The Duke's Revenge

by Alexia Praks

  Leaving London’s West End for his country estate, Max felt that he could breathe more easily: literary because of the dull, smoky air, and metaphorically because of the continuous tension in parliament.

  After a day and a half of ominous journey because of the moody English sky that threatened to open up and flood England with rain and snow again, he finally arrived at his country estate.

  Westwood Castle was a magnificent four stories imposing fortress that was made of dark, grey stones built four hundred years ago. Simply put—it was a place he despised. He merely bought it, along with the vast estate that had taken him months to complete touring, to fulfill his vengeance. He knew that the Earl of Westwood—the man who had shot his brother dead--was up to his neck with debts. Therefore it was only reasonable that the man must sell his humble home of many generations to the highest bidder. Ah, it served him pleasure knowing that the earl’s wife, Lady Grace Westwood—his enemy—had nowhere to turn to.

  The carriage drew to a stop in the courtyard. The footman jumped down from his seat and rushed to open the door. Max stepped out and stared up at the castle looming over him.

  “Welcome home, your grace,” the butler greeted breathlessly with his head bowed stiffly at the door.

  “Donald,” Max said with a curt nod of his head.

  “A surprise arrival, your grace, we did not expect you until March.”

  “I miss this place.” Max turned and looked at the butler. He saw a fine sweat breaking out on the man’s forehead. In this damn cold weather? And those grey eyes were shifting from side to side, as if the man was trying to avoid looking at him directly--it was as if he had something to hide.

  “I will inform the staff immediately of your arrival, your grace.”

  Max nodded and made his way toward the stairs.

  “Would you like to visit the stables, your grace?”

  He turned to look at the butler again, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

  “Err, to see your thoroughbred, your grace,” the butler said uncomfortably.

  “I will see to them later. I’m tired, Donald, tell Mrs. Price to prepare my luncheon,” Max said over his shoulder.

  “Very well, your grace.”

  As he climbed the stairs, his mind was on that of the past. He wondered what had happened to Lady Grace Westwood after the death of her husband. Had she married again to an old man with loads of money in his pocket? He had no doubt that she had.

  He was turning the corner to the master bedroom when he realized that the door was opened. He stalked in and halted—

  All that he could do at that moment was to stare at the woman in his room. What the hell was she doing there? And why the hell was she touching his bed?

  CHAPTER 2

  Ivy sipped her tea, savoring the aromatic, tasty liquid down her throat. She hadn’t drunk tea for a long time, and in fact, she had forgotten when the last time was. Her mother had never allowed her to drink tea because it was too expensive, and to taste it now after such a long time, it was pure heaven.

  “When is he coming back?” she asked suddenly, putting the delicate cup down.

  “Who, m’ lady?” Mrs. Price asked.

  “The duke.”

  “Oh, in March for the Easter holiday, and the Count and Countess of Huntingdon are invited as guests.”

  Ivy sighed with relief for by then she would be well gone. She would never have to meet the man who had taken her home away from her.

  “I heard the servants said the countess is very pretty, and that she had just given birth to a baby boy,” Lisa said.

  “An heir indeed,” Mrs. Price put in. “‘Tis too bad His Grace is not yet married. He would, of course, need an heir.”

  “The duke is not married?” Ivy asked curiously.

  “Nay, m’ lady, a bachelor he is.” Lisa chuckled. “I think that he would be a bachelor rake until the day he dies, just like the Duke of Queensbury.”

  “Lisa, such nonsense!” the housekeeper snapped, irritated that the maid should compare their devilishly handsome young duke to the notorious Duke of Queensbury who had only past away that year. “The duke does not gamble like the Duke of Queensbury did.”

  “What’s this about the duke, eh?” a voice said from the door. “Ah, my lady, how is your breakfast.”

  “It is very nice thank you, Donald,” Ivy replied sweetly.

  Donald nodded. “You must not hesitate to ask for anything.”

  “You must not treat me like I am the mistress of this castle, for you know very well that I am not,” she said, looking at the food on the table they had provided just for her. It had been like that every morning, as though they were cooking for a feast and she was their most important guest.

  “To me, my lady, you are always Lady Ivy Michaels, daughter of our old lord, the Earl of Westwood, a very kind master indeed,” Donald said, bowing his head slightly at her.

  “Is the duke not kind to you, Donald?” she asked curiously.

  “I did not say that, my lady, he is indeed kind.” He turned to the housekeeper and said, “Mrs. Price, Mrs. Woods require you downstairs.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Mrs. Price said. She turned to nod at Ivy and left.

  “If you require anything else, my lady,” Donald started.

  Ivy shook her head.

  “Very well, my lady,” he said, and he and Lisa left her alone to her food.

  After breakfast Ivy decided to wander around the castle. As she strolled along the corridor, she did not know that behind corners were footmen and maids staring at her, and their eyes were wide with admirations.

  Not long afterward, she found herself walking along the first floor corridor toward her bedroom when she stopped and stared at a door. Hesitantly, she walked toward it and turned the handle. The door opened wider, as if inviting her in.

