Cinderella and the Duke

by Janice Preston

  Thirty years of age, and the past fourteen years of her life spent raising Freddie, their stepsister, Nell, and stepbrother, Jack, after their own mother died of childbed fever. Rosalind had long accepted she would never marry or have children and she had always been content with her lot until her beloved stepfather had died quite unexpectedly last spring, leaving chaos in the wake of his passing.

  Step-Papa had made his will, leaving pensions for both Rosalind and Freddie and making provision for a generous dowry for Nell. The title and estates now belonged to fourteen-year-old Jack, Eighth Earl of Lydney, and those estates were held in trust for him until his twenty-first birthday. But the late Earl’s younger brother—named in his will as guardian to his children—had predeceased him by three short months and the Court of Chancery in London had appointed Nell and Jack’s maternal uncle, Sir Peter Tadlow—their closest male relative—as their guardian.

  Yes, Rosalind had been content, until Sir Peter had descended upon Lydney Hall to ‘fulfil my obligations to my dearest nephew.’ It had not taken long for his true nature to emerge. Lydney Hall was soon plagued by visits from Sir Peter’s friends and acquaintances, with Jack’s inheritance paying the bills. Sir Peter did not hide his utter contempt for Rosalind and Freddie and their humble parentage—their father had been a soldier, the son of a silversmith, who had eloped with the granddaughter of a duke—and he and his visitors viewed Rosalind as ‘fair game’ and Freddie as an object of ridicule. They would have remained at the Hall and tolerated any amount of unpleasantness, however, had it not been for Sir Peter’s plans for Nell.

  Rosalind swallowed down her impotent rage at the thought of seven long, frustrating years with Jack’s estates and future under the control of that...wastrel.

  As she arrived at the gate of Stoney End, the modest house they had called home for the past fortnight, Rosalind tore her brooding thoughts from her long-term future, directing them to the next few days instead. Immediately, a handsome face with a mesmeric gaze and sensual lips invaded her thoughts and that peculiar blend of yearning and curiosity swirled through her once more.

  Leo.

  Would they meet again? Should she fear such a meeting? Should she fear him?

  Her intuition told her no...at least, not in the way she might fear another meeting with Lascelles. But there remained a thread of unease. Even as an innocent, she sensed the danger of a different kind that he posed.

  To her. To her heart. To her peace of mind.

  Chapter Two

  Leo Alexander Beauchamp, Sixth Duke of Cheriton, reined his horse to a halt and twisted in the saddle to peer back along the lane.

  The woman—back straight, head high—continued on her way, her shawl wrapped tightly around her form, accentuating the provocative sway of her hips as she walked. Her face materialised in his mind’s eye. Not a predictable youthful beauty, but a hypnotically attractive woman. She had met his gaze with challenge but, more enticingly, with a welcome lack of calculation and coquetry—two traits he had become adept in recognising in the ladies of the ton in the thirteen years since Margaret, his wife, had died. A titled, wealthy widower—even one who was a father of three—was always of interest to the fairer sex.

  Mrs Pryce. Presumably there must be a Mr Pryce somewhere. He should put her from his mind, then.

  And yet...there had been a definite spark when their eyes had locked, as when a hammer struck stone. He huffed a near-silent laugh—an apt metaphor, perhaps: the clash of a mighty force against an unyielding substance. She had certainly exhibited a steely resistance to Lascelles. The thought of his cousin triggered the sudden awareness that he was sitting on his horse in the middle of a country lane, staring after a stranger. He squeezed Conqueror into motion.

  And there was Vernon, waiting for him, a wide smile on his face.

  ‘Whatever you’re about to say...don’t.’

  ‘Me?’ Lord Vernon Beauchamp—Leo’s brother and his junior by four years—feigned a look of innocence. ‘I am only concerned you may not find your way back to Halsdon without my guidance.’

  ‘I’m not in my dotage yet,’ Leo growled. It was something of a sore point, as he had recently passed his fortieth birthday. ‘My homing instinct is as keen as it ever was.’

  Vernon glanced over his shoulder, then quirked a brow at Leo. ‘I can see that.’

