The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel
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The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess
A Historical Regency Romance Novel
Emma Linfield
Edited by
Maggie Berry
Contents
A Thank You Gift
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Dangerous Games of a Broken Lady
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Emma Linfield
About the Author
A Thank You Gift
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called The Betrayed Lady Winters. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.
Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
With love and appreciation,
Emma Linfield
About the Book
New beginnings hurt, but sometimes they are worth every teardrop...
Strange things come with the storm, things that can change one's life forever. On just such a dark night, a mysterious voiceless girl arrives at the doorstep of the powerful Duke of Rutland, Neil Arnold. Thanks to her, his gloomy soul will see its first sunny days after a very long time.
Her silence, though, hides secrets, and whatever evil force made her run for her life that dreadful stormy night is coming after her...
The Duke, while still trying to find his way back to happiness, will have to find the strength to protect not only the mysterious stranger that stole his heart but also his innocent daughter. He can't afford to lose the ones he loves for the second time. But the danger is resting closer than he thinks as no one can be trusted.
Prologue
Mary-Anne ran for her life. The ground underfoot was pure mud, slipping and splashing every which way beneath the torrential thunderstorm that raged through the Southern English countryside.
She was gasping for breath, glancing frantically backward into the darkness, watching for the floating bulb of light that bounced along with each of his heavy steps. There! Mary-Anne was running again, tearing through the low grasses and shrubs, not caring about the brambles and twigs that caught and tore at her clothes and skin. She pushed on as the rain poured down, accompanied by glorious blasts of lightning and thunder.
The light was growing more distant as she dashed on, gasping out for air but not daring to stop, not until she was clear. On and on she went, not stopping at even the greatest of stumbles, feeling her chest burning fiercely with the need for oxygen. There was a voice, deep inside, that saying It’s alright, you’ve made it. Sit down. Rest. She relentlessly ignored it, forging forward, feeling that slick, cold numbness overwhelming her skin. Then there was another voice, louder than the first, keep going, it said. You’re almost there.
Mary-Anne did not know where she was, only that she had escaped the carriage on the road from London, sometime after they had passed through Camden. She had no idea how far she had run, and she knew to only keep running, as an all-encompassing, blind need to survive drove her in and out of creek beds, under farm fences, and finally to rest beneath a low bridge.
She shuddered in her wet clothes, hugging her arms to her knees and bouncing her legs to keep warm. She could feel no heat within her; it was as if all of her body had been chilled, and now past the point of even warming itself. Huddled there, feeling the chill of the night set in around her and hearing the rage of the storm above her, Mary-Anne thought that she would die; that at any moment she would just cease to function, and collapse into the low river, to be found by some unlucky person come to wash their clothes. She felt sorry for that person and did not want them to see her like this, and then she remembered: You are not dying beneath this bridge.
Mary-Anne struggled up, realizing only then that she had lost her shoes to one of the bogs she had traversed and found that she had no feeling in any of her toes. It was too late to be concerned about it, she had only to keep moving until she reached somewhere safe. Where was that? She had no clue of her surroundings, but as she climbed up to the road above her, she saw the lights of a manor house atop a high hill, looming out in the distance as either a beacon or a lure, and she knew not which.
Another bolt of lightning cut out over the black rain, and she knew she had to seek shelter there. She began to hurry up the long, winding road, and each step was heavier than the last. Now, at last with a destination in sight, she could not find the strength to pull herself up the gravel road and found herself falling. She could not help it; she had finally used up all there was to give from her wells of resilience, and she struck the ground with an unceremonious splash.
As she lay there, feeling the rain hammer down on her forehead, she saw the bobbing light of an oil lamp making its way down from the house, swinging with each sopping step of its carrier. She opened her mouth to scream out, NO! But no sound came from her terrorized vocal cords; instead, she flailed helplessly, utterly exhausted, defeated, and despaired at the arrival of the lantern.
Chapter 1
The lightning lit up the sky in terrific arcs, blasting the empty rooms with hollow light. The Duke of Rutland liked to watch the thunderstorms, drinking in the bright streaks of light and then waiting, ever so patiently, for the booming rattle of thunder to shake the walls of his fine house.