  The moment she stepped inside; she felt at peace. She closed her eyes and knew she would always feel safe here.

  When she opened them again, her eyes were drawn to the large bed that seemed to be dominating the room. A sudden coldness crept into her being, and she shivered. Ignoring her odd feeling, she walked toward the bed. She dropped her fingers to caress the sheets and ambled around the bed. She closed her eyes.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw two shadowy figures. They were filled with darkness and mysteries. There on that bed, she saw a hazy figure of herself. She was small, and this giant of a man was on top of her. He had caught hold of her, and he was doing things to her. Lord, she didn’t know what he was doing, but he was hurting her. He gave out that harsh puffing sound like the cry of an anguish wolf. She saw that one of his large hands was under her head, gripping her hair, and the other was imprisoning her arm. His face was snuggled at the nape of her neck. He was on top of her. She tried to fight. Oh God! How she tried to fight. It hurt and it scared her like hell.

  ‘Nay, go away!’ she cried out. Nay....

  She opened her eyes, her body shaking.

  What had she just witness? A premonition of her future?

  Then she felt a strong, male presence behind her. Her heart beat faster and louder--its drumming sound intensified in her own ears.

  She turned.

  There, the very image shocked her, sending her knees weak. He stood there, looking down at her. And why did he look so familiar to her? Then slowly she realized where she had seen him.

  Maximilian stared at the young woman standing beside his bed. He fisted his hands so tight that his knuckles turned white.

  He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to do so many things to her that he didn’t know where to start. All he could do at that moment was to stand there and stare at her.

  Aye, she was beautiful with her damn heart-shaped face and generous lips.

  His eyes roamed her, starting from her small, black slippers up toward the hem of her pale, grey skirt to her slim waist, up toward her breasts, and to her midnight black hair. Her dress was old, and it covered her body like a nun, showing only he
r hands that were clinching stiffly on the sides of her thin, discolored skirt. He shifted his gaze to her face--the face that haunted him every day and night. He thought time would make him forget, and now, after eighteen years there she was in his bedroom, staring up at him as if she hadn’t a clue as to who he was.

  Ivy stared at that huge, angry man standing so imposingly in the doorway. Saint Nicolas’s teeth, she hadn’t a clue as to who he was. He stared at her as if striping her off all her clothing, and she was naked in front of him, allowing his critical eyes to examine her worth. She hated the way he was looking at her. It made her stomach ache with a feeling she did not understand. The color of his eyes, she saw, was a deep sky blue. His flaxen hair dropped down at his forehead which made him look so forbidding that she shuddered inside.

  He paced toward her.

  Her knees weaken. She gasped.

  He halted inches from her, glaring down at her from his great height.

  She tilted her head back to stare up at him, for the very sight of him fascinated her despite that anger, loathsome look he was giving her. Her head barely reached up to his massive chest.

  He was strong—he was magnificent—he was the man in her premonition.

  She placed her shaky hands to her throat as she gaped at him in wonder, in fascination, and in fear.

  “What in God’s damn hell are you doing in here?”

  His stare sliced her soul to pieces. So sharp it was.

  “I...I...” was all she managed to get out.

  Max stared into her eyes. He realized that they were a particular kind of violet that even the color of lavender itself could not fit their description. They were clear and profoundly emotional. In that flick of an instant, he knew he could read her every thoughts through her eyes.

  My God, she was enchanting.

  That realization knocked the wind out of him. She was not striking like most of his past mistresses were, but soft as nature intended for her to be. Lord, he wanted to touch her--but he wouldn’t for he hated her because she had destroyed his life!

  “I said what the hell are you doing here?” he questioned her in a low heated voice.

  “I, I...was just looking round...” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I weren’t supposed to—”

  “My lady, my lady,” Donald called and then stopped cold when he saw the angry duke in the room. “Err, your grace,” he said uneasily.

  Max turned to the butler. “You let her in?” His tone was soft but chilly.

  Ivy shivered again at the mere sound of his voice.

  “I, your grace, err—”

  “It’s not his fault. I came wondering around myself. He has nothing to do with it.” Ivy bravely spoke though her inside was trembling like mad.

  “What do you want around here?”

  Ivy blinked. “I...” She tried very hard to find an excuse. She could not possibly tell this ogre that she was just there reliving her childhood memories. However, she was safe from that trouble when Mrs. Price came in.

  “M’ lady, I was so worry. You must come with me,” the housekeeper said breathlessly. She took Ivy’s hand without looking around the room to see who was present. She was about to drag Ivy out when she saw the duke standing a mere foot away, watching them. She gasped and bowed her head.

  Max looked from his butler to his housekeeper with their heads bow before him. “I see that you’ve safe a little rabbit and have given it a home.”

  Silent.

  Mr. Ross and Mrs. Price looked at each other. Then Mrs. Price said, her voice low and submissive, “It was me, your grace.”

  “I want her out of my estate by tomorrow morning,” he said calmly.

  Ivy bravely looked to him. She winced inside once she saw his imposing glare. “Do not worry, I will leave now,” she said, looking from Donald to Mrs. Price and then quickly moved toward the door.

