The Duke's Revenge

by Alexia Praks

  “Well, I’m not so sure now that you’re here.” Lisa hesitated and stared at the beautiful woman before her.

  The duke surely wouldn’t stay away that long when he had this beauty in his house waiting for him, even though it was not of her own free will.

  “Do you think he would come back soon? Well, I hoped he won’t for a long time and it would be even better if he won’t return for a few months.” She smiled to herself.

  In your dream—Lisa wanted to say as she smiled fondly.

  “Mayhap,” Ivy said, nodding her head. Aye, just mayhap, she thought and climbed into bed.

  CHAPTER 12

  Max stared darkly at the fire before him. He stretched out his long legs and gulped more whisky down his throat.

  Damn Parliament! Could not he be done with it in a few days and return to Westwood Castle? The past ten days in London for him had been nothing more than laborious meetings at Parliament debating about the Regency bill. When it was finally passed on the 5th of February, the idle, over indulgence, over weighted Prince of Wale, who had been impatiently dreaming about gaining such power, happily signed the document that made him Regent for his father, King George III.

  How he was tired of Parliament affair.

  He flicked his gaze to the table beside him. There were numerous letters that he had not yet read--letters that needed to be answered. Such bother, he thought. His secretary, Mr. Mallows, had taken care most of his business affair and those were things he considered not so personal. These pile of junk, he thought, was supposed to be personal and there was a heck too many of them.

  He grabbed the lot, piled them on his lap, and shuffled them through one by one without interest. Most were invitations to prestigious parties and balls for the up coming season. One was from the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire inviting him to their private house party at Devonshire House for the weekend. There was also one from the ambitious Lady Melbourne herself inviting him to dine at Melbourne House. No doubt the Whigs would be there, discussing about nothing else but Napoleon and the peninsula war, and more passionately, the Regent’s affair such as whether he would choose to change government, which no doubt would happen, and whether he would waste more money on his extravagant parties this season. There was already gossip that he would give a grand ball up at Carlton House. Considering his taste for all things splendidly grand, more money would be waste, no doubt.

  Max found both the Devonshire’s and Melbourne’s invitations rather uninteresting and threw it with the other slush on his desk. He turned his indifferent attention to the next letter. He unsealed the wax and unfolded the sheet of paper. He scanned through the content.

  Merrick and Christine wrote to confirm of their visitation during the Easter Holiday.

  Bad timing, he thought, frowning. He had completely forgotten that he had invited them to his estate for the Easter Holiday.

  What the hell was he supposed to do with Ivy? He couldn’t very well keep her in his castle while his best friend and his family were visiting.

  He stretched out his long legs and shut his eyes.

  The moment he closed his eyes he saw her. But this time it was not a picture of her wearing her ugly grey dress nor was it of her wearing the beautiful dress he had forced on her person. It was a picture of her alright—naked—with her petal white skin dripping with water. Her blue eyes were gazing at him—begging him hotly to take her.

  He went hard.

  He shifted in the chair to get more comfortable.

  She was moving toward him, offering herself to him. She was standing in front of him now. In his mind’s eyes, he saw her lowering her face toward him, her long hair brushing against him, and then she kissed him on his lips. Once she was done, she moved her head back and smiled at him.

  She climbed onto his lap and spread her legs at his waist. She wrapped her small arms around his neck and rubbed herself against his hardened member, her bare breasts against his chest.

  ‘Take me, my love,’ she whispered hot, loving words softly near his ear, hardening his member into slick toughness.

  He flashed his eyes opened.

  Damnation!

  He growled and got up from the chair to pour himself more whisky.

  Damn woman! She still haunted him even when he was this far away from her.

  He didn’t know how much he had drunk nor did he know when he had climbed up to his room and drifted off into a drunkard slumber. When he woke up the next morning, it was already eleven thirty. No one had bothered to wake him up, he thought sourly. Not even his highly competent valet. He was supposed to have an appointment with his personal secretary at eleven o’clock that morning. His head, too, was aching so much that he wanted to bang it against the wall and see if it could actually lessen the pain. He was sorely tempted to try.

  Ignoring his pounding head, he called for Charles.

  The valet rushed into the room and almost collapsed at the sight of his master before him. The Duke of Lynwood looked as though he had just returned from visiting his friend—Hyde in Hell.

