Rescued by the Duke: Delicate Hearts Book 2

by Catherine Mayfair

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Newsletter Information

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  The Duke of Rescue

  Catherine Mayfair

  Copyright © year 2019 Catherine Mayfair

  All rights reserved.

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  Chapter One

  Miss Abigail Linton had always been a dutiful daughter. Whenever either of her parents made a request of her, Abigail complied without delay. Anyone looking in from the outside would have seen a happy young lady who enjoyed doing the bidding of her parents and believed that pleasing her parents was her deepest desires.

  However, if they were to look within the heart of the woman, they would soon learn that what they believed was not quite true. Indeed, Abigail did as she was told, and yes, she preferred to please her parents rather than anger them. Even so, doing so did not bring her joy. No, it was more a burden than a gift, and she awaited the day when she could marry and be out from under the thumb of the parents who expected much from her.

  Rising from her chair in front of the vanity, she walked over to perform one last inspection in the mirror. Her new gown was a rich blue muslin with white flowers embroidered on the bust and at the bottom hem. Stark white bows on the sleeves matched the ribbon around her neck, which had been fastened with a flower pin of the same color as her gown. The coiffure that held her red hair was of the latest style, or so Eliza, her lady’s maid, had informed her. Two long curls hung on either side of her face.

  “You are sure to attract the eye of every gentleman this night, Miss,” Eliza said as she returned the powders and brushes to their respective places in the vanity. The woman had been with Abigail for as long as she could remember, and Abigail used that feeling of confidence to tell the woman her secrets. Not once had the maid revealed anything Abigail had told her in confidence.

  “I appreciate you saying so,” Abigail said with a smile. She did not feel beautiful. Beauty existed in the women with delicate doll-like features and blond tresses, so unlike her high cheekbones and deep auburn hair. She would have done anything to possess the blue eyes desired by men and not the green eyes flecked with brown that had been bestowed upon her. However, she was who she was; there was no changing how one was born. She had learned to make do with what God had given her, even if she was given the worst end of the staff.

  “For a woman so beautiful,” Eliza said in contrast to Abigail’s thoughts as she reached up to pin a loose strand of hair, “you do not appear very happy.”

  Abigail sighed. She could never hide anything from the older woman. Even her parents did not know her as well as Eliza. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Lord Rumsfeld means to ask to court me this evening,” she said. Just the thought of such a thing happening made her cringe. “Though I do not wish to do so, Father is eager. Apparently, the man owns quite a bit of land, and Father believes our union will also benefit him.”

  Lord Patrick Linton, Fourth Baron Stanley and father to Abigail, dabbled in wool and was always complaining that finding decent land on which his sheep could graze left his head aching.

  “These men who own the majority of the land in this area find white dots of sheep marring to their views or some other nonsense,” he had explained to her during one of his rants. “How anyone could see sheep as less than a marvelous investment is beyond me. Why, if it was not for my sheep, they would be without wool, mutton, or those lovely lamb chops they so devour during their evening meals.”

  Abigail had merely nodded her agreement and said nothing, which had always been best practice when dealing with her father. Nodding agreement and making no comment, either for or against his opinion, and his rants were shorter. She had learned that early in life.

  “Wouldn’t the attentions of Lord Rumsfeld be a good thing?” Eliza asked as she stepped back to assess her handiwork.

  Abigail recognized the sympathetic smile Eliza gave her. “I suppose I should be flattered,” she said with a sigh. “However, I fear the rumors that the man is eager to wed, and that is indeed a great worry.”

  “I ask again, why would that not be a good thing?”

  “You do not understand,” Abigail said as she lowered herself onto the stool in front of the vanity. “It is not just the fear of marrying the man that has raised my concerns.”

  Eliza tilted her head. “Then, what is it that has you so afraid?”

  Abigail looked down at her hands and fought back tears. “That my father values business over what my heart desires,” she said in a low voice. “Do you not see? I find Lord Rumsfeld repulsive. His mannerisms, like the way in which he repeatedly rubs at his nose! Not to mention that all he wishes to discuss is hunting and games of sport! How can I fall in love with a man such as he?”

  This seemed to amuse Eliza. “We both know that’s how men are, Miss Abigail,” the older woman said. “But he won’t be the only available man there this evening, will he?” As she spoke, she walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a white wrap. “Maybe even the new Duke himself will be there.” Her eyes glittered as she placed the wrap around Abigail’s shoulders.

  “Richard?” Abigail asked with a laugh. “Why would I find such an interest in him?” She had been friends with the Duke of Rellingstone since childhood, yet over the last few years she had seen him but twice. They had been close at one time, certainly, but to see him as more than a friend seemed highly unlikely.