  Leo narrowed his eyes at his brother. ‘She’s married.’

  Having been in the position of cuckolded husband himself, Leo was not about to inflict that indignity on any other man.

  ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘we are only here another ten days. If I stay that long.’

  ‘Still fretting about Olivia?’

  ‘I do not fret.’

  He was a duke: head of a large extended family, wealthy, powerful. Nothing could threaten him.

  ‘Cecily is wise to Olivia’s wiles and tricks,’ Vernon went on, in complete disregard of Leo’s obvious wish to be done with the topic. ‘Lord, that girl is a minx, Leo.’

  Leo knew it. His only daughter and youngest child, eighteen-year-old Olivia was on the brink of her introduction to polite society. Her upbringing alongside her older brothers had instilled in her a deeply felt sense of injustice at the unfairness that allowed them so much more freedom than she could now enjoy. Leo had left her in London in the care of his sister, Cecily, who had raised Leo’s children after their mother was murdered.

  ‘I said I do not—’

  ‘And Beauchamp House is more secure than the Tower of London,’ Vernon went on, seemingly oblivious to Leo’s growing irritation. ‘They will be safe without you for a couple of weeks.’

  Leo curbed his exasperation. Families! They saw too much and they understood too much. He might have no need to fret, but that did not stop him worrying about his children, and Vernon knew it. ‘And Alex?’ he said. ‘Who will keep a tight rein on him?’

  The younger of his two sons, Alexander was twenty, and growing more sullen and secretive by the day.

  ‘Avon will keep him out of trouble...at least he gives you no cause for concern.’

  Dominic, Marquess of Avon, was Leo’s eldest son and the heir to the dukedom, who indeed gave Leo little cause for concern. In fact, he was almost too serious for such a young man. Leo’s heart clenched. Was it because his children had lost their mother so early in life that he worried so about them? An unusual feeling stirred, deep in his gut.

  Fear. No, not fear. Vulnerability. That was it. He didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit. How he wished he could keep them all—particularly Olivia—shut away safely at Cheriton Abbey for the rest of their lives, even though the Abbey hadn’t proved a place of safety for Margaret, who had been violated and strangled in a summerhouse. The impossibility of completely controlling his family’s surroundings was a constant worry. Leaving London to come to Halsdon Manor—against his natural instincts to stay put and to protect—was how he proved to himself he would not succumb to this irrational fear.

  Uncomfortable with such feelings and thoughts, he thrust them aside.

  ‘Come, let us catch up with the others,’ he said and nudged Conqueror into a trot.

  They soon caught up with Richard, Lord Stanton, walking his horse on a loose rein, a preoccupied look on his face. A look, Leo guessed, that had everything to do with his new wife, Felicity—Leo’s cousin and former ward.

  ‘Where’s our esteemed host?’ Vernon asked.

  ‘Rode on ahead,’ Stanton said, with a curl of his lip. ‘That poor animal of his won’t last another year if he carries on riding him so hard. He can’t even be bothered to walk him home to cool him off gradually. Mind you...’ he slanted a look at Leo ‘...it’ll give him a chance to get that temper of his under control before you two meet again.’

  Leo shrugged. ‘Anthony always had a nasty streak and it seems he hasn’t improved since he
’s been away, not if that little interlude is anything to go by.’ His cousin had spent several years in the Americas, returning to England only a few months previously. ‘I suspected this trip was a bad idea, but I thought I owed him the benefit of the doubt when he invited me.’

  Plus—although he would not admit it to the other men—he was a little relieved to leave London behind for a while. He could not bear yet another simpering young miss being thrust in front of his nose by ambitious parents keen to ally themselves with the house of Beauchamp. He did not want, or need, another wife. His first marriage had cured him of any desire to wed again.

  ‘You owe him nothing, Leo,’ Vernon said. ‘It’s hardly your fault Uncle Claude refused to marry his mother.’

  ‘But if he had married her, Lascelles would be the Duke now.’

  ‘He was right not to marry her,’ Stanton said. ‘An actress and a whore for a duchess? And can you imagine a man like Lascelles with that amount of power and wealth?’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking of.’

