The Duke's Refuge

by Lorri Dudley

  Nevis, with all its beauty, couldn’t boast of a smooth road on the entire island. As if to make the point, the wagon hit a large pothole, and she fell into his side. She braced herself by grabbing his arm, and he tensed. She quickly yanked her hand away and righted herself.

  Yet he could still feel her heat as if he’d been branded. He glanced down, expecting to see a seared handprint. The warmth spread down into his stomach, and he forced back feelings he’d thought long dead.

  Miss Lennox sat stiffer than ever now, as though glued to her seat. Maybe he should extend an olive branch.

  “I’m sorry about your trunks.”

  She didn’t speak or look at him.

  Ah, the silent treatment.

  He tried again. “After the high tide passes, we can ride back to port tomorrow and see if anything washed up on shore.”

  Her head jerked around, and she stared at him with wide, blue eyes. “You think my belongings might still be salvageable?”

  Brilliant. Now he’d gotten her hopes up. He fidgeted with the reins. “Perhaps. All sorts of things wash up on shore, especially after a storm. Once, an entire helm of a French warship washed up on the beach.”

  Her eyes narrowed as if judging whether to believe him or not. Then, with a curt nod, she said, “I appreciate your offer.”

  Harrison smiled to himself. Maybe he’d made a slight crack in her defenses.

  He leaned forward and peered around Miss Lennox to the woman beside her. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”

  Georgia crossed her arms. “Aunt Tessa, may I introduce Mr. Harrison Wells. Mr. Wells, my aunt, Lady Tessa Pickering, Baroness of Phelps.”

  He dipped his head. “Pleased to meet you, Lady Pickering.”

  The woman perked up at the attention. “The pleasure is mine. My brother informs me you are like family.”

  He nodded. Fredrick spoke fondly of his sister. “How was the voyage? Hopefully you had smooth sailing?”

  He directed the question to Miss Lennox, but Lady Pickering spoke up instead. “It was the most horrific experience of my life. If I ever set foot on a sailing vessel again, it will be to send my corpse back to England.”

  She prattled on about the seasickness, the rocking boat, and the approaching storms until Harrison wished he’d never broached the topic. When he couldn’t take any more, she switched to admiring the island’s tropical landscape and proceeded to bombard him with questions that he didn’t mind answering. What did the island export? What wildlife existed that was different from England? Was there a government? He could barely answer one question before she pitched another.

  As Lady Pickering babbled on about the unique foliage, Miss Lennox settled in for the long ride. His curiosity rose as the prim woman battled to keep her wet, drooping gloves from sliding down her arms. At first, she discreetly pulled them higher and glanced his way. He, of course, focused his eyes on the road ahead.

  After several more attempts, she gave up and tugged them off in an unladylike manner. She wrung them out over the front edge of the carriage and draped them over the bench to dry. Holding her arms out in front of her, she warmed them in the sun, then tilted her head back and closed her eyes. It took everything inside him not to admire her pretty features while she wouldn’t see him looking.

  When he’d begun to wonder if she’d fallen asleep in such a ridiculous position, she jerked back upright, folding her slender hands demurely in her lap. Harrison pressed his lips together to refrain from laughing. The woman was an enigma.

  Chapter 4

  …I entreat you to inform the King that I am very much alive. I shall return to London without delay, as soon as I have attended to my business here.

  —From the Duke of Linton to Lord Liverpool

  Somehow, Georgia knew Mr. Wells was laughing at her, even though she didn’t chance a look at him, and his humor only inflamed her ire. He had no right to judge. One could be lax on a little propriety, especially after being banished to a rugged island, losing all her belongings to the ocean deep, and being forced to ride soaking wet next to a know-it-all oaf of a man. One would think, with that condescending look, he was the Prince Regent himself. Well, she would not let him fluster her. Instead, she would focus on her looming reunion with her father.

