of their embrace.

  And when he let go of her finally, Anabelle felt truly bereft.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Some days later, when Giles was making his way to the home of Lord Newfield for an invitation to dinner he had accepted, he felt strangely relieved.

  The last days since he had gone into Anabelle’s chamber so improperly had been intense and filled with wildly swinging thoughts and feelings; thoughts he did not want to deal with.

  They were thoughts of Anabelle, and not even a small part of them could be confused with his care and concern of Lucy.

  In fact, in terms of Lucy, Giles had brightened considerably. Having spent a good deal of time in the last days with his sister, he was sure he had seen positive changes.

  Lucy spoke whole sentences which not only made sense, but were current to whatever situation she was in. She answered questions about her preferences in food and books and she had answered them simply and accurately, not confusing her words with those about sunshine and the frightening man.

  And he had stayed long enough to see her eat, swearing silently to himself that he could see her old color and health returning. She would soon be that beautiful, innocent, round-faced young woman again.

  However, it was true that she had also disappeared into her own mind more than once, despite his determination to only see the good.

  But there was still progress and he had been lifted by it.

  And yet, despite this progress and the reconciliation of himself and Anabelle, Giles had not re-instated the idea of their daily evening meetings. He had known all along that he was wading into dangerous waters with such a thing; he knew he could not trust himself to keep the relationship between them that of master and employee.

  It was his deep feeling for Anabelle which was causing him disquiet now; would he never be free from cares?

  And so it was that he relished the idea of an evening in the company of two people he could not have cared less about if he tried. He was even quietly grateful to Lord Newfield for the invitation which had followed hard on the heels of their dinner at Westward and followed with inappropriate speed.

  The poor Baron; he could seemingly do nothing to temper himself and hide his desperation.

  When his carriage drew up outside Newfield Hall, Giles smiled to himself. Why had they not called it Newfield House? For that was surely what it was.

  A very old, very fine manor house. It was large, it was true, and the land was extensive. But it was not a hall. It was nothing like a hall.

  Already his disdain was making him feel better. Giles enjoyed the sensation of being on old and familiar ground. Solid ground where he silently passed judgment on people he didn’t like. Safe ground where he was not falling in love with anybody, least of all Miss Constance Newfield.

  The butler greeted him at the door and showed him to the drawing room where he was grandly announced.

  “Ah, Your Grace, do come in.” Lord Newfield said spreading his arms wide to reveal his ever-expanding waistline. “Pour His Grace a sherry.” He said to the butler in a tone that was so flat and different from the one the Duke had been greeted with that Lord Newfield almost sounded like two different men.

  Would they ever stop trying to impress him with their imperious behavior? No wonder Constance thought that sharp treatment of the servants was acceptable. She had no doubt learned it from her ambitious father.

  Giles had a sudden image of himself trying to treat Mrs Arklow in the same way and almost laughed when he imagined her clipping him hard around the ear just as she had done so many times when he was a boy. And he was a Duke, not a Baron at the lower end of the aristocracy.

  “You look very well this evening, Miss Newfield.” Giles said, and it was true.

  Constance was wearing yet another of her famously low-necked gowns, this time in a rich russet color which reminded him of autumn. Instead of wearing white gloves, this time she wore gloves which matched her gown, long russet -colored gloves in a soft buckskin material. She was nothing if not absolutely up-to-the-minute.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She said demurely and tipped her head, her eyes closing to self-satisfied slits.

  “She is a beautiful young woman, is she not, Your Grace?” Lord Newfield said boldly as if the evening heralded something of an assured future for his daughter.

  “Of course.” Giles said, and smiled briefly. “Thank you.” He said to the rather surprised looking butler when the man handed him a well filled glass of sherry. “Very kind.”

  If nothing else, he would teach these two overindulged heathens how to really show good breeding. He wanted to start as he meant to go on; if he finally did choose to propose to Constance Newfield, he would have her know from the very first that she most certainly would not treat his own staff with disdain.

  “Well, what a fine thing it is. What a fine evening and what a fine way to spend it.” The Baron looked well pleased with himself as he raised his sherry glass.

  His balding head and rather fat face looked a little red and shiny by lamplight. He was certainly a man who did not deny himself anything, Giles was sure of it.

  “And how is your sister, Your Grace? Is she recovering at all?” Constance said graciously.

  “Yes, I do believe she is recovering a little.”

  “Oh, how wonderful it would be to see her again.” Constance said wistfully.

  The woman spoke as if she and Lucy had been lifelong friends and her expression was so dramatic that a casual observer might truly have believed that Constance Newfield missed the Duke’s sister dreadfully. Even though they had only met on one occasion, still she clearly thought her performance believable.

  But Giles very quickly remembered Lord Newfield’s attempted interference in terms of a companion for Lucy, and he suddenly imagined Constance with a snarl on her face and a bloodied bone between her teeth that she was refusing to let go. Could this really be more about Anabelle than Lucy?