  ‘We can always go home earlier than planned if Anthony becomes too obnoxious,’ Vernon said. ‘There’ll be nothing else to keep us here once Stan’s had a look at those ponies for Felicity.’

  Leo grunted in agreement as they rode through the gates of Halsdon Manor.

  Stanton had been searching for a pair of ponies suitable for Felicity to drive and Lascelles knew of a suitable pair for sale by his neighbour, Sir William Rockbeare, a renowned horse breeder and trainer, prompting Stanton to join the hunting party. Unfortunately, on their arrival two days before, they had learned Sir William was away from home and not expected to return for almost a week.

  Nothing else to keep us here...

  The memory surfaced of the woman, stick in hand, facing up to Lascelles. Leo found himself hoping that there was indeed a Mr Pryce. There was no sense in getting entangled in anything unnecessarily. No sense at all.

  * * *

  ‘You were gone a long time, Ros. Did Hector run you ragged?’

  Rosalind hooked her shawl over a peg by the back door and smiled at Freddie, who was scratching Hector’s shaggy ears.

  ‘He tried to,’ she said. ‘Then, on the way back, the sheep were out in the lane again and it took an age to put them back into the field.’

  She thrust the encounter with the gentlemen from Halsdon Manor to the back of her mind, determined not to trouble Freddie with what had happened. It would only worry him to no purpose, for there was nothing he could do. Hopefully Lascelles would remain occupied with his guests and then the Season would start, the hunting party would return to London to continue their lives of idle pleasure and Lascelles would forget all about their meeting.

  ‘I hope Sir William appreciates you keeping his sheep safe.’ Freddie lurched awkwardly down the passage, leaning heavily on his crutch, and disappeared through the door leading to the main rooms of their temporary home.

  Rosalind followed her younger brother to the front parlour, where a welcoming fire flickered, lending a homely charm to the shabby room. It could not match Lydney Hall for comfort and space, but at least it was somewhere to call home.

  ‘It’s the least I can do when he refuses to accept any rent for this place,’ she said. ‘I do not know what we would have done had he not offered us sanctuary.’

  Sir William Rockbeare was an old friend of their late stepfather—the Earl of Lydney—and it was to him they appealed for help when forced to flee Lydney Hall two weeks before, together with their stepsister, Nell, Lady Helena Caldicot. Thankfully their young stepbrother, Jack, the new Lord Lydney, was safely at school. Rosalind was still petrified Sir Peter would discover Nell’s whereabouts before she made her come-out.

  Would he...could he...force Nell to marry that awful toad, Viscount Bulbridge, to whom—Freddie had discovered—Sir Peter was deep in debt? When Sir Peter had bartered Nell’s dowry against those debts without a care for the future happiness of his niece, Rosalind had seen no other option but to remove her from his control immediately. She had written to Step-Papa’s eldest sister, Lady Glenlochrie, to beg her to come down from her home in Scotland to take Nell under her protection and present her to society. And now Nell was safely in London and Rosalind and Freddie were here—for the time being at least. What a messy situation it was to be in...and how precarious.

  Freddie had turned at her words, and, as he did so, he stumbled. Rosalind darted forward and clutched his arm to prevent him falling.

  He shook her away. ‘I can manage.’

  Rosalind bit her lip. Would she never learn? But she could not help herself: with Freddie, her instinct always was to help and to protect, as she had done his entire life. ‘I am sorry.’

  As usual, when his lameness was mentioned, even obliquely, Freddie ignored it. He returned to their previous conversation as he lowered himself on to a chair.

  ‘We would have coped. Jack is safe at school and we could have continued straight to Lady Glenlochrie in Scotland, if necessary. Sir Peter will not dare to flout her: she might be widowed, but she still has influence. And as for you and me, my dear Ros...as usual, we are of no interest to anyone. That is one benefit of being the product of such a shocking mésalliance,’ he added, with a wry smile.

