Love Stories of Enchanting Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  “The Duke never comes in here, Mr Winchester. And the truth is he has hardly spent much time out of his bed these last few days.”

  “He is unwell?” Daniel asked, despite being fairly certain of the diagnosis.

  “He is still suffering the effects of the strong liquor he took the other evening. Largely because, in a bid to feel better each day, he medicates himself with yet more strong liquor. But it only works for a little while and then he is back in bed again.”

  “Liquor is a terrible affliction when it takes hold of a person.”

  “Which is why most people do not let it get that far, Mr Winchester,” she said a little shortly. “Forgive me, but I shall struggle to find any sympathy for my husband currently.”

  “And with very good reason,” Daniel agreed, knowing that he ought not to take sides.

  It was one thing to provide a listening ear and quite another to pass judgement. But given how he felt about his employer at that moment, his response was certainly subdued.

  “Tell me, how long have you worked for the Duchy?” she said, changing direction.

  “Almost ten years now, I suppose,” he said and thought about it for a moment. “Yes, ten years. I had not been in practice for very long, and I was very pleased when His Grace offered me the opportunity to deal with several of the Duchy’s legal issues. There were two attorneys working for the Duchy previously, but one had retired, and the other had sadly passed away.”

  “But the Duke only took on one attorney? Just you?”

  “Yes, although I had always imagined that he would take on another. And so, as time went on, I found myself here more and more and with my private clients becoming fewer and fewer.”

  “And do you have any private clients now, or do you solely work for the Duchy?”

  “One or two private clients, but the larger part of my work is here.”

  “When you first saw me, Mr Winchester, you did not like me very much did you?”

  Daniel hardly knew what to say and wondered if she was changing conversational direction so suddenly as a means of tripping him up.

  “Your Grace, I did not know you,” he said, not wanting to lie to her but not wanting to tell her the truth either.

  “It is alright, Mr Winchester, I did not like you very much either.”

  “Does it matter very much what our first impressions of each other were?”

  “Out of simple curiosity, yes,” she said a little mischievously. “But in terms of being friends now, no, not at all.”

  “Then we are friends?” he said and stared into her eyes, almost challenging her to look away.

  “I hope so. I am very short on friends here, Mr Winchester.”

  “It is a daunting place, Lytton Hall. I think the servants might be friendlier if they were not so cautious.”

  “Oh yes, I think they are afraid of my husband. At first, I could not fathom it. Whilst I have never found his company particularly inspiring, he had never done anything or said anything to make me afraid. And I must admit, I could hardly imagine him upsetting the household staff either.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I have seen enough to know that I was very wrong about that.”

  “I wish I could have advised you on the matter, but I had never imagined either that His Grace would behave in the way he has done in these last days. I am quite surprised by it myself.”

  “Do you think he is a bad man, Mr Winchester?”

  “I do not know if he is truly a bad man or if he is just behaving badly. But I daresay the distinction is neither here nor there when you are on the receiving end of it. In short, I think his behaviour towards you was despicable.” Once again, he was making a judgement out loud when he knew he ought not to.

  “As much as I despise him for what he did, I think I agree with you. I do not think Augustus is a bad man; I just think that he had expectations of this marriage that were unrealistic. Perhaps that is the source of his anger.”

  “Yes, perhaps he feels a fool.”

  “And I would never have wanted him to feel that way. I have never had any fond feelings for him, especially given how it is I came to be here, but he was kind to me in the beginning. And he has never made a prisoner of me, declaring that my family may visit whenever they wish.” She shrugged as if that hardly mattered. “But I see my friend every week and am glad of it.”

  “That is where you go on a Thursday?” Daniel said as his curiosity piqued.

  “Yes, I have had a standing invitation to a bridge afternoon for a few years now, and it was a place I always went with my dear friends Ariadne and Miles.” She suddenly looked a little taken aback as if she had said something she had not intended to say.

  “Then it must be a comfort to you to see them both every week,” Daniel said, angling for more information.

  “I only see Ariadne now.” The look of pain that suddenly took over her beautiful face told Daniel everything that he needed to know.

  If she did not love this man Miles now, then she certainly had done at one stage in her life. Perhaps they had even been close; Daniel had no way of telling.

