The Dream of a Duchess
Page 1
The Dream of a Duchess
Linda Rae Sande
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
The Dream of a Duchess
ISBN: 978-1-946271-08-2
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2018 Linda Rae Sande
V1.0
Cover photograph © PeriodImages.com
Background photograph © iStockPhoto.com
Cover art by KGee Designs.
All rights reserved - used with permission.
Library of Congress Control Number:
Twisted Teacup Publishing, Cody, WY
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Created with Vellum
To Dan and Carrie for all the help with the horses
Contents
Regency Romances by Linda Rae Sande
1. An Accidental Death
2. A Twin Brother’s Secret
3. Breakfast Interrupted
4. A Woman Pursued
5. A Terrifying Tale
6. Post-Proposal Euphoria
7. A Confession Explains Much
8. Talk of a New Life
9. News of a Death Reaches London
10. An Earl Claims He’s Going to Claim a Countess
11. A Proposition Comes from an Unlikely Source
12. An Earl Pays a Call on a Vicar
13. A Visit to Huntinghurst
14. An Earl Pays a Call on Fair Downs
15. Double the Choice, Double the Confusion
16. A Ducal Visit to a Ward
17. A Wedding Breakfast
18. An Earl Pays a Call, a Duke Pays a Visit
19. A Box Revealed
20. An Unexpected After Dinner Guest
21. A Puppy Changes Everything
22. Pillow Talk
23. A Duke Prepares for a Trip
24. Homecoming at Huntinghurst
25. Luncheon with a Distracted Duke
26. A Visit to the Stables
27. A Dance After Dinner
28. The Truth Revealed
29. An Earl Pays Another Call on a Duke
30. News of a Late Earl from Another Earl
31. Navigating the Charts
32. Confession is Such Sweet Sorrow
33. A Laborious Night
34. Bathing is Such an Interesting Endeavor
35. Awakened and Aroused
36. The Morning After
37. A Reminder of a Promise
38. A Ride to the Folly
39. A Visit from a Father and a Cousin
Epilogue
A Note to the Reader
Also by Linda Rae Sande
About the Author
Regency Romances by Linda Rae Sande
The Daughters of the Aristocracy
The Kiss of a Viscount
The Grace of a Duke
The Seduction of an Earl
The Sons of the Aristocracy
Tuesday Nights
The Widowed Countess
My Fair Groom
The Sisters of the Aristocracy
The Story of a Baron
The Passion of a Marquess
The Desire of a Lady
The Brothers of the Aristocracy
The Love of a Rake
The Caress of a Commander
The Epiphany of an Explorer
The Widows of the Aristocracy
The Gossip of an Earl
The Enigma of a Widow
The Secrets of a Viscount
The Widowers of the Aristocracy
The Dream of a Duchess
The Cousins of the Aristocracy
The Promise of a Gentleman
The Pride of a Gentleman
The Holidays of the Aristocracy
The Christmas of a Countess
Chapter 1
An Accidental Death
April 1813, Craythorne Manor near Basingstoke
The seal had long ago been broken, the bits of dark red wax having fallen to a marble floor many miles away. There was no discernible impression left in the seal. Isabella wondered if there had ever been one as she turned the folded missive over between shaking fingers.
The first words she had already read several times.
My dearest Arabella, You will forever be in my thoughts, for I fear for your life. Mine may as well be over.
The simple “D” at the bottom provided little in the way of a hint as to whom might have written the missive, but then the message obviously required anonymity. The need for secrecy.
It seems fate has only been kind in one regard. Oh, how I wish I could be with you when that kindness is delivered. Let us hope it won’t result in your demise.
Isabella read the last line over and over, confusion and fright building to the point she thought she might faint.
And she never fainted.
Why ever would Mum need to fear for her life? Or whatever had Mum done to fear for her life?
Isabella dipped her hand into the pocket of her riding habit, feeling for the pasteboard calling card her mother had given to her a long time ago. The corners were bent and frayed, but the print was still visible.
If something should ever happen to me, be sure to find this gentleman. He’ll know what to do.
The instructions hadn’t come with a sense of foreboding, but rather had been made as if the man would be able to provide assistance in some way. Perhaps he was the solicitor assigned to her parents’ estate, or an accomptant charged with seeing to their accounts.
Staring at the name, Isabella frowned.
David Fitzwilliam.
She glanced at the letter again, rereading the simple D at the bottom.
David.
D.
She slid the card back into her pocket, giving her head a quick shake. Certainly she would know this David Fitzwilliam if she ever saw him. He had probably been to the Craythorne estate on business in the past.