  “Well, perhaps when she is a little more recovered than she is now. There are signs of progress and I am pleased to report them, but she is not yet well enough for too much excitement.” Giles gave a long-practiced smile.

  “She is responding to that young companion you found her?” Lord Newfield said in an attempt at a nonchalant tone.

  “Yes, very well indeed. Lucy is quite attached to Miss Brock; they go everywhere together.”

  “How wonderful.” Constance said through a tightlipped smile. “What a good job this Miss Brock is doing. Goodness, if she continues to help Lucy recover, she will soon be looking for another position. How sad.” She said, and her smile grew.

  “Well, we shall see.” Giles said in a less than pleased tone.

  He was tired of the Newfields again, the novelty of being in company with people he did not like, the ease of feeling that old control over his own emotions, beginning to wear off.

  He did not like the interference, and the fact that they thought the interference so subtle was annoying him further still. What on earth did they have to complain about? Neither one of them had spent a moment in Anabelle’s company.

  But of course, he had already identified Constance’s vanity as being at the root of it all. Well, let her thrash about in her own anxiety for a while, what did he care?

  And yet, underneath it all, Constance Newfield had hit upon the truth. What would Anabelle Brock do once Lucy was recovered? In what manner could he really keep her in his house? Would she be happy to remain forever as his sister’s paid companion, even when his s
ister did not need her anymore? And what if Lucy recovered so well that she finally married one day? Where would Anabelle Brock fit into their lives then?

  He could not simply keep her in his house once that had happened, for the only position open to her then would be that of a servant. Or a mistress.

  Giles shook his head a little and took a deep gulp of his sherry. That was one thing he would never do. Inasmuch as he had already known he would give little by way of love to Constance if he ever made her his wife, he had imagined that to be a simple task. That he would live his own life parallel to whatever life they shared had been something that Giles had assumed to be a foregone conclusion.

  But now it did not seem so easy. He would have Constance in his life but he knew he could not reach for Anabelle, even if she was still under his roof. He cared for her too much to treat her in such a way. But he also cared for her too much to have her any closer to him than she was now.

  What a conundrum; it seemed that every way he turned, his life became smaller and smaller.

  Even his determination to live a life without much feeling in it was proving more difficult than it ought to.

  But when he could not shake thoughts of Anabelle from his mind, how could he keep her under his roof when he was finally married? Surely, he would still suffer that same sense of loss, that heartbreak he so dreaded. Oh, but he could not think of this now. He could not dwell on it and have it disarrange everything.

  And he had leaped so far ahead, perhaps even by years, that it made no sense. Lucy was not yet well, and she was certainly a long way from being married. And Anabelle was certainly not leaving his household anytime soon. Such thoughts were a pointless exercise designed only to torment him. “Dinner is served, My Lord.” The butler reappeared in the room and Giles was glad to see him.

  As they made their way from the drawing room to the dining room, Giles realised that the smallest diversion had been absolutely necessary.

  “I hope you have come here with an empty stomach, Your Grace, for there is a very grand meal awaiting you.” Lord Newfield said proudly. “I have had the staff working on it all day.”

  “Then I shall enjoy it I am sure.” Giles said, fearing that he had no appetite at all.

  The dining room at Newfield Hall was not half the size of the smallest of the dining rooms at Westward. But the Baron had filled it with the biggest table that would possibly fit, making the room seem a little ridiculously laid out.

  And their place settings at the head of the table when there was so much space unused seemed so very pointless. But that space was very soon filled with platter upon platter of cold meats, tureens of hot soup, patties and pastries. And this, Giles knew, was only the beginning. These things were laid out to tempt his appetite, but he rather thought that there was so much that it would satisfy it completely.

  Still, it was not the first time he had sat at a table where his host had sought to impress by sheer volume. And undoubtedly it would not be the last time.

  “This soup is a little spicy.” Constance said, peering over her bowl at Giles who sat opposite her. “I shall have a word with the cook about it tomorrow.” She made the little threat for Giles’ benefit and he wondered if the woman who so hoped for a proposal of marriage knew anything about him at all.

  Clearly, she did not know that he would not welcome the idea of the cook being lambasted, especially when the soup was not at all spicy and very nice indeed.

  “I am very fond of spices, Miss Newfield. And I am bound to say that this soup is delicious.” He continued to eat, trying hard to ignore the way she leaned forward in her low-cut gown.

  “Then the soup is a success.” Constance said seeming very pleased with the compliment and not realizing that he had only given it for the sake of the cook.

  “Indeed, it is.” He tried to make his smile warm, but he knew that he was already tiring of her little display.

  What a creature she was, trying to tempt him with so extensive a view of her breasts that little was left to the imagination.

  But unknown to her, her performance had not had the desired effect, or at least not in the way that the vain young woman had undoubtedly hoped for. For whilst she was very pleasing to look at indeed, he had found himself once again thinking of Anabelle.