  Try as she might, her mind couldn’t find a soft place to land there, either. Her stomach twisted in knots thinking about seeing him after all these years. Would he appreciate the changes in her, or would he cast her aside all over again? Old insecurities weaved their webs of doubt. She hadn’t been this nervous since her first season. She’d made a cake of herself back then, but she was no longer a naïve hoyden. Never again would she allow people to scoff at her or ignore her presence outright—especially not the overbearing beast of a man beside her.

  She fingered the damp muslin of her gown and focused on the passing landscape. The tang of salty air tinged with the sweet fragrance of the island flowers calmed her. Scraggly trees, twisted and bent by the wind, lined either side of the dirt road. The volcanic summit towered over them on the right. Little shanties that appeared barely inhabitable dotted the mountain with wisps of smoke rising out of chimney pipes. On the left, the land sloped off, and if she peered over the tops of the palm trees, she could see a strip of the ocean inlet and another island so near that some of the houses were visible.

  “Is that land part of Nevis?” she asked.

  “No.” He glanced in that direction. “That’s the isle of St. Christopher, but the locals call it St. Kitts. Several boats row to her shores daily. If you decide to visit, be careful and go with an experienced boatswain. The currents are tricky between the islands. You don’t want to be lost miles out at sea or crushed upon the rocks.”

  Insolent man—once again, he told her what she should and should not do. As though she didn’t have the sense to hire a competent boatswain.

  “I will take your concerns for my well-being into consideration.” She spoke in a syrupy-sweet tone to soften the edge to her words.

  He didn’t comment further, and they fell back into silence, except for the clopping of the horses’s hooves and the murmurs of Aunt Tessa, who’d fallen asleep while still talking.

  When she’d had her fill of the scenery, Georgia assessed the man beside her through stolen glances. His boots were Hessians. She could tell by the tassels, but they were worn and not well-maintained. Either he had come from money and fallen on hard times, or imports from Britain were hard to obtain. Her heart sank. If it was the latter, then the traveling dress she wore may be the only gown she’d own until she left this forsaken island. All the more reason to convince her father he’d have better care in England. Maybe they could return on the next boat.

  Mr. Wells’ cream-colored breeches encased a pair of long, muscular legs, and his right knee brushed against hers every time the wagon jolted. Despite her attempts to scoot over, there wasn’t room enough to completely avoid contact, and the intimacy of it filled her with jitters. His frilled shirt was about five years out of style but, once again, made of the finest cambric material. It didn’t hide his muscular physique, especially a robust set of shoulders, which filled the expanse of the tailored shirt. His arms rested on his thighs, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned forearms.

  She pulled her eyes away and watched a colorful bird of bright green flit from one branch to another. The animal provided a delightful diversion until a snap of the reins drew her attention back to Mr. Wells’ calloused hands. Calloused from what? Fieldwork? Was he a planter or an indentured servant still working off his last remaining years?

  With bold curiosity, she kept facing forward but dared to examine his features out of the corner of her eye. His rugged profile reminded her of a granite statue, a strong square jaw that contrasted with a set of full, firmly-molded lips. His angular nose, straight like a pointed arrow, was offset by a pair of heavily-lashed amber eyes. Thick, brown hair, streaked by the sun, curled around the edges, and she was surprised at the sud
den urge to run her fingers through it.

  “Have you had your fill?”

  Georgia jerked her eyes back to the road in front of her. Her cheeks, now hot coals, made the temperature rise from warm to stifling.

  “Well?”

  A polite man would recognize her embarrassment and let the matter drop. Actually, a well-mannered man would never have asked such a question. Ignoring him, she refused to look to her left or right. She instead, tilted her chin a little higher.

  “No, truly,” his voice purred with confidence, “I want to know how I compare with all the fashionable fobs that prance around London trying to outdo one another. Would I be welcomed into the arms of the ton?”