  But the idea that she might love another man was quietly devastating to him. Quite why that should be, he could not say, for it was not as if she was a free woman. She was a married woman, a Duchess, and whether or not she loved somebody else ought not to matter at all.

  Daniel knew that he was allowing himself to hope where there could be none. He was beginning to fall for this beautiful woman who was both young and wise, both warm and cold, both self-contained and vulnerable.

  The idea of it, the sudden knowledge, brought him up short. He could not do this; he could not let himself continue to seek out ways into her heart. It was not fair to her, and it was certainly pointless as far as Daniel was concerned.

  Perhaps it really was time to move on, to return his practice to the town and have a vast array of clients whom he left at the office door, never knowing the ins and outs of their lives.

  “It is always nice to have somebody to confide in, is it not?” he said, knowing he must speak soon or risk embarrassing her.

  He felt suddenly as if his thoughts were clouded, obscured, and he knew that he was fighting himself, trying to resist falling for the young woman who could never be his.

  “Yes, and I am very grateful to have Ariadne. And I am very grateful to you too, Mr Winchester. You have been very kind to me these last days.”

  “You are welcome.”

  When he finally set foot outside the French windows and into the warm midday air, Daniel knew that he would have to find a way to get Eliza Tate out of his system.

  Chapter 12

  “My Dear Ariadne,

  I know I only wrote to you but two days ago, but after receiving your reply this morning, I am bound to write and tell you that I am feeling very much better and insist you not worry about me.

  Please forgive the tone of my last letter, the fear and desolation, for I can only imagine what havoc that wrought upon your very tender feelings.

  Whilst everything I told you was true, I should very much like you to know that I have recovered a good deal, and I am determined not to buckle under the pressure of my husband’s bullying.

  And you will be pleased to know that I have hardly seen him these last days. He keeps to his bed in between bouts of drinking, and I truly think he is seeking to make himself well, but in the process of doing so, is making himself more unwell.

  Even at night, I simply lay at his side and listen to him snoring and snorting until I myself fall asleep. If only I could have a chamber of my own, if only he would allow me that much, I would be very glad of it.

  But he is so determined in his quest to sire an heir that I would not dare to broach the subject. Even though the greater part of his night is spent in deep sleep, still he would see it as an insult, I am sure. I could not even make a tale of it all; tell him that I cannot sleep whilst he snores, but I know he would not believe it.

  He
already mistrusts me and has made it very clear, as you already know, that he blames me entirely for not yet being with child. But when he drinks and sleeps all the time, I do not know how it is he thinks I can be at fault. Still, that is the way of things, as my mother would say. We are but women, and we cannot argue when a man’s ego rides roughshod over his common sense.

  I hardly know what to wish for if I am honest. The truth is that there seems to be very little in this world to interest me, a child included. I am terrified that I will not conceive and yet, at the same time, I think I am even more terrified that I shall.

  After all, how can I bear this dreadful man a child? But how shall I go on if I do not? It is all so very complicated, is it not? I find it harder and harder to deny my own feelings, to be as strong and as stoic as I had determined to be on the day of my marriage.

  I am in no doubt that his vile slurs towards me that were given so publicly have done much to undermine my confidence, but I am sure that I will soon return to my old self. After all, the bad behaviour was all his, not mine.

  I must admit, though, that the upset of these last days has done much to make me wish for my old life again. I have done everything in my power not to think about happier times, not to concentrate upon what I have lost, but to fall into old reverie seems currently irresistible.

  I was thinking just this morning of a time, not so long ago, when Miles and I were out walking. We had no chaperone, for we were only out in the gardens at Cherry Trees. But we had wandered away, crossing the boundary of his father’s estate into the little wilderness beyond.

  It was such a beautiful day, and Miles held my hand as we walked along, even taking the opportunity to kiss me once whilst we had such freedom.

  And then, foolishly, we ran onto Mr Ayton’s estate, only as far as the orchard. Like two children, we stole pockets full of apples and ran away again, laughing and gasping for breath.

  At the time, it was just a silly, enjoyable little folly. But today as I write this, I would give anything to relive that afternoon, to feel Miles’ warm skin as he holds my hand and to have that wonderful sense that I was on the right path and everything in life would be right, my future being set so to speak.

  If only I had appreciated the feeling of rightness that such certainty brings. And if only I had realized at the time how suddenly that could be taken away.

