by Deb Marlowe
“What are you blathering about, sir?”
“I speak of Hartfield Park, Miss Wilmott. A small, but lovely estate, with a manor house big enough to house any number of street urchins. It comes with several acres of land, an orchard . . . and a pond.” He smiled and handed her a thick packet. “It is to be yours, with many thanks for your service to His Majesty.”
Mouth open, she took the packet. “Truly?” she whispered.
“Truly.”
She blinked back tears and shook her head.
“Now, do not think of refusing the gift,” Lord Stoneacre warned. “It’s never a good idea to offer insult to a grateful royal.” His mouth quirked. “Aldmere and his brother are much in favor as well. I believe the Regent meant to gift Aldmere with a marriage to a Dutch princess—reward and political stratagem at once.”
“And did the Duke of Aldmere offer insult with a refusal?” she asked tartly.
He chuckled. “I believe I’ll let him tell you.”
She sniffed. “I have no notion when I might see the duke again.”
“Oh, it won’t be long now.” He stood and bowed low, preparing to take his leave. “Aldmere’s been kept very busy, my dear, and he had one last, crucial errand to complete—but I predict he will hot on my heels, looking for you.”
Brynne clutched her packet and hoped he was right.
* * *
The Duke of Aldmere didn’t bother with a card when Lord Wilmott’s butler opened the door. He merely pushed past and left Flemming to deal with the irate servant. Past a formal parlor and a cozier sitting room, to the back and then the other side of the house he wandered, until he found a door standing closed. Without preamble, he opened it.
Brynne’s father sat at work in the midst of quite a sumptuous study. He did not look up. “Who was it, calling at this hour?” he demanded.
“It was the Duke of Aldmere.”
Frowning, the baron looked up. When he saw who stood on his threshold he dropped his pen and scrambled to his feet. “Your Grace,” he gasped. “Do come in. It’s an honor—”
“No, it’s not,” interrupted Aldmere. “I’ve come about Lord Marstoke.”
“Oh? Yes. A very kind patron the marquess is. He did say he would mention my work to men of influence. Come—”
“No. You would do well to cease calling Marstoke your patron. He is a manipulator of men and a violator of innocence. There is nothing the man won’t do to gain his warped ends, up to and including treason. At last, though, he’s been caught pulling his invisible strings.” He gave the older man a hard look. “Your patron is well out of the country by now.”
Lord Wilmott dropped back into his seat.
“In his files, Marstoke kept damning information on many men of wealth, prestige and government. You were among them.”
Every hint of color drained away from the man.
“I don’t personally know what was in those files. I can’t imagine what could be there. What sin did you commit that you could not own up to? What could be worth selling your daughter to that vile monster?”
Mention of his daughter perked the man up. Or perhaps it was the notion that his secrets were safe. “Now see here,” he objected. “My daughter—”
“Is no longer your concern.”
A knowing look crept over the man’s face, along with some returning color. “She’s living in that nest of whores. If she’s got her clutches into you—”
Aldmere decided it was his goal to never let the man finish a sentence in his presence. “The Prince Regent is very concerned about your daughter’s welfare. Fortunately, as she is to be my duchess, he has no real cause for worry.”
He advanced slowly to the man’s desk. “In the normal course of things, I’d be here to ask your permission. As things stand, I’m here instead to tell you that if you ever darken my door or attempt to contact your daughter in any way, then I have the Regent’s express promise that whatever Marstoke had in those files will be splashed across the newspapers the very next day.” He took a step back. “Unless, of course, you have an invitation from your daughter, in which case we will revisit these rules.” He turned on his heel. “Goodbye, Lord Wilmott. I sincerely hope we will never meet again.”
He did not stop to see the baron slump back in his chair or hear the slight sound of his pen dropping to the floor.
* * *
Impossible to sit still. Nerves had taken wing in Brynne’s belly. Her hands insisted on flickering about the packet in her lap. Finally she took the thing up, left her bench and began to stroll along the walk that led along the lakeshore.
She was overwhelmed by the generosity of the Regent’s gift—and worried that it might be meant as a consolation. The irony of it all was that not so long ago this would have been the answer to her every dream. Now she had a problem—her dreams were bigger. All of her visions of her future now strongly featured the Duke of Aldmere.
She heaved a sigh and turned about, determined to go home and celebrate what good news she did have with her friends.
She stopped, her heart fluttering. Aldmere was striding toward her on the path.
He came to a halt before her. Their gazes locked, neither spoke for long moments. Brynne’s heartbeat sounded loud in her ears.
“That had best be enough meddling even for you, Brynne Wilmott.” Aldmere shook his head. “My God, I’m in the thick of it now. Do you know how many questions I have had to answer? How many times I’ve related the tale of our adventures? There is still a cursed lot of mess to clean up, too.” He sighed. “I damned well refuse to face it all alone.”