  His gaze bored into her until she turned to face him. She crossed her arms over her chest and spoke the truth he so desired. “Why, no, Mister Wells.” She forced a pleasant smile. “Your boots are well-made but too worn. Your shirt is of fine material but hopelessly outdated. You might be able to fix all that with a visit to a London dressmaker, but you’d need to invest in a good pair of gloves to hide those calloused hands that blatantly declare you earn a hard day’s living.”

  His burst of laughter threw her completely off guard, but she patiently stared him down until he regained control. “So there is little hope of me reclaiming my place among the Quality?”

  She eyed him suspiciously, then shrugged and continued with her honest opinion. “You’re fair of face, so what you’ll need to do is find a wealthy widow who will be willing to finance a new wardrobe and teach you the ways of the peerage.”

  His face cracked into a smile, revealing small crinkles in the corners of his eyes and rows of straight white teeth. His laughing gaze held hers, she its prisoner, unable to look away.

  “So, you think I’m fair of face?”

  “Really?” Her lips pursed. “Is that all you heard of my statement?”

  “Oh, no. I’m to understand that the only way I can improve my lot in life is to marry a rich widow, who will love me for my dashing looks, and in turn, introduce me back into society. I got that part, too.”

  “Dashing maybe going a bit far,” she mumbled under her breath. Then the rest of his words sank in. She angled herself toward him. “You said back into society. Does that mean you once ran in elite circles?”

  His face sobered. “Once.”

  The solitary word held traces of pain, and Georgia decided not to broach the topic further. They rode in silence until he steered the carriage onto a side road that led up Mount Nevis. The foliage grew dense, and thick vines hung from every tree. Moisture in the air clung to her clothing, keeping it damp, even after the long ride in the hot sun.

  “There it is. Up to the left.”

  A quaint, bungalow-style house with a large, two-story deck peered out from the side of the mountain. The bottom half was comprised of tightly-fitting stones, while the top half had been constructed of whitewashed wood, offset with bright teal louvered shutters. The entire structure could fit inside their London townhouse, but it appeared well-maintained. A strong breeze sent the palms trees waving and the porch rocking chairs swaying of their own accord. The double fans that hung on the porch ceiling spun in tight synchronicity as the shutters flapped against the house.

  Mr. Wells pulled the carriage in front of stone steps that zigged and zagged their way up to the main level. Once they’d rolled to a stop, he turned to her. “You should stay in the wagon.” His eyes flicked up toward the main entrance “Yes … stay here until I return.”

  The nervous flock of flitting birds in Georgia’s stomach plummeted. “Is my father unfit to be seen? Has his health dwindled so badly?”

  His eyes found her face, then lifted back to the window. He rose but didn’t look at her as he said, “He’s fine. He just …”

  Georgia stared, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

  “He isn’t aware of your arrival.”

  “He thinks the ship was delayed?”

  He glanced back at her and shook his head. She read the truth in his eyes before he spoke the words. “He didn’t send for you. I did.”

  “What?” She rose to her feet as small beads of sweat broke over her entire body. “You sent for me?”

  “Yes.” He jumped down from the carriage and peered up at the house.

  She breathed hard as she struggled to quell the anger rising within her. Her life had been turned upside down because this arrogant man decided to host a reunion? “You, sir, have overstepped.”

  His gaze riveted to her face and a crease formed at the bridge of his nose. “Your father needs you.”

  White hot flames blurred her vision. “Papa doesn’t need me. If he did, he wouldn’t have abandoned me.” It was bad form to discuss personal issues with a complete stranger, but the waves of pain pounding her chest vanquished her control.

  Past hurts and anguish resurfaced. Her voice lowered to a hair above a whisper. “If he cared a wit about me, he wouldn’t have deserted me, knowing I’d be forced to live up to mama’s expectations. He wouldn’t have forsaken me to face my sisters’ ridicule alone. I needed him, and he left.” She sank back in her seat. Her nails dug into the underside of the wooden carriage bench. “How dare you meddle in our affairs? Take me back. Take me back this instant. This is all a terrible mistake.” She forced herself to stare straight ahead, locking her jaw against the hot tears burning her eyes.

