A Duke Under Her Spell: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  Passing through, she entered the bedroom and spotted a familiar head of brown hair bent over while the young child, not even two-and-ten, was stroking the fire higher.

  “Be careful, Maria,” Eleanor said. “The coals are hot.”

  “I’m careful, my lady,” the young servant replied as she retracted the iron poker and closed the iron grate. She then stood and curtseyed, gripping the thin cloth of her mud-brown skirts in worn hands. “How d’you do this night, my lady?”

  Smiling, Eleanor took out her handkerchief from her reticule and softly wiped off a line of soot on the poor girl’s face. “I am…as usual, Maria, tired of going to all these balls. But Father is all set on getting me married off. I suppose I must play along.”

  The servant girl looked confused, “Why is it so troubling, my lady? Wouldn’t it be good to have your own husband?”

  “Because—”the men I meet have nothing in common with me and are boring as white soup, “it’s complicated Maria. But things will play out eventually.”

  “I am sure you’ll be happy someday, my lady,” Maria said quietly, “I think you’d be a wonderful mother too.”

  “Speaking of,” Eleanor asked, “how is your mother?”

  “Still a bit ill, my lady,” Maria replied while her hands twisted in her drab dress. “She’s a bit better after she took the medicine the doctor you sent gave her. Thank you for your help.”

  Eleanor had never seen Maria’s mother but one day she had caught the child crying and had asked her what was wrong. Through tears, Maria had explained that her mother was sick to her stomach and she did not know how to help.

  Immediately, Eleanor had sent for her physician and directed him to go help Mrs. Briks. She had even paid for the woman’s medicine out of her pocket. Thankfully, her father had been off to Brisdane at that time and had not been able to censure her about it.

  “I’m glad,” Eleanor smiled. “Now run along, it’s past your bedtime.”

  “Do you not need my help disrobing, my lady?” Maria asked.

  Tutting, Eleanor shook her head, “I’ve been dressing myself for a long time, Maria, but thank you for the offer.”

  “Good night, my lady,” Maria said.

  Seeing her go, Eleanor sighed as she took off her shoes and massaged her stocking-clad feet. The poor child. I wish there was more I could do to help her.

  There was a knock on her door and a maid, Polly entered, “Your tea, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Polly,” Eleanor replied. “Set it on the table there and good night to you.”

  When the maid left, Eleanor nimbly unlaced her corset, did away with her petticoat and the stays. Exchanging her stiff chemise for her softer one and donning her nightgown, she unpinned her auburn hair, brushed it out and then went to make her cup of tea. With the steaming cup in hand, she went to sit by the window seat and stared out into the night's sky.

  The gibbous spring moon was high in the sky and the tiny stars around it twinkled brilliantly. Her younger self had imagined that one of those heavenly beings was her mother and that the bright flashes it gave off were Elizabeth’s way of saying she was being watched over.

  Blowing the silvery steam away from her face, Eleanor took a sip and sighed, “I wish you were here, Mother…I miss you every day.”

  As far as Eleanor could remember her mother, Elizabeth Stanley, Duchess of Brisdane had never been ill a day in her life. Then when she was two-and-ten she had come from visiting her friend Amelia to find her father telling her that her mother was gravely ill.

  Grimly, she had watched the doctor leave her mother’s room with a staid face and white lips. From the very look, she had known the pronunciation but not wanting to believe it, had fled to the stables to cry. Later that very same day, her father had tracked her down and reported grievous news, her mother had died.

  “She suddenly fell ill, Eleanor,” her father had explained, “There was not much we could do to help her.”

  For a while Eleanor had believed him but then seeing his actions in the days and years that followed, she had started to doubt him. Not once had he mourned for her mother and he had restricted her from going into her room and his study. Her father had not shed a tear at his wife’s funeral and a few weeks later, declaring the house too much of a reminder of her, had packed them up and moved away.