  I have tried very hard not to think of Miles, for when I do I always imagine those last moments when everything came crashing down. It still breaks my heart, and that is why I try to remain aloof, even to myself. But there are those times when I love him and miss him more than I can say, and his name is there on my lips, ready to be called out.

  But there is no sense in calling out, is there? For Miles will not come now, and he never would have.

  For heaven’s sake, I am becoming melancholy again. I am not doing much in this letter to assure you that all is well, am I? But it really is, Ariadne. I still have you, and you will be pleased to hear that I have relented in terms of Mr Winchester and have returned to spend time in the morning room.

  I think it is true to say that we are friends now; we have even spoken of it. There is something about Mr Winchester which speaks of strength, and I think that is why I find myself so drawn to him.

  I thought our first meeting again in the morning room would be uncomfortable, but we very easily fell into conversation. I even admitted to him that I had been hiding in the library, and yet I had not meant to say it. There is so much that I say in his company that I do not mean to utter, and yet out it comes.

  I must admit, as bad form as it is, I have even complained a little about my husband from time to time. I can picture your face, your concern as you urge me caution, and you would be right. But, at the same time, I know that I can give my confidence to Mr Winchester. There is something about him which makes me very certain that he would never betray me.

  But then again, I had once thought that about Miles Gainsborough. Perhaps trust ought not to be so easily given after all. But I shall see, for as you have said yourself, I need a friend here at Lytton Hall. I can still get nowhere with my maid, Nella, and I am not inclined to trust her at all.

  I may be doing the young woman a disservice, but since I have extended warmth to her on more than one occasion, I no longer care if I speak of her unjustly. She is neither here nor there to me, and I admit myself to be very glad that Mr Winchester, a man I had once thought so standoffish and aloof, even arrogant perhaps, is very far from it.

  We now have a habit, it seems, of meeting in the morning room every day. I know that he used it as a route to the terrace already, but we have taken to sharing five or ten minutes’ conversation before he takes his leave again.

  I ask him little questions about himself and his life, although I must admit it is almost always about his work. I suppose I am cautious of becoming too personal, although I do not see why I should be. We are only friends, after all.

  Anyway, I am sure that you will be pleased that I have taken your advice and allowed myself a friend here. I know how well you like it when I take your advice, Ariadne, and I can almost imagine you smiling as you read this. Perhaps even quietly saying “I told you so.”

  And I have more news still, for I received a letter from Lady Hanbury, that dear woman who supported me so well on that dreadful night.

  She must be a very wise and shrewd lady indeed, for she handed the letter to Mr Winchester to give to me, rather than sending it to the house. I have no doubt she did not want to risk Augustus seeing it, for he might have been annoyed if he did.

  That excellent woman sent the briefest of notes to assure me that I would always be a welcome guest at Hanbury Hall, even confirming that her husband is of the same mind. And she stated that I would be welcome under any circumstances whatsoever. I can only think that it was that part of the letter that she did not want my husband to see; for I think it is clear that she intends me to see her home as a place of refuge in difficult times.

  I was so touched by such kindness from a stranger that I must admit I almost wept. I had to blink hard, at any rate, for I felt so emotional.

  I should have realized on the night that her assertion that I might consider her a friend was a genuine one. I daresay I am luckier than I realize at times, am I not?

  Well, I should be very glad if you write back to me. I know we shall be seeing each other on Thursday, but still, I look forward to hearing from you. Our letters feel like conversation to me, and it is very fortifying. But I understand that you might be busy, my dear, and you know that I would never want to put any pressure upon you.

  There, I have already rambled on for too long, have I not? If I continue, there will be nothing left to say to you on Thursday.

  Take very good care, my dear Ariadne, until I see you again.

  With much love,

  Eliza.”

  With her letter finished and carefully sealed, Eliza made her way out of the drawing room, now rather dull in the pale light of the late afternoon, to find the butler and ask that her letter be taken down to the post.

  But as she came out of the drawing-room, she almost collided with her husband who seemed intent on making his way in.

  “Oh, forgive me,” she said with an instinct of self-preservation that was still riding high.

  She tried to smile, even though she could not look at him without thinking of his cruel, humiliating words.

  “No, I ought to have given more attention to where I was going,” he said, and she thought he seemed a little quiet, crestfallen almost.