by Amy Field
As she rose and dressed in a printed morning gown, she wondered when Wes had left her room. She normally did not sleep so late, and perhaps he didn’t want to wake her, instead, she thought with a blush, he knew she needed some sleep.
After dressing and having her hair braided and styled, Arielle ate breakfast alone in the morning room before venturing out to the stables. Now that she was up and about, she did not feel all that married. Besides the ring that now resided on her finger, little had changed. She did not know where Wes was, her sister and James had left to inquire about the purchase of an estate not too far from Pelham House, and she was going riding. Nothing much had changed.
“What are you doing?” His voice rang out behind her as she fed Tessie an apple. She turned around slowly to see him standing there, arms crossed in front of his chest.
“I’m going for my ride,” she explained.
“Arielle, you’re the countess, the mistress of the house, now. Don’t you think you should visit Mrs. Jennings about the needs of the household and talk with Cook to plan the menus?”
“I can do those things after my ride. Besides, I hardly feel like a countess. I woke up alone, just as I always have,” she said bitterly. Though she knew many husbands and wives slept separately, she knew her sister and James shared a bed, and it bothered her that Wes had left at some point to return to his own quarters.
“I do not know what you expect of me,” he said, his brow furrowing.
“Nothing. You have made it quite clear that I can expect nothing from you but your name and the right to bear your child.”
“That is hardly fair. You gave me no choice . . . can you expect me to be happy being forced to marry?”
“You wanted to marry. I wish you would see that I did what I did for you!” She exclaimed before storming off. Her ride would have to wait.
* * * *
Wes watched his bride storm from the stables, her gloved hands clenched tightly into fists by her side. He sighed and rubbed at his temples. What was he to do with this young, stubborn wife of his? They were so different, and were now expected to live out the rest of their lives by each other’s side.
He momentarily considered following her, but decided against it. She needed to cool down. He hadn’t meant to offend her so. He cared not if she rode out, as long as she did not venture into the woods or somewhere else just as dangerous—he’d only mentioned the duties of a countess because she had yet been made aware of her new, expected role.
He closed his eyes briefly, and his mind involuntarily turned to thoughts of the previous night. He’d woken in the wee hours of the morning, her long, golden hair splayed across his chest, her small body curled tightly against his. He’d wanted to stay, he truly had, but getting his emotions involved would only prove to cause them problems. He needed to treat his marriage as a matter of necessity and business, just as his father and the others before him had. It was the way things had always been done. That was why he had crept back to his bed and tried to fall back asleep, but the bed had felt too cold, too empty.
Chapter Seven
Days turned into weeks as the wind grew colder and the trees barer. Wes kept his promise to Arielle, dutifully visiting her bed night after night, offering his arm when they were out and about, even accompanying her on rides from time to time. But Arielle felt his distance. He kept her at arm’s length, even when he held her tightly.
Many nights, after he left her, she would cry herself to sleep, wondering if she could continue on with the charade. She didn’t want him to know that she loved him, but she did. With her heart, her soul, and every inch of her, she loved Wes, and it cruelly wounded her each time he slipped from her side without a word, each time he passed her in the halls without a second glance, as if she were a stranger and not his wife. She tried to act as if it didn’t bother her, but when he would leave her room in the pitch black of night, she would take off the mask and sob into her pillow, heartbroken and alone.
One such night, she was no longer able to contain her feelings. A sob escaped her lips as Wes still tiptoed across the room headed back to his own.
“What is the matter, Arielle?” He asked, his voice thick with concern.
“I-I . . . nothing,” she cried softly.
Wes quickly made it to her side and pulled her into his arms and kissed the crown of her head. She sobbed into his dressing gown, soaking the fine silk.
“Truly nothing?” He asked, tenderly.
“Nothing that can be changed,” she sighed, once she had collected herself. She wasn’t about to admit that she loved him desperately. That the fact that he did not love her tore her apart.
“Did you have a nightmare?” He ventured.
“Yes, but I’m fine now,” she sniffled. The lie was much more convenient than the truth.
“Would you like me to stay with you until you fall asleep?” He asked, rubbing his hand up and down her arm.
“Yes, please, if you don’t mind,” she said, too sleepy and weak to return to her guarded ways.
“Very well,” he said, making himself comfortable, holding her tight against him.
Sometime later, she awoke and Wes was gone. She wasn’t surprised, but nevertheless she sighed deeply, her breath coming out jaggedly. Tossing and turning, she rolled to face the window when a fuzzy light caught her attention. The fire had long since burned out, and the room should have been pitch black, so the fuzzy, bluish light confounded her. She squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The more she stared at the hazy light, the more it began to look less like a blur and more like a lady. A lady dressed in a beautiful gown of watery blue. Her eyes looked peaceful and her hair flowed long and loose about her willowy frame.
Arielle stayed frozen in place, unable to move. Though she had been frightened at first, a wave of peace billowed through her as she stared at the figure near her bed.