The Duke was a grim man, slowly swirling his brandy about in his palm, letting the aroma waft upward and over him. He was good looking, as far as anyone was concerned — a strong brow and jaw that seemed to complement each other splendidly sat beneath his dark brown hair, which he let flop about his head aimlessly.
Lightning flashed again, and he jumped back a bit at its sudden appearance. After it had faded and the thunder rumbled on, he smiled at his own nerves. Again, he jumped as a door banged open behind him.
“Papa, Papa, I’m scared!” his daughter shouted, running into the room in her nightdress, her bare feet slapping against the oak-paneled floor. “Papa!” she hurried and hugged herself to his legs, watching with terrified fascination at the slices being made of the sky.
“Come, Kaitlin,” he said, setting down his brandy to lift up his daughter, and hold her to his chest. “It is only a storm. We are safe, you and I.”
“It is so loud,” she said, wide-eyed, holding tight to the long collar of his leisure jacket. “My walls are shaking.”
“And mine too, my dear,” he said, beginning
to rock her back and forth in his arms. “But it cannot shake you from me. Rest now,” he ran his hand through her hair as she began to feel her fatigue, nestled in her father’s arms. “You are getting so heavy,” he grunted with a smile, shifting his arms a bit. “Who knew a five-year-old could be so big and strong.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, she—” one of the nursemaids had come in, having chased Kaitlin down the hallways from her room, and was panting from the effort. The Duke held up his hand for silence and nodded to the sleeping child drooling upon his shoulder. The maid smiled at the caring father, who, despite his other social failings of late, always placed his daughter first, and with great compassion.
“It’s all right, Betsey,” he whispered. “It seems I have it from here.”
The Duke of Rutland paced slowly through his elegant home, singing softly in his daughter’s ears the songs from his time as a soldier, as he knew no lullabies. Her mother had sung the proper ones.
“There’s forty shillings on the drum, for those who’ll volunteer to come, to list and fight the foe today, over the hills and far away. When duty calls me, I must go, to stand and face, another foe, and part of me, will always stray, over the hills and far away.”
“Is that you, Neil?” An old lady’s voice came from one of the living rooms ahead, and he saw that she was sat by a small fire with a low oil lamp beside her.
“What are you doing up, Grandmother?” Neil asked quietly, still gently rocking Kaitlin from side to side.
“I was looking for something, I’ve forgotten what exactly,” the old lady said, waving her hands gently in the air. She turned her head and looked at the sleeping child in her grandson’s arms. “Rather, what is she doing up?” Phyllis asked, raising her eyebrows curiously. “She has no manners, Neil. She cannot continue to behave like this. She will be tall much sooner than you would like to realize.”
“She was scared of the storm,” he parried and slowly sat down beside his grandmother.
“I was scared of storms as a girl, and I sat there in my bed, silent as a grave, jumping like a hare at each thunderclap, but I never got up and ran about the house! Heavens no! You cannot allow her to pick and choose which rules to follow. It will prove disastrous to her potential.”
“She is a child, let her be one,” he said, sitting back in the armchair.
“She will not be a child much longer, and with no mother to guide her. You cannot keep using the accident -”
“Enough!” the Duke snapped. “I will not speak of it.”
Phyllis let out a long sigh, turning her head to look at the fire, flickering in the low brick hearth. After a moment of silence, another thunderclap shook the premises, and Kaitlin jumped awake, wide-eyed and startled.
“Grandmother!” she said, leaping from her father’s lap and running to Phyllis, whose face was already rapidly changing to a broad smile, for not a soul in the house of Rutland could say no to little Kaitlin Arnold.
“Hello, my child,” she said warmly, letting Kaitlin climb up onto the large armchair that she occupied.
“Were you scared of the storm, too?” she asked innocently, hugging her grandmother’s legs.
“Yes, just like you,” Phyllis said. “Oh! Mind my old legs, dear.”
“Come,” Neil scooped her up again. “It’s off to bed with you then, for good this time. Say goodnight to your grandmother.”
“Good night!” Kaitlin yawned, smiling adorably, and Phyllis’ eyes twinkled to see her great-granddaughter behave in any manner at all.
