The Servant Duchess of Whitcomb

by Vicktor Alexander

  “I have met an enchanting woman who has taken full possession of my thoughts, and I find myself completely smitten,” he told Quincy softly.

  Quincy’s eyes widened, and he looked around. “Who is this original that has you speaking prose like a poet? Why, you’re starting to sound like Pompinshire!”

  Orley chuckled. While he wasn’t as far gone as his dear friend, Heathcliff, who was utterly besotted with his husband, Lady Lucien, Orley could admit his words had been much more… flowery than usual. Was this what had happened to the poets whose words caused the women of the ton to swoon? Had they too found themselves at the mercy of a beautiful form and been so frozen by their yearning they lost the ability to speak as a gentleman should?

  “I am not certain I should reveal the young lady’s identity. I should not wish for her to endure any untoward reproach,” Orley stated.

  Quincy’s eyebrows lowered. “Who is this chit? Is she Lady Charles? The Earl of Pembroke’s son? You would be wise to keep his name quiet among others, I’d wager. His father does not seem like an amiable sort of fellow. But certainly you can tell me?”

  Orley tried to remember who Lady Charles was, but his mind filled with the vision of almond-colored skin, thick, honey blond hair, hazel eyes darkened with passion, and full lips swollen by his kisses. No, he couldn’t recall Lady Charles’s face or even the lady’s current predicament with his louse of a father, Anthony Daniger, the Earl of Pembroke. Orley’s very being was centered on Chester. A housemaid. Oh how his father must be turning over in his grave. It would serve the bastard right.

  “There’s that twinkle again. So it is Lady Charles, then?” Quincy questioned.

  Orley took a sip of his Madeira and waved a hand at Quincy. “No, no. Not at all. I can’t even recall Lady Charles’s face. I merely find myself thinking of the young lady I mentioned earlier. I am haunted by her beauty, Quin. It is quite a new undertaking for me, I must tell you. I have never experienced the like before.”

  Orley let out a grunt when Quincy pounded on his back, and he jerked forward from the blow. “Well matched, old chap! That is splendid! Well now, you must tell me who this young lady is to have so captured the attention of the Duke of Whitcomb that he cannot even think of other women.”

  Orley opened his mouth to respond when a knock sounded upon the door to the study.

  “Enter,” Heathcliff called out.

  The door opened, and Chester entered pushing the tea server into the middle of the room. “Your Grace, Her Grace asked that I bring this to you all as he was sure the men would like to drink tea or coffee so you may still have spirits to offer to the gentlemen during the week.” Chester’s voice was soft as he spoke, his eyes focused on the floor and his hands folded in front of him.

  Orley heard the men chuckling around him, but he stared intently at Chester, hoping for a sign, a flicker of a glance his way to let him know that the young woman was as affected by him as he was by Chester.

  “I do believe that is my husband’s way of telling us to not get foxed so early in the day, gentlemen,” Heathcliff said with amusement.

  “I would not let my wife speak to me in such a way, Pompinshire. You ought to take the duchess in hand,” Lord Exeter said with a haughty sniff.

  Orley cringed at the man’s words, knowing Heathcliff would not react kindly to the thought of either raising his hand to Lady Lucien to “keep him in line” or to the very idea of Lord Exeter doing the same to his wife. Orley could not countenance men who behaved in such a fashion and found them deplorable. He had more than once challenged men such as that to a duel out in Hyde Park late at night in order to save their spouses the abuse and humiliation they’d been forced to endure. He did not enjoy it, and he did not always kill them, but a lesson was always taught. Perhaps he should do the same with Lord Exeter.

  “My dear Lord Exeter, Her Grace does not need to be ‘taken in hand,’ as you say, unless it is done in a pleasurable manner. My husband is merely seeing to my well-being. The day I attempt to crush the spirit and destroy the mind of the woman I married is the day I am no longer fit to call myself a gentleman,” Heathcliff said, his words genial, his tone hard.

  “Hear, hear,” Quincy said.

  “Right you are,” the Duke of Norfolk agreed.