“You don’t have to,” she whispered.
“I hope you mean that. You’ve poked, prodded, challenged and questioned me. You’ve asked me to do the impossible. I’ve done it too, as best I can. Are you happy now?”
“Yes.” She searched his face. “I . . . I . . .”
“Good,” he replied. “For happy is how I intend to keep us both.”
“But what of the Regent? What about your Dutch princess?”
He stepped forward, then, and hoisted her high. Her packet was crushed between them as he spun her about once, set her down and kissed her soundly. Only for a moment, though. He held her arms and took a step back.
And she gasped. For there it was. She’d been so caught up in the rapid unfolding of events and her own anxiety that she’d forgotten she was waiting for it.
The smile. The missing smile. She stared, transfixed, as it utterly changed him. Small creases appeared in the corners of his eyes. He sparkled with good humor. That lovely, wide mouth grinned at her. The smile spread with abandon across his face until it lit him from the inside out.
Her mouth went dry. Her breath caught. And she knew. She knew that no matter what happened with Marstoke, no matter the public or private outcry against their relationship, no matter what hardship the future brought—they would be fine. They would be safe and happy and content together because her strength was his and his joy was hers and together they could conquer anything.
“I see Stoneacre found you,” he said with a nod toward her packet.
“Yes. I . . . I . . .” She didn’t know what to say.
He raised a brow. “Did you happen to have a look at any of the papers in there?”
Bemused, she shook her head.
“If you had, you would have seen that Hartfield shares a border with Russell Abbey. And that the deed to the place is made out to the Duchess of Aldmere.” He grinned and her insides melted. She couldn’t sift through all of the significance of his words. She could only stare at the transformation in his face and bask in the warm glow of happiness rising inside of her.
“I told the Prince that he could keep his insipid Dutch princesses. I need a different sort of woman to be my duchess. One who looks fragile and fey, but has proven herself strong, resilient, and resourceful. By the time I finished telling him of your exploits he was in complete agreement.”
Her heart lifted. It was true, wasn’t
it? She’d become all the things she’d hoped to be—with his help.
“Now there’s a trait I never thought to see in you—speechlessness.” He stepped forward and gathered her into his arms again, right there on the lakeside walk in St. James Park. “Now, as I believe I once promised you not to ask for your hand in marriage, I will not.”
She blinked.
“I’m afraid I must insist instead.” He bent down and kissed her, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Brynne Wilmott, I do insist that you become my duchess.” He waited. “Well?”
She fought tears. “Yes! I . . . I . .”
He smiled again. “Just yes will do.”
Epilogue
A duke’s wedding was a grand affair, Aldmere’s advisors told him long ago. His would take place in one of the great churches, with all due pomp and circumstance, with royalty and all the best of Society in attendance.
Just one more item in the long list of things his trustees had got wrong.
The wedding that made Brynne his was none of those things. With nary a wisp of pretention, they were married by special license in his home. The ceremony was simple and dignified, but the wedding breakfast was lavish—and well attended by a motley assortment of guests. A few members of the beau monde attended, notably Brynne’s friend, Miss Jane Tillney, a few of his own friends from his abolitionist days, and several government officials. They feasted and drank along with the likes of Madame Hobert the baker and Rudd the printer. Even Joe Watts and Francis Headley were there. Alas, the only royal in attendance was Hestia Wright, who had once been named Queen of Courtesans throughout Europe and England.
A great stir did occur, however, when a massive crate was delivered in the midst of the celebration, compliments of His Royal Majesty, the Prince Regent. Everyone clustered about the thing, speculating on what it could be.
“Well, my fey duchess, shall we satisfy their curiosity?” Aldmere had tagged her with the pet name nearly as soon as they’d become betrothed. Brynne, secretly pleased, and entering into the spirit of the thing, had dressed for the wedding in soft green and matched the exquisite trim of flowers embroidered on her overskirt to the blossoms in her hair.
Smiling, she turned and Aldmere’s breath caught again. He wondered if he would ever stop being shocked at his great, good fortune.
“If you don’t think Billings would mind,” she answered.
He laughed and the bit of worry in her eyes faded. The butler, surely one of the highest sticklers in the land, had been shocked upon being informed of the betrothal. He’d come around quickly once he’d heard a few tales from Flemming, and his approval had been assured once he’d heard of the Prince’s regard for the Duchess-to-be. In fact, he’d somehow got wind of Brynne’s plans for her wedding dress and decked the parlors and stairs out to match in flower-studded garlands. “Look at him,” Aldmere said. “I think he’s salivating to know what’s in there.”
“Well, then, by all means, let’s open it.”
Their guests gathered in the antechamber where the crate had been left, and in the adjoining entry hall, watching as Billings and a footman tackled the thing with a crowbar.