Or was he the ‘D’ from the missive?
The question had Isabella Tolson’s heart racing as she carefully refolded the note and returned it to its hiding place in her mother’s vanity drawer.
How long ago had the note been written?
The parchment was old, the scrawl that of a man’s hand. She knew it was not her father’s, as she would recognize the flourish of his script. Maxwell Tolson, Earl of Craythorne, had beautiful handwriting. Despite his beefy fingers, he took great care in how he formed his letters, in how his words lined up along imaginary lines across the page.
This missive was written by someone who was in a hurry. Someone who was fearful. Someone who was...
The creak in the floor behind her had Isabella turning with a gasp. She relaxed a bit at finding her mother regarding her, even if it was with a frown and crossed arms.
“Hullo, Mum,” she managed, a bit sheepish as she dipped her head.
“What did I tell you about going through my things?” Arabella, Countess of Craythorne, asked as she continued into her dressing room. The light from the west-facing window bathed her in a golden glow, casting red glints
in her otherwise dark hair. All the Brotherton women shared the hair coloring, along with an oval face, dark brows, long lashes, and a pert nose that together gave them an elegant appearance.
Isabella rather wished she had her mother’s nose, but it was not to be. At least she had the oval face and the beautiful hair, although her curls were sometimes unruly.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I... I was bored,” Isabella replied, hoping her sudden fear for her mother wasn’t evident in her coloring. She was sure her face was bright red just from having been caught sneaking about in the dressing room. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
Arabella sighed, knowing full well her daughter wasn’t interested in needlework, or drawing, or practicing the piano-forté. Having grown up with a younger brother, Isabella had become a bit of a hoyden, preferring horses to dolls and riding horses to more domestic pursuits. “Perhaps it’s time we see to a Season in London for you,” the countess suggested. At nearly nineteen, Isabella was past the age for her come-out, although she still didn’t know all the dances performed at a ton ball. Having grown up at the Craythorne country estate near Basingstoke—her father had dubbed it Craythorne Castle—she didn’t have the experience others of her age in London had when it came to socializing with daughters of aristocrats.
Or the sons, for that matter.
Isabella’s eyes widened. “Truly?” she whispered. The idea of a Season in London wasn’t so exciting because of the balls, or soirées, or garden parties, but rather because she wanted to attend another play at the theatre, and she wanted a chance to go to Tattersall’s.
She had only been to the theatre the one time, but the evening had been exciting. A naval battle had been reenacted on stage, the ships actually floating in a tank of water as they exchanged mock gunfire. John, her younger brother by less than three years, had been so impressed, he asked if he could become a naval officer.
Isabella would never forget how his face fell when he was informed he couldn’t join the British Navy. He was the only heir to the Craythorne earldom.
There was no spare.
As for Tattersall’s, she just wanted to see the horses. Study their pedigrees and work up imaginary pairings. Study the shapes of their heads and watch how they walked. Compare colors and composition. Should her father decide to bid on one, she was sure she could provide him with the information to choose the best one to enhance his already impressive stables.
“Do you really think father will allow me a Season this year?”
Arabella angled her head to one side. “The earl has to go to London to attend Parliament. I see no reason as to why we cannot go along and stay in the terrace with him.”
Well, she could think of one, but Isabella didn’t need to know about him. “I’ll speak to the earl about it during dinner this evening,” she replied. “In the meantime, I do believe you’re expected at the stables for your afternoon ride.”
Nodding, Isabella gave a quick curtsy. “Thank you, Mum.”
“Don’t be long, though. Dinner is at seven, and you’ll have to bathe and change, remember.”
Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at the reminder, Isabella murmured, “Yes, Mum,” and hurried from the dressing room, her riding habit nearly catching on the corner of the door.
The countess watched as her daughter left the room. When she heard the girl’s half-boots on the main stairs, she turned her attention back to her vanity and moved to open the drawer.
She knew Isabella had been reading one of the many letters she kept hidden in the drawer. Most were bundled with a satin ribbon—those from her friends or her late mother—but some were loose. Frowning, she pulled the one that looked as if it was out of place and winced when she saw the scrawl on the front.
“Bad news?”
The deep voice of Maxwell Tolson had her body jerking in surprise as she whirled around to find her husband regarding her with a scowl. He wore a loosely-tied robe, his bare feet apparent beneath the hem. “You frightened me,” she accused, turning back around to slip the missive into the drawer. “As to the news, there wasn’t any. Your daughter was simply reading the old letters from my mother and cousin,” she added as she moved to place a hand on the earl’s chest. “Are you already dressing for dinner?”