  Eliza finished adjusting the wrap. “And why is that?” she demanded, using that motherly tone with which Abigail was quite familiar. “You’ve known one another for more than a dozen years. Now he’s a duke, a man of title and wealth. And I must admit, he’s quite striking.” She said the last with a small smile.

  “Eliza!” Abigail said with a gasp. “I did not know you found him handsome.”

  The woman gave a small sniff as she collected a pair of long, white gloves from a box in the wardrobe. “Even women as old as I can still find a man handsome, even if he is a duke. Now, tell me, do you not think him the same?”

  Though she hated to admit it, Abigail did find Richard Seton, the Duke of Rellingstone, quite handsome with his dark hair and strong, blue eyes. He could make any woman swoon by simply entering a room. His presence was like a ray of light in a darkened room, and the way his clothing clung to every muscle…he was nearly perfect. However, despite these wonderful qualities, he had such a shyness that annoyed Abigail. He never spoke in defense of himself, especially when dealing with his mother, who could be overbearing at the best of times.

  “I suppose I do,” Abigail replied to the question Eliza had placed before her. “Yet, he has a timidity that is unsettling. A woman wants a man who is strong and proud, a man wh
o she can count on in times of uncertainty. I’m not sure he would be such a man if the stakes became too high.” She extended her hand so the maid could don one of the gloves.

  “Not all men are as humble as he,” Eliza agreed. “But, though he’s different than most other men, be he duke or servant, he does have a good heart. That’s a trait any woman could appreciate.” The woman patted Abigail’s hand before removing the second glove from the box.

  “I suppose you speak the truth,” Abigail said. “Yet, even over the past year, we have drifted so far apart. He is no longer the friend I once knew. No, he is a different man now. A stranger.” She paused, considering that word. “Yes, that is the way I would describe him now. A stranger.”

  Eliza smiled and took Abigail’s now gloved hands in hers. “This happened when he assumed his title, is that right?”

  Abigail nodded. “Yes, but even before that, I would say our relationship changed. I understand we are no longer children; therefore, it would be inappropriate for us to spend the same amount of time together and in the same manner as we when we were younger. However, it was he who vanished, ignoring my letters and declining my invitations.”

  With pursed lips, Eliza seemed to study Abigail. “What caused him to inherit his title?”

  What a silly question, Abigail thought. “Why, the loss of his father, of course,” she said aloud. “As a matter of fact, it was at that time that…” Her words trailed off, the realization coming over her.

  “We all grieve in different ways,” Eliza said in her quiet, motherly tone. Then she clapped her hands together and straightened. “I hope the night goes well for you regardless. Now, you had best hurry before your mother comes searching for you and gets upset.”

  Abigail went to reply, but her bedroom door flew open and her mother entered the room. For a woman of forty years, she was still as beautiful as ever. Even though she had the same auburn hair Abigail had inherited, somehow it was more becoming on her than it was on Abigail, complementing her ivory skin and deep blue eyes.

  “Come along, Abigail,” her mother said with that sharp tone she used when she felt Abigail was dawdling. “We are going to be late.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Abigail said as she rose from the stool. She glanced at Eliza, who gave her a wink, making Abigail smile, and then hurried out of the room, following her mother down the long corridor.

  “Lord Rumsfeld seeks the permission of your father to court you,” her mother said in her clipped speech. She was never one to mince her words. “He is a powerful man and can aid your father in his business dealings. I suspect you will be welcoming such a request.” Her mother raised a single eyebrow at her, a gesture that said that it was not a question but rather a statement.

  How Abigail wished she had the courage to speak her mind, to tell her mother that no, she did not welcome his attentions. That she wanted to court a man with a heart, a passion for the arts, and a basic level of humanity, not a man who was self-absorbed and haughty. These were the thoughts that bounced around in her head, willing themselves to leave her tongue, to be aired into existence.

  However, rather than doing so, she nodded her agreement and said, “Yes, Mother, I will welcome it.”

  Her mother gave a single nod. “Very good. And adjust your posture. Do you desire to have a hunched back like old Lady Simmons?”

  “No, Mother,” Abigail replied. It had always been this way, for as long as Abigail could remember. Her mother had planned her life, from her marriage to the naming of her children, and try as she might, Abigail could not speak a word against the woman, for she loved her parents dearly, and to hurt them was unthinkable.

  They came down the main staircase and stepped into the foyer, its deep amber colored walls reflecting the late afternoon sun streaming in from the upper windows.

  There, her father stood waiting. “Ah, my beautiful daughter,” the man said as she approached him. He took her hands in his and kissed her cheek. “You will be the envy of the ton, my dear.” Then he leaned in and added in a whisper, “I must let you in on a secret.”

  “Oh?” Abigail said, intrigued. “Please, do tell.”

  “I have it on good authority that Lord Rumsfeld may seek permission to court you!” he said as if he had announced the coming of a miracle, the happiness in his voice unmistakable. “Does this please you?”