All of the guests save for two, Aldmere noted.
Brynne, standing close at his side, noted the exception as well. “What do you suppose that is about?” she asked with a nod toward the far corner of the hall. Tru stood there, in what looked to be a heated debate with Callie Grant.
“It’s about Marstoke, I expect,” he answered with a sigh. His brother was one of his last remaining worries. Tru had been unable to settle down in the days since Marstoke had fled. He’d been jumpy and restless—and taken with the notion of bringing the marquess to justice. “He’s heard a rumor that Marstoke was spotted in France. He’s on fire to go and investigate.”
“And Callie’s set against the idea of searching Marstoke out,” Brynne replied. “I think she’s worried for Letty.” She sighed. “And I’m worried for her. I know she’s happy for us, but . . .”
“But she doesn’t approve of the marriage.”
Brynne leaned her head against his arm. “She cannot help it. Trust doesn’t come easily for her.”
“And she trusts men—especially noblemen—least of all, I’ve noted.”
Brynne pursed her lips. “She won’t come to Hartfield with me. Somehow I always imagined she would be there to help.”
“I don’t think it would be easy for her to leave Hestia,” Aldmere offered.
“That’s just it. She’s told Hestia that it’s time she found her own place in the world.”
Aldmere hated the worry in his wife’s tone. He paused, though, to savor part of that thought again. His wife. Wonder faded, however, as the sound of an escalating argument echoed across the cold marble hall.
“Perhaps we should intervene,” Brynne said.
He nodded and pulled her along as he started toward the pair.
“I can’t believe that you, of everyone, should offer such driveling counsel!” Tru’s attempt to keep his voice low had clearly been compromised by his disbelief. “You—who has seen firsthand the wickedness Marstoke is capable of!”
“It’s the wickedness he might still get up to that concerns me,” Callie retorted. “So, he’s in France?” She snapped her fingers. “Let him stay there and sharpen his claws on someone else for a while!”
Aldmere saw his brother draw back, his face flushed, then lean forward again, too close to the defiant girl. “I would have thought it impossible for such a pretty head to be filled with willful obtuseness and deliberate disregard for others!”
“Well, then, you would have been wrong!” she hissed back.
“Clearly!”
Aldmere caught Tru’s eye as his brother retreated. He gave the poor man a sympathetic nod as Tru fought to swallow his anger. His brother nodded stiffly. “Here’s the happy couple,” he said in a strained tone.
“Happy indeed,” Callie said, her chin high. “And content to leave well enough alone.” With a general nod, she swept away, avoiding the crowd and heading instead for the parlor where the ceremony had been held.
Aldmere stifled a sigh as his brother rounded on him. “Are you, then?” Tru demanded. “Content to leave well enough alone?”
He raised a brow and pulled Brynne closer. “For the moment, we are.”
Tru flushed. “Oh, well. Yes. Of course.” With a short bow, he fled as well.
Aldmere shook his head and moved so that he stood between Brynne and the crowd of guests. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Do you think they would notice, should we leave them well enough alone?”
Her grip tightened and her gaze grew warm. “I’m afraid they would.”
A shout went up behind them. They turned to see Billings holding up a very large, very complicated silver epergne. The footman pulled out a matching serving platter and reached in for more. Aldmere stared, frowning, until he suddenly understood.
He glanced down at Brynne. “I told the Regent everything—including your threat to order silver, were we forced to stop the day we drove down to Clapham.”
She laughed. “I recall I did threaten to order the largest and ugliest service they had.” Her eyes widened. “Look at Billings. He’s in alt. I believe he’s tearing up.”
“Let him enjoy. He can dust off the new silver, while I dust off a couple of more techniques in my repertoire.” He bent and pressed a hot, urgent kiss to her lips. “You were interested in seeing the rest of them, were you not?” he whispered.
Her skin flushed. “Extremely interested.”
“Well, then, damn the guests. Let’s go, just you and I. We can be in Wiltshire by evening.”
She clutched his arms. “Let’s go to Hartfield. We can be alone there. Just the two of us.”
“Alone,” he breathed. “For a week.”
That’s just what they did.
And while they were gone the scandal raged, the servants whispered and society gossiped endlessly.
But whe
n they returned—the Duke of Aldmere was smiling.
And that started the whispering up again.
But it silenced everyone who mattered.
Watch for the next installment of the Half Moon House Series:
The Leading Lady
Coming Soon
And don't miss the first glimpse into the Half Moon House Series
An Unexpected Encounter
A short novel in the collection:
An Encounter at the Museum
About the Author
Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was destined to write Historical Romance.
A Golden Heart winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough Romances to recognize the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wasn't wearing breeches and boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing sons. Though she spends most of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventures of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, none of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She's working on it.
Connect with Deb Marlowe
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