Neil carried her off to her room and laid her down in her bed. As he drew up a blanket over her, she shifted in her sleep and curled into it, sleeping soundly. The Duke tucked in his daughter and left her room, feeling that rare sliver of happiness that haunted him through his hallways. It was a warmth, a glow, an exuberance for the world and for life, brimming from silver chalices, and he yearned for it. There it was, just for a moment as he cared for his daughter, but then again, he was alone in the wood-paneled hallway with the lighting cast strange shadows; the thunder rumbled on, and the happiness swiftly disappeared from view.
Once again immersed in his morosity, the Duke dragged his feet down the hallway as he made his way back to his glass of brandy, all the way down in the second living room on the first floor. He had found his beverage and his chair, and resumed watching the brilliant flashes of light through the sky.
He had just settled into a state of complete comfort when he heard the faintest sound of shouting. He perked up his ears, and indeed, it was shouting. He sat up, interested. What was the commotion?
Rain was coming down in terrible sheets, slapping against the ground and turning dirt to swelling puddles of mud. He could hear Mr. Marton, the chief groundskeeper, calling out to some of the stable hands. Perhaps one of the horses had bucked from the carriage house in fright of the storm?
Neil was becoming very intrigued and swished down the remnants of his brandy before rising to investigate.
As he went through the living room and into the parlor, he encountered his valet, Thomas Penn, who had the look of a hurriedly-dressed, rain-soaked, very flustered man at that present moment, but otherwise was a gentleman in every describable aspect.
“Thomas, what is going on out there? Marton sounds at sixes and sevens, has a horse broken loose?”
“Your Grace,” Thomas caught his breath for a brief moment, straightening his uniform. “Mr. Marton has informed me that they have found a woman on the path to the estate.”
“A woman?” Neil blinked, astonished. “What sort of woman? Out in all this?” He waved his hands at the thundering rain that constantly rattled on in the back of their ears.
“She is in a bad state, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “Mr. Marton has gone with the chariot down to the bridge to collect her.”
“Who found her?”
“Mr. Chase, I believe.”
“The coachman?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Dash it all, what a night this has become,” the Duke said, his mood souring. “Have you seen Mr. Chase tonight, Thomas?”
“No, Your Grace, Marton sent him off home to get dry.”
“Both inside and out, no doubt,” Neil pouted. “The man is brimming with the blue ruin, and this woman is likely some foxed doxy whom he left down on the bridge to die rather than pay her wages due.”
“She is in need of assistance, Your Grace, from what I understand,” Thomas said, looking sadly at his master, who hated Mr. Chase so passionately that he allowed it to blind him regularly, however momentarily. “Do you wish to turn her away?”
“I do not wish any of this,” Neil said, bitterly. “Nothing about this is proper.”
Their conversation was broken by the clatter of Mr. Marton and his two-horse team, coming into the driveway. Thomas gathered up the towels he had brought and opened the door for Neil, who stepped out onto his front steps that sloped grandly downwards to the tightly-bricked drive.
The chariot rolled to a halt while Mr. Marton, the jolly round-faced groundsman, reined in the horses, and eventually climbed down from the driver’s seat.
“Evening, Your Grace,” he called to the Duke, holding his lantern high above his head. “I am sorry to bother you so late.” Mr. Marton began to climb up and untie the straps holding the carriage door shut against the storm.
“What is going on, Neil?” Phyllis called from the parlor. “Have you found my hand mirror?”
“No, Grandmother, it’s nothing,” he shouted.
“Oh, where is it,” Phyllis fretted, then halted, seeming to remember that something was happening. “Tell me, Neil, what are you doing? I’m not daft,” she called back and came out of the parlor with her abigail, a girl named Ruth. “Thomas, tell me what is happening.” Neil looked to his valet and gave him a shrug as if to say, I tried.
“Mr. Chase found a woman down by the bridge, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “Mr. Marton is bringing her in.”
“Good lord!” Phyllis gaspe
d. “A woman out in this disaster? How can this be?”
“A good question, Grandmother,” Neil said. “We will learn the truth of it and send her on her way, wherever that may be.”
“What has become of you,” Phyllis scolded. “A gentleman indeed.” She hurried down the steps to meet Mr. Marton at the carriage as he swung the door open. Neil felt his face get hot and his palms twitched as she took charge of the situation, helping the woman as she stumbled from the cab.