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Orley spoke up. His words caused Chester’s gaze to fly up to meet Orley’s, and for a brief moment, happiness and pleasure shone brightly in the hazel depths of Chester’s eyes before they were banked and Chester lowered his gaze again.

  “Orley, you didn’t?” Quincy hissed.

  “That will be all, Chester,” Heathcliff dismissed Chester. Orley watched Chester leave with something akin to sadness and longing. He did not want the young woman to go. He wanted him to stay and talk, wanted Chester to sit on his lap. Orley wanted to smooth his hands up the skirt of the maid’s uniform Chester wore and find out what lay beneath.

  He wanted….

  “Lee!” Quincy shook him.

  Orley returned his focus to Quincy and found his friend staring at him in amazement.

  “What has transpired between you and the maid that you find yourself unable to attend to a simple conversation when he is near?”

  Orley shook his head. “Naught but a kiss, I assure you.”

  “Were you the instigator of said kiss or was it the fortune hunter?” Quincy asked with a sneer.

  Orley’s hand tightened on the glass he held to the point it shattered. The room went deathly still. He stood shakily, using his cane, and refused to look at his oldest and—he’d once thought—dearest friend.

  “Forgive me, Pompinshire, I seem to have broken your glass.”

  “Do not trouble yourself,” Heathcliff said, his eyes narrowed as he glanced between Orley and Quincy. Orley would tell Heathcliff nothing, for that would only lead him into having to reveal his acquaintance with Chester, and he would do nothing that would cause the young lady to be sacked from his position. At least, not until he could find a way for the two of them to get to know each other better.

  “If you gentlemen would excuse me. I find I have need for a turn around the garden.”

  With a smart bow, Orley left the room. He ignored Quincy’s entreaties for him to stay so they could continue their conversation. He had to clear his head, and he couldn’t do that if his friend was only going to tell him what he was feeling was wrong while the rest of his being denied that to be true.

  Chester lay back on the grass, his hair spread out like a fan, his feet bare. He let out a long sigh and listened to the fountain that sat in the middle of the garden. This was absolutely his favorite time of day. He had this brief moment to take a break outside before things got busy within the house again. He often lay within the garden and just watched the sky. His mother would sometimes join him, if she wasn’t too busy, but today she was helping Her Grace Lucien with all of the guests. But it was no matter; with all that had occurred with Orley—His Grace the Duke of Whitcomb—Chester really needed to have a moment to himself.

  He exhaled once more and closed his eyes against the sun. He wouldn’t nap. He really didn’t have the time. He would just enjoy the feel of the sun on his face, and he would imagine a different life. One where he could spend days outside, maybe out in the garden surrounded by flowers and plants, helping them to grow. He’d always had a love for the outdoors. His mothers had never truly understood it. Chester didn’t really understand it either. He just knew he loved to make things beautiful.

  “You are enchanting lying among the flowers,” a voice said above him.

  Chester gasped and sat up quickly. The world spun for a moment before righting itself. When he turned and opened his eyes, he found himself face-to-face with His Grace the Duke of Whitcomb.

  Rising quickly and cursing himself for being caught unawares, with no shoes on, and not attending to his duties, Chester curtsied quickly.

  “Your Grace, forgive me for my inattentiveness. Was there something you needed?”<
br />
  Bloody hell. I’m going to be sacked for sure.

  His Grace stepped toward him. “No, Chester. Forgive me for startling your peace and sanctuary. You obviously came out here to rest, and I disturbed your time. I just found myself in need of some fresh air, and the gardens seemed the perfect place for me to gain some.”

  “No. It’s perfectly fine, Your Grace. I really must return to my duties. Enjoy your fresh air,” Chester stated, looking around for his discarded shoes.

  “Please do not rush away on my account. I would really rather enjoy the company.”

  Chester paused and glanced up at the duke. The man appeared troubled, and Chester found his heart clenching hard in his chest. Though he told himself that he really should leave and avoid the tempting picture the duke presented in his snowy white shirt, crisp white cravat, hunter green waistcoat, brown breeches, and black Hessian boots, Chester nodded and folded his hands in front of him.