  Mr. Wells grabbed her chin and twisted her head around to face him. His gaze deadlocked with hers. “Your father is dying. He needs his family. He needs the daughter he remembers and speaks so highly of to be by his side to ease his pain.” Mr. Wells examined her eyes as if searching for a redeemable quality. Based on his expression, he found none. His mouth thinned with displeasure, and he dropped his hand. His eyes narrowed and pierced her own. “Weren’t you told any of this?”

  She leaned back, away from the fierceness of his gaze. “My mother said a letter arrived and that my father was ill, maybe dying.” Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “I assumed my father sent for me.”

  Mr. Wells turned away and ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. “I sent the letter and paid for your passage with the hope that you would have a grand reunion. Fredrick never gave me a reason to believe you wouldn’t come running here with open arms.” His head jerked in her direction, and he leaned in until his face was inches from hers. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You will pin a smile on your self-righteous face, march up there, and greet your father as a wonderful surprise. We’ll deal with the rest later. Am I clear?”

  Georgia opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of his demands, but he silenced her with a sharp glare. Instead, she found herself nodding. His hand reached out and half-guided, half-tugged her out of the carriage.

  The house loomed in front of her. “You said you wanted us to wait in the carriage while you went inside.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Aunt Tessa jerked awake as Georgia alighted, seemingly oblivious to their entire conversation. “What a darling house. Look at the rocking chairs on each porch. We shall have some splendid afternoons there sipping tea.” She held her hand out for Mr. Wells, and he assisted her down. “Why, Georgia, isn’t this wonderful. What an exciting adventure. Nevis is nothing like England at all.” When Mr. Wells released her, Aunt Tessa daintily clapped her hands, and her face beamed her excitement.

  Georgia wondered about her aunt’s enthusiasm. Was she expecting a fun sightseeing trip? Or had her life been so tedious out in Essex she considered a change, any change, to be desirable?

  Mr. Wells stepped aside and gestured for Georgia to lead the way up the steep stone staircase. He’d paid for their passage. Why would he do that? The fare for crossing the ocean cost a handsome amount. By the looks of him, it would set him back at least a half year’s wages. How could he afford it?

  Her fingers clenched into fists. This islander was responsible for her humiliation. Because he unwittingly intervened where he shouldn’t h
ave, she would be forced to face her estranged father. Because of the arrival of his letter, she’d missed the Earl of Claremont’s proposal and her one opportunity to prove herself to her mother and sister. Because of him, her entire trousseau now lay at the bottom of the Caribbean Ocean.

  A complete stranger had ruined her life.

  Chapter 5

  …I assure you, my intention was not to mislead you or demonstrate a lack of concern for my life. I neglected to mention my illness to spare your concern, and for my own comfort, for I disdain pity.

  —From Fredrick Lennox to his wife, Nora Lennox

  Papa hadn’t asked her to come.

  Georgia wasn’t certain how she did it, but one foot continued to move in front of the other. She gritted her teeth, concentrating on what lay at the top of the stairs. She was about to see her father after six long years. He didn’t know she no longer fished or hunted or idolized him. He didn’t even know she’d traded in her boy’s pantaloons for gowns and dresses.

  Would he recognize her? Would he be proud?

  She fluffed her skirts. The parts that had dried were stiff from the salt water. So much for saving her best gown for this moment. She must look a fright—her dress ruined, her coiffure askew. She adjusted the square bodice of her dress, but the action didn’t quell the exposed feeling. Her armor was chinked, leaving her vulnerable. Her heart pounded, and her breath seemed in short supply. Old self-doubt rushed in, whirling and rising into waves of panic until she was once again the tender age of six and ten.

  She had thrived in her father’s shadow. He was her world, her source of strength, and he’d walked out, leaving her alone to stand against her mother’s and sisters’ disappointment. She remembered the pivotal moment all too well.

  Six Years Earlier