  “I wish you could tell me what happened to you, Mother,” Eleanor sighed. Just like I wish I could trust Father, but I can’t. Not anymore anyway. He has become…a stranger to me. He never was warm or loving but now he is excessively cold and demanding. Nothing pleases him anymore—not even me—and he is a tyrant.”

  She stared at the light amber liquid of her tea. “And furthermore, he is pushing me into courtship and marriage. Mother, I have not met someone who I can truly connect with…I doubt he even exists.”

  Frowning into her bland tea, she stood and went to add another dollop of milk. “What if I have already met him and I don’t know…” she took a moment to think it over then snorted, “If I am the next Lady Delancey, so be it.”

  * * *

  The Dukedom of Oberton

  The Barvolt Mansion

  Only a few lamps were lit in the flickering dimness of the Duke of Oberton’s large, high-ceilinged study. The light rendered the gilt-framed paintings of Aaron Barvolt’s forefathers a dark burnished gold and gave a strange ochre sheen to the leather furniture near it.

  Lining the walls were tightly-clustered shelves of books and at the very far end was a dead hearth. In the middle of the room was his wide wooden desk which was mere feet away from the large sash windows he was standing in front of.

  Aaron stared blankly out into the dark gardens before him, absently noting that the skeleton shape of the willow trees swaying in the breeze and the dark mounds the hedges created an eerie picture. In the dark solitude, Aaron felt as if the weight of the word was laid upon his broad shoulders.

  From handling the various cares of the dukedom that his father had left him and managing the trade ship business that his dearly-departed uncle had left him, Aaron sometimes felt like he was drowning. His advisors and steward were a great help, but they could only do so much and, ultimately, every decision was left to him.

  Lately, the most troubling decision he had to decide on was the issue of marriage. He had to find a wife soon. Turning around he went to sit on the leather wingback and tapped his knees. Instantly, his two Irish Wolfhounds bounded over to him and dropped their paws on his knees.

  “Icarus and Erebus,” Aaron smiled as he scratched them both behind the ears. “Missed me, did you boys?”

  The dogs’ wet noses eagerly rubbed into his dry palms and he chuckled, “Sorry, no treats now, but I will remember next time.”

  Icarus, with his light coat, sank down to his haunches where the dark-haired Erebus, named after the Greek god of the night, stayed balanced on his back legs. Ruffling the large dog under his muzzle, Aaron sighed, “Be glad that no one is forcing you to find a mate, but your master must do so.”

  “Ahem.”

  “You may enter, Harold,” Aaron called to his inherited butler. The septuagenarian had served his father and his grandfather before him, but despite the frequents entreaties for him to retire, Mr. Charles Harold refused.

  “Your usual nightcap, Your Grace,” the butler said while depositing a tray of warm wine on the table. “I must add that your valet, Mr. Stanton, has been suddenly been called away.”

  “The reason, Harold?” Aaron asked while stepping over his faithful hounds.

  “A family matter, Your Grace.”

  “Ah,” Aaron acknowledged while pouring out his wine. “Then I suppose the job of arranging my outfit to Lord Greyson’s ball tomorrow evening must be left to you.”

  “I would be happy to, Your Grace,” the silver-haired man replied. “But I must admit that the fashion of your generation befuddles me. What man wears pants so tight they can be mistaken for a second skin?”

  “Dandies, Harold, da
ndies with their blue powdered wigs,” Aaron laughed in his wine. “Which if you ever see me don, please call the men from Bedlam to institutionalize me.”

  “Your Grace,” the butler’s voice had gone thoughtful. “I do not want to press you, but you do know that your partners are looking for you to choose a bride this season.”

  “I know,” Aaron sighed.

  “Have you gained an attachment to any young woman?”

  Had it been anyone else who had asked that question Aaron would have quickly censured it for being too bold, but seeing as Harold had been a second father to him for many years, Aaron respectfully replied.

  “Sadly, no,” the youngest Duke in England grimaced.

  “Your Grace, do you think you would initiate a marriage of convenience?” Mr. Harold opined.