  “I continually find myself needing to get away from the pressing crush of polite company,” the duke said, turning his face away from Chester. He looked out across the gardens, his form appearing pensive. Chester’s gaze moved over his profile as he listened to the man’s smooth tones, and he attempted to decipher what exactly he was trying to say. If there was some deeper meaning behind his words.

  “Do you ever feel that way, Lady Chester?”

  Chester shrugged. “I do not often find myself in polite company, Your Grace. But I do seek solace and the quiet when I have the time. Though that is not often,” Chester admitted.

  The duke nodded. “Yes, this is what I mean. So much of our lives are filled with meaningless conversations that in the end are nothing but mindless dribble. And yet, as a duke, a peer of the realm, I am to be an expert at this. I find them tedious. Why should I relegate myself to sitting in a drawing room beside a mindless chit who can do naught but talk of frippery and fashion or idle gossip when I want to talk about things of substance?”

  Chester found himself stepping close to the duke, though he wasn’t sure why he was doing so. He had given himself a stern talking to, more than once, about how the Duke of Whitcomb was off-limits to him. All gentlemen were. Chester was going to marry a man who was of his station. Perhaps he would marry a stableboy or a blacksmith. Or maybe even a butler, like his mother had. He would not set his sights high and dream of a duke. No matter how gorgeous and attentive.

  That did not mean he could not stand in the gardens and have a pleasant conversation with one.

  “And if you could have a conversation of substance with one of those young ladies right now? What things would you talk of, Your Grace? Though I do not paint myself in the same light as the ladies of the ton, I find myself curious. What things would you discuss?” Chester asked softly.

  The duke turned his piercing gaze on him, and Chester felt frozen on the spot. His toes curled and dug into the grass. His lungs burned as he tried to pull air into them. He didn’t understand how one look from the man in front of him could cause such a reaction, and yet it had. Why, when they were merely having an innocent conversation? And yet perhaps their talk was not so innocent? While on the surface it seemed they discussed their discontent with making small talk or their restrictions in their positions in society, were they not in actuality speaking of their frustration with their inability to be together? Their discontent that they could not join hands, press mouths together and taste each other’s sweetness as they had only that morning?

  Or was Chester merely projecting his own want onto the duke?

  “I would speak of the world. I would speak of the theatre, of books and poetry. Of the Colonies. Of slavery. I would speak of Nafoleon. I would speak of the orphans. I would speak of the war.” The duke said these last words in a hushed voice, and Chester found his eyes drifting downward to the man’s injured limb.

  “Do you never speak of it?” he asked and then wondered if he should have kept the question to himself.

  The Duke of Whitcomb chuckled darkly and shook his head. “No one wants to, so I cannot. Even my friends, great chaps all of them, though they use canes as I do, will not talk of it.” The duke thumped his cane into the dirt and grunted. “Everyone stares, some shake their heads, most look at me in awe as if I were the Messiah himself walking on

  water, and yet no one wants to talk about it.”

  Chester nodded. He could understand that on a certain level. Looking at the duke’s leg made a pain shoot through his own, as if he were suffering as well. He did not quite understand it. Perhaps everyone else experienced this same feeling? And yet, if this were so, how much worse must it be for the duke? To actually have endured it. The need to talk, to share, must be great.

  “I am a great listener, Your Grace. I am, in fact, a nobody. Just a maid in the home of your friend, His Grace the Duke of Pompinshire. However, if you ever want to talk and I am not attending to my duties, I will be glad to attend to you,” Chester offered.

  The duke smiled at him and held out his hand. Chester placed his own much slimmer one within the duke’s large, wide one. “You are not a nobody, Chester. You are a beautiful, generous lady, and I would be happy to talk with you, whenever I can.” He sighed. “Now I think I must return inside before they come to find me. Perhaps tonight, after you have concluded your duties and everyone is abed, we can meet back here and chat?”

  Chester knew it was dangerous. He knew he was asking for trouble, and yet staring into the eyes of the duke, seeing not only the naked desire there but also to have someone to talk to about the war, Chester nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I shall meet you here then.”