“All will be well,” the lady whispered before fading from her sight. Arielle blinked in the darkness, disoriented. Had she truly just seen a ghost? Or had she been dreaming? She felt quite awake, but she wasn’t scared. Unsure what else to do, she rolled onto her back and easily fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * * *
The next morning, Arielle promptly sought out the counsel of her elder sister. After breakfast and a ride about the west pasture, she found her sister in the greenhouse, lovingly tending to a rosebush about to bloom.
“Melanie, I must tell you about last night,” she said fervently before launching into the story of what she’d experienced in the early hours of the morning.
Melanie stared at her with wide eyes. “Arielle! I know what you saw! James told me the legend of “The Lady of Pelham House” shortly after we first arrived to scare me out of my wits. I didn’t believe him at the time, but he described her just as you did now.”
Arielle shrieked. “Truly? I saw a ghost?”
“Yes!” Melanie said, grabbing Arielle’s arms. “According to the legend, The Lady only appears to women in the Pendleton family about to face a great trial.”
“I felt only peace, and she said ‘All will be well.’” Arielle explained.
“Maybe she meant to encourage you.”
“I am not sure, though I know I was not frightened.”
“That must be a good sign.”
Suddenly, one of the stable boys ran into the greenhouse. “Ladies! You must come now! The earl has fallen from his horse!”
Arielle grabbed Melanie’s arm as fear clutched her heart. Without a word, they ran to follow the lad to the stables. Before they reached them, they met James in the courtyard, his hair mussed, his shirt stained
“He was out riding in the forest of all places, and his horse attempted a jump and caught his foot on a vine. He was thrown. Diablo returned to the stable and led us straight to him,” James explained hurriedly, running a hand through his hair.
“Why am I just now finding this out?” Arielle cried hysterically. “Where is he?”
“He has
just been taken to his bed. I was coming to find you. We . . . we were not sure if he was . . .”
Arielle gasped. Not waiting for further explanation, she ran inside, up the stairs and to his bedchamber. She didn’t even knock, simply bursting inside, where she stopped in her tracks at the sight of her large, masculine husband bruised and unconscious, lying still in his bed.
“Is he? Is he . . .” She fainted before finishing her question.
Chapter Eight
Arielle awoke in her own bed, her mouth dry and her head pounding. She blinked a few times before she remembered that she’d fainted and why she had done such a weak thing.
“Is Wes dead?” She asked, turning to see her sister and a man she did not recognize standing near her bed.
“No, he isn’t dead, but he is gravely wounded,” the tall, older man informed her.
“Who are you?” She asked.
“I am Dr. Greer, the Pendleton family’s physician,” he said kindly, “which makes me your physician, as well. Might I ask you a few questions, give you an examination, to make sure all is well with you?”
“Please, I am fine. Tend to my husband, I beg you,” Arielle replied, attempting to sit up. A wave of dizziness washed over her, causing her to fall back to the pillows.
“He is resting comfortably right now,” Dr. Greer explained. “My lady, have you experienced any nausea, fatigue, dizziness?”
“I suppose a bit of all of that,” Arielle admitted.
The doctor smiled gently down at her. “I believe you may have your own condition with which you must concern yourself.”
After a few more prying questions, Dr. Greer left to attend Wes, leaving a shocked Arielle still lying in her bed.
“Would you like me to lace your dress? Braid your hair?” Melanie asked.
“I am to be a mother,” Arielle said quietly, staring blankly ahead, the news still fresh.
“Yes, and a fine one you shall be,” Melanie encouraged.
“But Wes lies ill and I have yet to rouse myself to be at his side,” Arielle admitted guiltily.
“Because you yourself are not feeling so well. He would understand,”
Arielle’s face crumpled. “I love him, Melanie. So very much, I cannot live without him . . . I am so scared.”
Melanie perched on the edge of the bed and pulled her sister into her arms. “Everything will be okay. The Lady of Pelham House said so,” she soothed.
After a moment or two, Arielle rose and with Melanie’s help, righted her gown and hair and entered her husband’s adjoining chamber. James and the physician stood nearby, conversing quietly.
“How is he?” Arielle asked as she stepped to the side of the bed, slipping her hand into Wes’ warm one.
“He stirred earlier, which is good. We’re hoping he has only suffered a concussion and a few broken ribs, but we won’t know for sure until he wakes up,” Dr. Greer told her.
“Oh Wes, my love,” she sobbed quietly, lifting his limp hand and kissing it.
“Perhaps you should rest, my lady,” Dr. Greer suggested.
“No!” She cried sharply. “I will not leave him.”
Neither of the gentleman nor her sister protested when she perched beside Wes, refusing to let go of his hand.
Three days later, Wes opened his bleary eyes. His head pounded incessantly, his parched throat ached and every inch of his body felt achy and sore.
“Arielle?” He croaked at the vision of beauty seated beside him, holding tightly to his hand.
“WES!” She exclaimed, a smile spreading across her face as tears spilled from her eyes. “You’re awake!” She leaned down and kissed his cheeks, his forehead, his lips.
“Find Dr. Greer immediately!” He heard her call out.
The doctor appeared within moments and gave him a thorough, torturous examination. “He has a concussion, I believe several of his ribs are cracked, but otherwise, he seems no worse for the wear. A week in bed, and he shall be almost as good as new,” the doctor smiled.