  He remembered so suddenly how it had felt to hold her in his arms, to feel her body pressed against his as they had clung to one another in the silence and secrecy of her chamber. He thought of her curves against him and knew that the jolt of excitement which ran through his body now had little, in fact nothing, to do with the young woman sitting so boldly in front of him.

  As he silently ladled soup into his mouth, hardly tasting it anymore, he could not shake his body free from the sensation that he could somehow still feel Anabelle.

  He had been comforted at first, he had so needed to take that young woman into his arms on that night. But he had done so because she understood; she knew. He had no doubt that she had felt his pain and empathized with it. She understood his situation so well, she knew Lucy as if they had been acquainted their entire lives.

  There was not a person on the earth who could have comforted him in that moment in the same way that Anabelle had done. But once his comfort had been taken, Giles knew that he had not released that fine woman immediately. He had closed his eyes as he let go of his pain and allowed another feeling altogether to wash over him. It had taken every ounce of willpower to keep his hands flat and firmly on her back, not moving as he had so wanted to do.

  Oh, and how he had wanted to move his hands, to slide them down her back and rest them on her waist, to feel her curves; every one of them.

  “Some more soup, Your Grace?” Lord Newfield said in a tone which brought Giles back to the here and now.

  “Please.” He said and smiled, anything to keep his mind off Anabelle.

  If he had to eat the entire tureen full of soup, he would do it.

  And as Lord Newfield clicked his fingers imperiously at one of the waiting footmen, Giles wondered how he would ever live an easy life.

  He might well be able to spare himself the pain of loving and the ultimate loss which always threatened, but how was he supposed to spare himself from the pain of longing? Constant, gnawing longing?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Some nights later, Anabelle was awakened by the sound of crying. It was so out of place in the darkness that she came to a little fearfully, wondering quite where she was.

  She lay entirely still, frozen beneath the covers until she slowly became sensible of her surroundings. She was in Westward Hall, she was in her bed, her chamber, her own private space. And then, with that realization, Anabelle sat up sharply. The crying could only be Lucy.

  Anabelle reached out for the matches on the nightstand and blindly struck one, squinting at the sudden flare of light and the hiss of burning wood. She lit a candle, blew out the match, and sat herself up in the gloom.

  Lucy was still crying, only now Anabelle was certain that she could hear the poor young woman talking too, sounding desperate. Without wasting another moment, Anabelle quickly drew her woolen shawl around her shoulders, lifted the candle plate, and hurried out of the room.

  As she approached Lucy’s door, the sound of the young woman’s distress became louder and louder. She hurriedly made her way in, realizing that Lucy was in complete darkness and had been until Anabelle had entered. But the single candle was somehow not enough. Where it had given her comfort in her own chamber, it made shadows dance eerily on the walls of Lucy’s room.

  “Lucy, it is Anabelle. I am here, my dear girl, I am here.” She moved quickly, hastening to Lucy’s nightstand and quickly lighting the candle there.

  The quality of light changed altogether and, whilst still not bright, it was not as eerily gloomy as it been before.

  “Lucy, it is me.” She said and sat down on the edge of Lucy’s bed, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder.

  Lucy, her eyes wide with recognition, suddenly s
at bolt upright and threw her arms around Anabelle’s neck. She clung on so fiercely and trembled so violently that it was actually a little painful for Anabelle. But still she would not seek to free herself for she knew that Lucy truly needed her.

  “My dear Lucy, what has frightened you so?”

  “I was asleep, I was sure I was. But then the man came, and he told me to keep quiet. He told me not to say a word and so I have lain here for hour after hour too afraid to move.” Lucy said, her voice breaking and her desolation absolutely clear.

  At that moment, the door to her chamber opened and the light of another candle appeared in the room.

  Lucy, utterly terrified, shrieked and clung tighter still to Anabelle.

  “He is here! He is here! He has come. I did not stay quiet, but I tried, I really tried.” She called over Anabelle’s shoulder to the man standing in silhouette in the doorway.

  For an awful, ridiculous moment, Anabelle felt herself a little afraid also. Perhaps it was the gloom, or perhaps it was the fact that she had been awoken in the middle of the night that was so disquieting, but for an awful moment she truly believed that the frightening man was there with them.

  “Lucy, it is me, it is Giles.” Came a deep and soothing voice that Anabelle recognised better than anybody’s.

  She let go of the breath she had been holding and felt Lucy relax in her arms.

  Giles closed the door behind him and advanced into the room. He spent some time lighting the oil lamps so that they were soon in absolute light.

  “There, that is better, is it not?” Anabelle said to Lucy, sitting close to her on the bed now with an arm around her shoulders.

  “I am so sorry. I have woken you both.” Lucy said and began to cry again.

  “You must not worry about that, my dear girl.” The Duke said and crossed the room to sit on the bed on the other side of Lucy.