  “And lose out my chance for real love?” Aaron shook his head. “I do not think so. I know she’s out there, Harold, but I’ll be damned if I can find her.”

  “Perhaps you are looking too far,” the butler added. “Maybe she is closer than you think.”

  Peering over his glass, Aaron spoke, “I sense that you trying to tell me something. What is it?”

  “A connection with Lady Brisdane,” Mr. Harold offered. “The last time you met, I think she was impressed by you.”

  The scornful laugh Aaron almost made would have Harold feel insulted, so he swallowed it down instead. “I think you mean repulsed, Harold. The first time we met I was one-and-twenty, she was fifteen, freckled-face and—”

  “Where you told her she was a tomboy,” Mr. Harold inserted only to make Aaron scowl.

  “—and even after completing my degree, I spent another two years at Oxford studying trade laws and regulations. When I came back to take over from father two years ago, I gained a distinct feeling that she did not like me.”

  “Perhaps it was because that was the time you told the young lady, of seven-and-ten I believe, that she was spoiled,” Mr. Harold concluded.

  Aaron grunted, “Was I wrong? She looked at me like I was mud under her shoes. It is now no secret that Lady Brisdane disregards all men of her class which I why I have avoided her these last months. I suppose she is holding out for a prince of a foreign land or an Indian Maharajah to court her.”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Harold inserted. “But Your Grace, take my foolish advice, try to connect with her tomorrow night.”

  Aaron was reaching out to refill his glass when Harold’s words settled on his mind. “You really think there is something there?”

  “If you pardon my forwardness, Your Grace, you have not seen her for over four years and rumors do not paint a full picture of a person. Even if she has gained a reputation for refusing suitors, you may be the one to find out why. Moreover, your families are not enemies, so I do not expect a gruesome recreation of the Capulet versus Montague situation.”

  Aaron swallowed over a sudden lump in his throat. “That is not a pretty picture.”

  “And I have it on good authority that her freckles have disappeared,” Harold added.

  The man was not subtle, was he?

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Do you have a specific suit for tomorrow, Your Grace?”

  “If she is what they say, perhaps the very same suit that I wore to my Aunt Beatrice’s funeral.” Aaron drawled. His failed attempt at humor was met with a withering look. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave it to your discretion, Harold, but I know she’ll not accept my apology much less an offer for courtship.”

  “I beg to differ, Your Grace,” Harold said calmly. “I will see to your suit for tomorrow.”

  Scratching under Icarus’ jowls Aaron smiled ruefully, “So, I am tasked with winning Lady Eleanor over, a task worthy of Hercules himself...how much would you wager that she is going to spit in my face tomorrow night, considering she hates my very existence?”

  Chapter 2

  As this party was the last of the ton’s affairs, Eleanor was decided on two things—firstly, be so subtle in dissuading any of the men who tried to speak to her that they did not suspect they were being put off and secondly, avoid those who were smart enough to suspect it.

  A few names were on that second list, the principal of which was one annoying and aggravating Duke that she would rather not even think about, much less name.

  The hosts, Viscount and Viscountess Greyson received her and her chaperone, Miss Malcolm with strained grace. And the strain was for good reason. Lady Greyson’s son, Anthony, had been one of her suitors until she had found him nothing but a cad pretending to be an honorable Oxford-educated man.

  “Lady Eleanor and Miss Malcolm, welcome to our humble abode. How wonderful it is to see you both, especially you Lady Eleanor.” The hostess’ smile was forced.

  Really, after the scathing dismissal I had given your son Anthony, I believe you would rather see my grave than see me.

  “Thank you, Lady Greyson, it is my pleasure to be here,” she smiled tightly with the pleasantry. Oh, how she hated saying things she did not mean.

  “May I ask, where is your father?”

  “He’s away on business,” Eleanor replied. “You know, the never-ending duties of a Duke. But what a divine necklace you have.”

  “My dear husband bought it from Rundell and Bridge’s for our anniversary,” the lady’s fingers ran over the emerald stones while looking over to her spouse of over twenty-odd years, an ex-military man who still stood with the same formal bearing.