Maxwell regarded his wife for a moment, his brows still furrowed. The expression made him appear far older and more dangerous than he normally looked. “Not for a couple of hours or so,” he hedged, his eyes suddenly darkening. “Until then, will you join me in my bed?”
Arabella blinked. Her husband rarely asked her to join him in his bed. When he was of a mind for conjugal relations, he usually came to her bedchamber, and did so well after dark. “I will,” she replied with a nod, making sure she arched an approving eyebrow. She regarded him for another moment, wondering what he had in mind. “Except it’s my lady’s maid’s day off, and she hasn’t yet returned from the village. I don’t expect her back until six o’clock.”
His frown deepening, he gave a shake of his head. “I don’t wish to bed your lady’s maid.”
Angling her head while managing an expression of contrition, she whispered, “Are you prepared to play lady’s maid in her place? You’ll need to undo the buttons on my gown.” She turned around, her chin ending up on one shoulder as she presented her back to him.
“I think I can manage a few buttons,” he claimed as he moved to stand behind her. The earl undid the first fastening, his large fingers struggling with the jet button. “Forgive me,” he whispered before grasping the edges of the fabric in both hands and simply ripping it apart.
Arabella allowed a slight gasp of shock as the black buttons scattered over the Aubusson carpeting, dancing about until they came to rest on the master bedchamber and dressing room floors. She hadn’t even managed to face the earl before he had the tapes of her petticoats torn apart. In the next moment, he had her in his arms and in the next, she was on his bed, left wearing only her corset and stockings.
Her breasts swelling in anticipation, Arabella tugged at the top of the fabric cups of her corset. She knew Maxwell found the action erotic, for he always paused to watch as she barely allowed her suddenly engorged nipples to escape the confines of the lawn fabric. When she moved her hands to the ties of his robe, he suddenly stilled them with his own, gripping her wrists in one large hand.
“Not yet,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He allowed his gaze to travel over his wife’s corseted body, his attention settling on one exposed breast just as the afternoon sun suddenly bathed her entire body in a golden glow.
“Now?” she whispered, her breaths coming in short gasps. At one time, she cursed her body for its wicked reaction to his attentions. Now, she merely accepted the pleasures whilst imagining someone else providing them.
The earl shook his head, his lips suddenly descending onto the breast. Knowing he would expect a reaction, she lifted her chest just a bit and raked her fingertips into his unruly hair. Her purrs had him groaning as he moved his attentions to the other breast. She wasn’t even aware of him spreading open his robe until he was suddenly inside her, filling her over and over again, his crisp, graying curls tickling her nipples whilst his tongue and teeth nibbled on an earlobe.
Maxwell’s body might have been a bit large and his manner at times brusque and unforgiving, but Arabella had long ago learned he wanted her for more than just a mother for his heir. He had confessed his desires on many a dark night—at least he had after she had given birth to a daughter.
She often wondered if he suspected she had already given her heart to another. Her heart and her maidenhood. If so, Maxwell never asked her who might have ruined her. Never accused her of infidelity. Never put voice to doubt about the parentage of the girl who was now on her afternoon ride. Who was proving to be just as contrary as Arabella could be when stubbornness overruled good sense.
The earl allowed Arabella the occasional bouts of contrary behavior, but he was also quick to anger should she test his patience. Arabella s
imply learned when he was about to reach his limit and relented, usually throwing herself into his arms and begging forgiveness. The move would leave him momentarily confused, but distracted enough that his anger rarely disrupted the household.
Later, he would visit her in her bedchamber. Arabella never knew if he did do so to worship her body or to pretend to punish her for her insolence.
He had another child on her two years later. Their son, John, was away at Eton and would attend university in another year.
As for Isabella, a Season in London was on the horizon, although Arabella often wondered if there was a gentleman of the ton who could abide the girl’s obsession with horses, one that might exceed his own.
Her attention was suddenly back on her husband, for when his entire body lifted from hers, he went rigid. She thought at first he was on the verge of his release, but his eyes were dark as they regarded her.
“What is it?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “Why did you stop?”
Despite her attempts to hold onto him, Maxwell pulled his body from hers. “Who were you thinking about just then?” he asked, his voice gruff with menace.
Arabella blinked. “Why, you, of course,” she whispered as one thumb flicked over chest, barely grazing a nipple. Usually the move brought at least a hiss or a grunt of satisfaction from him, but not this time.
She glanced around, wondering what had captured his attention. Why he might have thought she had been distracted.