  After the sumptuous dinner at which Orley and the other guests met Heathcliff and Lady Lucien’s daughter, Eshe—a small Tafrican child and former slave whom the pair adopted after she was cast aside by a noble family—Orley slipped out to the gardens for his assignation with Chester. His heart pounded with excitement, and he could barely tamp down the anticipation coursing within his veins. He glanced around to be sure no one else was about as he limped quickly down the path toward the clearing where he had left the young lady earlier that day.

  Orley barely took note of the roses and lilies that blossomed around him, nor of the multitude of bushes that bloomed with various types of plumage. He had one destination in mind. One focus. And it was not the beauty that surrounded him; it was the enchanting figure who stood nervously, shrouded in the branches of the hedges of the garden walls.

  “Good eve, Lady Chester,” Orley greeted him.

  Chester gave him a small smile. “Good eve, Your Grace.”

  Orley sighed. Chester had called him by his given name once, and it had sent tendrils of pleasure throughout his entire being. Something that had lasted for much of the day. How he wished the young woman would dispense with his title and moniker and call him by his Christian name when they were alone. No one was about, and they would not be overheard.

  “Will you not call me Orley? Or even Whitcomb? No one is around to hear you, and I assure you that I will not tell a soul.” Orley could not believe he was pleading so, but to hear his name upon Chester’s lips again was a desire he seemed unable to shake.

  Chester hesitated and then nodded. “I believe I can do that, Your—

  Whitcomb. As long as we are alone.”

  Orley exhaled. It was a start. “Come.” He gestured to the cushioned bench that stood before a hedge. “Let us sit.”

  Orley traced over the lines of Chester’s form with his gaze as Chester walked toward the bench. Chester had exchanged the black frock and white apron of the maid’s uniform for a pale yellow linen gown. It hugged his slim shoulders tightly and smoothed down around his toned torso. It flared out only slightly around his waist, and Orley caught only the barest hint of a white petticoat beneath his skirts. It thrilled him, and he found himself growing hard. Not wanting to offend Chester’s delicate sensibilities, Orley bent over his cane more than usual and followed Chester to the bench.

  He tried his damnedest n
ot to let out a groan as he sat down next to Chester, but the slight wince he caught on the young woman’s face let him know he was not the least bit successful. He once again grew angry with the circumstances that had led him to this place. Not to sitting next to Chester, for he found that beyond pleasurable, but to being utterly dependent upon a cane. To having to take a dose of laudanum every evening just to get to sleep.

  To facing a lifetime alone. For what woman would want to lie abed with a man who would just as likely kill her if she twitched wrong while he slept as get her with child?

  “It was never my intention to buy a commission,” Orley spoke into the darkness.

  “Why did you?” Chester asked.

  Orley chuckled humorlessly. “Why does any young man who is his father’s only son do anything? I wanted to rebel. I was determined to do so. I knew that were I to die, the dukedom would pass to someone— anyone—else, and my father would be livid. But all I could think was that it would serve that crotchety old bastard right. I wanted him to turn over in his grave if the next Duke of Whitcomb were a simpleton or even a dandy, because that was something he would never stand for.”

  Chester turned to look at him for a moment before returning his gaze to the garden. “But you survived the war.”

  Orley nodded. “Yes. I did. Despite my best efforts.”

  Chester gasped. He swung wide eyes back to Orley. “You tried to die?”

  Orley shrugged. “I think in some way, down deep, I did. Not all the time and not in every battle. But there were foolhardy chances I took that no one else did. Melees I threw myself into when others retreated.” He shifted his own gaze to stare directly into Chester’s hazel eyes.

  “I had nothing to live for then.”

  “What of your friends? Would they not have mourned your passing?”

  Orley bobbed his head. “To be sure. But they would have moved on. Married, begotten heirs. Much as they are doing now. They have families who love them. Parents, siblings, cousins. Me?” He shifted on the bench and stretched out his injured leg, hissing at the pain. “I have no one. I have always had no one.”