  “Marriage is such a wonderful thing, dear.” Her smile then grew sweetly condescending. “In fact, our Anthony is now engaged to Lady Hannah Collings, you do know her dear, the daughter of the Prince Regent’s main advisor?”

  “Faintly,” Eleanor’s smile was sympathetic. Why did this woman believe that she would be sorry for losing out on her scoundrel of a son? Anthony was no prize, and in fact, she felt sorry for Lady Collings.

  “Oh, and what a wonderful dress you have dear,” Lady Greyson complimented.

  “Thank you,” Eleanor replied.

  The ivory gown she wore was simple but stunning. With a square neck and nipped-in waist, the skirt of pale ivory flared subtly at her hips. The white gloves she wore accented the paleness of her dress and so did the white ribbons that caught up the hem of her skirt in regular intervals. Her dark red hair, deep enough to be termed auburn, was in a graceful chignon with a line of seed pearls threaded through the coiffure.

  “Well, it is wonderful to see you,” Eleanor’s tone denoted the end of their forced pleasantries. She’d rather be pulling her teeth out without laudanum than be speaking to these hypocrites.

  She knew they did not like her, what mother would after her brutal rejection of their son, but it was foolhardy to disrespect the child of a Duke. “But we are holding up the line. Please, excuse us.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  Walking off, Miss Malcolm murmured in her ear, “That was uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable is an understatement,” Eleanor said through her smile while she nodded to Lord and Lady Northvale. Near the refreshment table, she spotted two women who she had met at prior balls. Miss Billings and Lady Sutherland, were dressed in equally hideous shades of pale mauve taffeta and garish watery lilac respectively.

  Eleanor flicked up her fan and rolled her eyes when both of them cut their eyes at her.

  Just as haughty as I expected.

  * * *

  The moment Lady Eleanor had stepped into the ballroom, Aaron’s green eyes had been drawn to her. Her pale ivory dress was like a beacon of steadiness in a room where the riotous mix of bright and brilliantly patterned colors was wreaking havoc on his eyes. It was the first time he had allowed himself to deliberately see her in over four years and she had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, he grudgingly noticed.

  “Ah, Lady Eleanor of Brisdane has arrived, or should I say Lady of Disdain.” Marquise Norwood sneered. “I’d give a hundred pounds to the man who breaks her in.”

  Contempt soured Aaron�
��s chest as he saw the level of scorn the Marquise aimed at the lady. His contempt grew to anger when he saw the mirroring looks from the other gentlemen and his lips thinned to a hyphen, “She is not a stubborn filly, Norwood.”

  “In case you don’t know, she has a reputation, Oberton,” the man snorted. “Any man that nears her is treated to a glare, a thinly-veiled insult and then a curt dismissal. She is already a termagant at such a young age. Even men with the pockets of Croesus cannot break her shell.”

  Aaron looked back over to Eleanor and watched her go through the room he keenly observed how she angled away from people who neared her. It was as if she was subtly telling them to stay away.

  Perhaps the rumors of her snobbishness are true.

  “See that?” the Marquise prodded. “Look at how she treats Lord Hendrickson.”

  He continued to watch her, and her lips thinned while the lord in question was talking. Lady Eleanor, Aaron knew was not a lady who suffered fools and was educated enough to not fall for the pretense of intellect.

  “The other day, I heard that Lord Vale had begun a conversation with her about the Roman conquests in the Battle of the Medway and she corrected him with every word,” a new voice joined, this came from Earl Camden, a young Earl only a year Aaron’s senior.

  “Mayhap for good reason. You must know that the fluff they teach women these days is not enough to fill a teacup. She has chosen the path of brilliance,” Aaron said while snagging a flute of champagne from a passing footman. “Or is that a crime I have not realized is now punishable by derision?”

  “It is if you cannot get one word in,” said Marquise Norwood. “What man actually likes airs like that?”