  Abigail looked to her mother and then back at her father. “Yes, very much so,” she lied. How could she say words that would take away the glee from his voice?

  “You were correct, Beatrice!” he said with a laugh. “She does look forward to it.”

  “That is why I told you,” her mother said with a sniff as the butler opened the front door. “Do make sure that his business holdings are in place beforehand, Franklin. I will not have my daughter being courted by a man with financial troubles.”

  The carriage waited out front, a deep chestnut color with the family coat of arms emblazoned on the door—a laurel tree on a yellow background, which her father had said represented victory. Abigail doubted the significance, but the man had always been adamant that it had brought the family what they had today.

  As her parents entered the carriage, Abigail could not help but sigh. What awaited her on this journey was her parents discussing the wealth Lord Rumsfeld possessed as well as the admiration the ton had for the man. Abigail doubted rather highly that the ton had any admiration for Lord Rumsfeld. Yet, if he was as wealthy as her father believed he was, perhaps they did.

  As the carriage began its journey to Winchester, Abigail watched the world pass her by, and a horrible feeling came over her. What if Lord Rumsfeld wished to run her life in much the same way her parents did? For if that was indeed his intentions, she was unsure whether or not she could endure such a life.

  Chapter Two

  Richard Seton, the newly appointed Duke of Rellingstone, took a curious glance around the lavish ballroom of Helmsford Castle, his Stockbridge, Hampshire home. He was proud of the marble floors and gilt patterning that decorated the white walls, though he took little notice of it tonight. His attention lay with the people who milled around the room. Enough titled men and woman were attached to the guest list to have started their own country. From Baron to Duke, Baroness to Duchess, not a single person in attendance—besides the staff of servants, of course—was not a part of the ton. Apparently, that was the way it was supposed to be, at least according to his mother. His father had reminded Richard of this fact quite often, that it was a privilege for any person to be in the presence of a duke. According to the man, no one of the ton would stoop to such a level as to invite a commoner to such a gathering; the idea was near blasphemous.

  One man who was not of the ton, however, Richard had wanted to invite. Mr. Barnabas Shrilling was a master butcher in the nearby town of Sutten, and the man had a keen sense for business and mannerisms that could have outshone most of those of the ton. There was a strength in the way the man executed his skills, a ruggedness that sometimes Richard felt he himself lacked. However, he was not meant to handle a weapon, for that was how he saw the butcher’s knife. His father had insisted that, if he were called to serve in the British Army, Richard would be wearing a sword only has a decorative piece and not as an implement of death. That would be left for those in the ranks beneath his station, therefore allowing him to never dirty his hands in such sordid business.

  It was not that Richard wanted to kill another man. What he wanted was to be allowed to live out his life as he saw fit, and if it meant learning to fence in order to carry a sword, then so be it. Yet, even after his father died, the young Duke never had time for learning feats of strength, for his days were spent in working with ledgers and coordinating all that belonged to his estate.

  Releasing a sigh, Richard shook his head. He could not spend his days thinking on what might have been. The past was just that—the past, and his father was now gone just over a year, leaving Richard to take over the title. For many years before his death, the former Duke
had prepared his son well in the ways of business and the manner in which he should conduct himself in public, and such skill did help Richard to look toward the future.

  Thinking of the future brought him to search the crowd for the face of one woman in particular, Miss Abigail Linton. She stood beside her mother, as beautiful as he remembered, in her blue dress the color of a late evening sky. He had enjoyed their friendship for many years, but they had become distance as of late. It had been on the decline in recent years, but after the passing of his father, it had become nonexistent. What had once been a great bond had slowly dwindled away, and he feared there was only a strand of what they once had remaining, if even that.

  Yet, it was not that bond they shared that pained him. The fact was that he had loved her for as long as he could remember. Inside, he carried such fear, a fear of sharing his feelings for her, to tell her he cared for her. By the time he had developed the most minute amount of courage, the right time to do so never came, others were always about, or he had to leave town on some business or family matter. Then, he would return only to find her family had just left on their own journey of some sort. His father might have told him that he could have anything he wanted in life, but he knew he could never have her. She was the daughter of a baron and he a duke, but somehow, he found her far above him in so many ways. He would never find the courage to tell her outright that which lay in his heart.

  He took a sip of his port, the strong liquid settling his nerves. Tonight could be an opportunity to speak to her, he realized. She was there, as if waiting, and he took a deep breath before setting his now empty glass on a side table. Straightening his coat, he took a step forward and then stopped.

  His eyes narrowed as Lord Rumsfeld walked up to Abigail and her mother. The man was handsome, dressed impeccably, and Richard found his annoyance of the man grow tenfold.

  “My son stares off into the distance as though pained,” his mother said as she came to stand beside him. “What bothers you, Son?”