  After Papa and Mama had eloped, Mama’s father—Lord Humphrey Hillyer, youngest son of the Duke of Bacton—had disowned her, refusing to relent even after Papa was killed in the same carriage accident that had maimed one-year-old Freddie for life. Rosalind’s hand crept to her locket, her throat aching with the memory.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘The only benefit, as far as I can see.’

  Freddie shot her a sharp look and she cursed her loose tongue. Five years older than her brother, Rosalind had always shielded Freddie from the truth of their parents’ marriage, with its vicious quarrels and their mother’s frequent tears. The last memory Rosalind had of their mother and father together had been of their bitter argument as they travelled home from a visit to Grandpa, a visit her mother had hated.

  Her sixth birthday. The day her darling papa was killed.

  Her mother had bloomed after Papa’s death. Confused and distraught, Rosalind had mourned alone. She had lost Grandpa, too, that day. She had no idea if he was even alive still...no idea how or where she might find him. Mama had made certain of that.

  ‘Are you envious that Nell will have the opportunity denied to you?’ Freddie watched her intently.

  ‘No, I am not, if by opportunity you mean marriage to a gentleman of the ton.’ She could think of nothing more likely to bring her misery. ‘Besides, the opportunity was not denied me, Freddie. Step-Papa offered me a Season when I was nineteen, with the idea of finding a husband, but I declined. And I am happy I did so.’

  Or I might have ended up with an unequal union such as Mama and Papa’s.

  Love had not been enough for her mother. Papa had tried to keep her content and happy, but Mama had hankered after luxuries poor Papa could not afford. Mama’s second marriage, to the Earl of Lydney, had been much happier than her first and that, to Rosalind’s mind, proved that no good comes of marrying outside one’s own class.

  The late Lord Lydney had been a generous and loving stepfather and, when Mama died of influenza, he had continued to support Rosalind and Freddie as if they were his own children, even though their maternal relatives continued to disown them. When his second wife had died after giving birth to Jack, Rosalind, then sixteen, became a replacement mother to Freddie, eleven, Nell, four, and baby Jack and, three years later, when presented with the chance of a Season in London in order to find a husband, she had opted to stay at home with her family. She had never regretted her choice. The thought of facing her maternal relatives and their censorious friends, with their contempt and their snubs, filled her with dread even now.

  The poor relations. The nobodies. The spinster and the cr
ipple.

  No, she held no envy in her heart for Nell and her forthcoming debut into polite society.

  ‘Well, with any luck,’ Freddie said, ‘Nell will find herself a husband during the Season and he will keep her safe.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ Rosalind sank on to the sofa with a sigh. ‘I cannot be easy that we have left Sir Peter in sole occupation of Lydney, Freddie. Heaven knows what havoc he will wreak. If only Step-Papa had realised the danger of him being appointed guardian, I am sure he would have altered his will as soon as his brother died.’

  Her fingers were twisting together in her lap and she forced her hands to lie still. The weight of responsibility lay heavy upon her. Her stepfather would expect her to protect Jack’s inheritance, but although she and Freddie had both tried to stand up to Sir Peter, in the end they’d had to admit defeat.

  ‘We couldn’t have stayed there, Ros,’ Freddie said. ‘We were right to leave. If we had not, poor Nell would be married off to Bulbridge by now. But I agree. If Tadlow is left on a free rein, Jack won’t have much of an estate to take over when he reaches his majority.’

  Rosalind silently cursed their lack of power. ‘Maybe I should ask Sir William’s advice on it all?’

  She had been reluctant to burden their benefactor with more of their troubles. They did not know him well, though he had been a lifelong friend of the late Earl.

  ‘I will consult him as soon as he returns from his visit to his daughter,’ Freddie said.

  Sir William had left Foxbourne the day after their arrival, on a long-planned visit to his widowed daughter and his grandchildren, who lived in the north.

  Freddie’s quiet statement penetrated Rosalind’s thoughts. ‘You need not bother yourself, Freddie. I will deal with it.’

  Freddie had his sketching, his insatiable appetite for books and his interest in politics to occupy him. She did not want him troubled. He had enough to contend with and the mockery he’d endured from Sir Peter and his friends had only increased Rosalind’s determination to protect him from the harshness of life.