Arielle sighed with relief.
“I’ll have you know, my lord, your lovely wife has not left your side for three days, despite my pleas for her to rest comfortably in her own bed,” Dr. Greer grumbled.
“She is a stubborn sort,” Wes told him.
Arielle’s mouth popped open and she playfully swatted his hand. “I rested quite fine by my husband’s side,” she defended.
The doctor snorted. “I shall be back in a couple of days to ensure you are recovering properly,” he told Wes before seeing himself out.
Wes turned to Arielle. Much of her golden hair was loose from her pins and in her deep crimson gown, her skin practically glowed. She looked more beautiful than she ever had before, and that was saying something. He reached for her hand.
“You did not leave my side?” He asked.
She shook her head. “I could not. I was too worried I might lose you.”
“I would not leave you, Arielle. Ever,” he said, squeezing her hand.
“Wes?”
“Yes, dear?” he asked, feeling especially tender toward his wife.
“I must tell you something that cannot wait.”
“You may tell me anything.”
“I am with child . . . and I love you.”
Wes stared at her after her two astounding revelations. He did not know which shocked him more, but he was certain both warmed his heart equally.
He lifted her hand to his lips. “I love you, too, my sweet Arielle, and I cannot wait for our little one to arrive.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You love me?”
“Yes, I am hopelessly in love with you, though I did my best to pretend otherwise, and for that, I am truly sorry. I went looking for you the other morning, thinking you perhaps went to the forest to ride. I wanted to tell you of my love for you, and apologize for any pain I may have caused you. I knew your tears were not from a nightmare that night. I knew they were caused by my coldness, and I couldn’t bear to hurt you a moment longer.”
“Oh, Wes, I am so sorry that you were hurt searching for me. I specifically rode in the west pastures because I knew how much it upset you when I rode in the forest,” she explained, scooting closer to him.
Wes chuckled. “From now on, we stick by one another’s side whenever possible. This bed seems plenty big enough for two people, don’t you think?”
“I think so,” she laughed, kissing her husband soundly as joy bubbled inside of her soul.
THE END
Book IV
The Secretive Duchess
Chapter One
May, 1825
Eastleigh
Hampshire, England
Mrs. Jane Parker immensely enjoyed her afternoon walks along the border of Heatherly, the grand estate house a short distance from her own humble cottage. The particular path she chose to tread daily was most picturesque, with bowers of blossoming cherry trees, wisteria-covered fences and wild daffodils springing from the ground.
She closed her eyes and inhaled, breathing in the sweet scent of spring in the air, and for a moment, she was at peace and happy. But then, she would open her eyes, and though her feet stepped along the most beautiful of paths, her heart ached and her mind was troubled. Truly, she should not be seen out of her house. She had slipped out, unnoticed by her only housemaid, Clara, as she was supposed to be resting. Perhaps, Clara knew that she was using her daily rest time to slip out and take walks in the fresh air, but if she did, she had chosen not to speak of it. As her home was situated a good stretch away from the village, she could slip out and walk the paths near Heatherly without prying eyes being none the wiser.
She sighed sadly as the breeze picked up, causing her black bombazine gown and crepe shawl to flutter bleakly. Though she’d fretted when her Charles had marched away with his company, looking far too dashing in his crimson coat, she’d never truly believed she’d have ended up a widow after being married barely two months. She was only nineteen, and now she wore the staid, unflatteri
ng dress of a widow. Charles would have frowned in distaste if he had seen her in such dreadful garb. A tear slipped from her eye as she remembered all over again that Charles would never see her again.
Nearly three months had passed since his death, one month longer than their marriage, and she had yet to grow accustomed to her new role in life. The days slid along painstakingly, since she had little to occupy her time. As a widow, she was expected to be in deep mourning for a year and a day, dressing in black and keeping to herself, which was why her elicit walks had quickly become her only lifeline to the outside world and her sanity, as well.
Lost in her thoughts, she did not hear the approaching beat of horse hooves. She stopped to pick a small bouquet of daffodils, thinking their bright yellow petals might bring a bit of cheer to her solemn, lonely cottage. A horse’s whinny broke the stillness as she knelt and her hand froze in place as it clutched the daffodil’s stem. Glancing up, she watched as a handsome stranger dismounted from his dappled horse and tied the reins to the fence.
She slowly rose, taking in his presence. He was clearly of distinguished nobility, as he was dressed in a fine coat with brass buttons and buckskin breeches, his Hessians polished to a high sheen. Beneath his hat, his dark hair curled about his neck, and the strong line of his jaw was offset by his full lips, which, as he smiled, revealed a perfect set of straight, white teeth.
Jane curtseyed, casting her eyes to the ground.
“Madam,” he said, his deep voice smooth as he bowed.
“I am known as Mrs. Parker, sir,” she replied politely.
“Henry Pendleton, at your service,” he said in turn. She swallowed.
“As in the Pendletons of Heatherly?” She squeaked.
“One and the same,” he said with a smile.