  “A snowstorm is brewing,” Max said.

  She stopped.

  “If you want to commit suicide, Madam, do not do it in my estate. I believe tomorrow the storm will die down, it will be safe to travel then.”

  She fisted her hands, and without saying anything, she left.

  The room turned uncomfortably silent.

  Max stared at the closed door and then turned his attention to the housekeeper. “Who is that girl?”

  Mrs. Price blinked and then she said, “She is Lady Ivy Michael, your grace, my niece used to work for her family up until a few months ago. She is daughter of Lady Grace Westwood and....”

  The very mentioning of ‘Grace Westwood’ caused Max’s heart to ache in his chest and his blood to run hot with anger at the injustice.

  “Mrs. Price,” he interrupted.

  The housekeeper halted in mid sentence.

  “I do not expect to come home to find you and Donald,” he glanced at the butler, “to turn my home into a shelter for the orphan. However, I will overlook your mistake this time, but if you both were to do something against my order next time, I’m afraid I will have to be harsh. You may return to your duties.”

  Mrs. Price breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir,” she said and left the room in a hurry.

  Donald nodded at him, said, “Sir,” and left too.

  Max walked to the window and looked out across his vast estate. Outside in the distance he saw dark clouds gathering. In an instant, the sky split opened, lightning flashed, and rain and snow started to pour heavily.

  “Ivy Michael,” he said softly under his breath. It suited her, he thought with a smile.

  So the Lady Grace Westwood had a daughter.

  His blue eyes sparkled with hatred, with anger, and with something else—something notorious and evil. At that moment, his thirst for revenge had never been so great.

  ***

  It was midnight, and Maximilian was sitting in the darkness of the drawing room listening to the wind howling, rain slashing against the castle wall, storm thundering in the distant and the tick-tock of the clock ticking away.

  All around him was darkness except for a small candlelight beside him, casting a golden hue on him. As he breathed, a cloud of smoky air expelled from his mouth. The room was cold, but he did not feel cold. In fact, he felt quite warm at the prospect of what he was about to do.

  He had figured out his next move--a move to avenge his brother’s death. It was a simple plan, and he was sure Lady Fate had helped him in it. She had brought him the ultimate weapon—a weapon that would help him fulfilled his revenge. And that weapon was the girl, Ivy, his enemy’s daughter.

  He knew Lady Grace Westwood love money and the social scene. He knew she love to mix herself with the nobility, the people that rule the ton, for otherwise she would not have rejected his brother—a man without a future—and married an earl. He knew also that she would want the same for her daughter. She would find her daughter a husband, a husband with money and title. That was her dream! And what better way to fulfill his vengeance than to crush her dream?

  Aye, he would ruin the woman’s daughter.

  The clock chimed half past twelve.

  He smiled and got up.

  Slowly, he made his way up the stairs to the first floor. There his attention was drawn to a guest room where his target lay peacefully asleep.

  He opened the door. Silently, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

  He stood there, watching her sleep.

  Her breathing was slow and rhythmic. He came to sit beside her on the bed. Slowly, he lowered his face toward hers. He could sense her peace in her sleep. He could smell her innocent youth, which his own was forever lost. And the smell of wild lavender--so fresh and so intoxicating that his blood throbbed with pleasure.

  He lowered his face toward her cheek and his nose touched her skin. She was soft and smooth. Then he kissed her cheek very gently.

  She stirred and turned her face away.

  He didn’t move, and as she stirred, his face snuggled close to her dark hair.

  My God, she smelt be
autiful. He was sure he was drunk because of her beautiful scent.

  He moved the tendrils of her hair from her face and neck. Under the moonlight he could see her features. He shifted his gaze down her body. Her nightshirt was a flimsy material and the neckline had dropped over one of her shoulders nearer to him. Her breasts rise and fall as she breathed. He couldn’t help himself and so he lightly touched the tip of her breast with the back of his fingers.

  She stirred and sighed delicately.

  He smiled. He moved his fingers and undid the string at the base of her neck, removing the material slowly, pealing the cover to expose her bare flesh. He sat there staring at her breast and then he brushed his fingers ever so slightly across her nipple.

  She sighed softly.

  Her nipple rose and erected like a rose bud. He smiled and kissed her nipple lightly, just on the tip with his firm lips.

  She sighed and turned her face to his side.

  He moved his face toward hers and started kissing her gently so that he would not wake her.

  Ivy sighed again.

  Was she in a dream? The beautiful feelings, did it really exist?

  Her body felt warm all over. The tingling sensations were running along her body. The heat, she could feel the strong, powerful heat on top of her. She felt warm fingers touching her breast. The beautiful sensations increased by a hundred folds. She turned her head to the other side. Hot burning sensations were building up fast in her midsection.

  She groaned.

  The beautiful feelings were still there, getting stronger by the seconds. Instinctively, she squeezed her thighs together but the hot throbbing of needs kept building up. She shook her head and came fully awake.

  She blinked to adjust her eyes to the darkness.