  Once he regained his regal composure, however, he started his duties by shaving His Grace’s lightly whiskered chin, prepared his disheveled flaxen hair into the fashionable order, and helped him dress in the famous dressing code of sober black and starch white cravat.

  Charles had to admire his own handy work once he had finished because the duke looked so damn handsome that any woman in London would surely faint after stealing one glance at him. Whether from fear or admiration he didn’t know, however, since the duke had the look of a ruthless blonde devil.

  After having a very late breakfast, Max was in his study with his secretary. He instructed the man on his many business affairs and that he expect a full report in a month times when he next come to London. By the time he had finished, his head was pounding even more, and this time, he felt as though a hammer was continuously banging on his head every two seconds.

  Still ignoring his headache, thinking that he deserved such a fate for drinking too much, he prepared to leave for Westwood Castle.

  “Your grace, a letter for you,” the butler said at the door.

  Max took the letter from the silver tray in the butler’s hand, wondering who it could be from.

  He unsealed the letter and read the content.

  I will destroy everything you have!

  I will destroy your life!

  He crushed the paper into a ball and turned to look at the butler.

  “This just arrived?”

  “Aye, your grace.”

  “Did you see who delivered it?”

  Evergreen frowned for a moment and answered, “It was a boy, your grace, a street boy.”

  “Burn it,” he said, throwing the ball of paper onto the tray and walked out the door.

  It was dark when he was halfway to his intended destination. By then he had dismissed the mystery of the threatening letter he had received that morning. It was not the very first and he was sure it would not be the last.

  Still very determined to arrive home the next day, he ordered the coachman to change the four horses at an inn and be quickly on their way again without stopping. However, that didn’t work out for the weather was too disastrous for such hasty journey. They stayed in an inn for the night and the next morning they were on their way again.

  It was one o’clock in the morning two days later when Mrs. Woods was rudely awakened by the butler to prepare some food for the duke, who on arrival, immediately went up the stairs and across the corridor to Ivy’s door. He reached out to touch the handle. He was about to turned it when he hesitated.

  Tomorrow, he told himself with a sardonic smile and turned toward his own room. There he stripped off his clothing, and a second later, his valet announced that his bath was ready. He quickly washed himself, dressed in his Banyan, and then afterward, ate the cold meat and pudding Mrs. Woods had prepared for him. After finishing the warm negus which he found rather refreshing from his usual strong brandy, he went to bed.<
br />
  Sleep, however, did not come without a fair fight. It took him a long time to finally slumber off, and when did it come, it was for a short while of bliss content.

  When he woke up, his head stopped its aching completely. Feeling as though he need to do some exercise, he washed up, dressed himself in his ridding habit, and went down to the stables.

  He rode his stallion hard across the meadow for twenty minutes and then turned north toward the woods. He was just coming out on the other side when he saw an elderly man riding a beautiful grey mare toward him.

  “Good morning, your grace,” the plumped man shouted.

  “Lord Mornington,” he greeted with a curt nod of his head.

  “Nice day to be exercising this beauty,” the earl commented, patting his horse.

  “Indeed.” Max brought his stallion to ride beside the earl.

  “Spring is getting near. Caroline couldn’t stop talking about going up to London,” the earl grumbled. “Ah, your grace, how was parliament?”

  “Prince George has finally become the Regent.”

  “So the bill has passed?”

  “Aye,” Max said, patting his stallion’s long neck.

  “Poor old George, we all knew he was mad. It was just a matter of time. I supposed the death of his youngest daughter, Princess Amelia, and this war has added to his malady.” The earl looked over at the vast green land covered with the occasional patches of snow with narrowed eyes.

  Max nodded and pulled his stallion to a halt.

  “Stupid thing this war—” The earl did the same to his horse. He shifted in his saddle and sighed. “Napoleon is never going to give up on wanting more land, does he?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Greedy bastard, that’s what he is. We all know he wanted England and what are we to do against such madness when our king is mad himself? And the Regent? What could he do apart from spending his time in bed with his mistresses, drinking, and partying all day and night? We have no defense against Napoleon, I tell you,” the old lord muttered. “Pardon my speech, your grace. But ‘tis true that the Prince of Wale—” He stopped and frowned darkly. “Oh right,” he muttered, “The Regent could do nothing but partying and spending money on his endless extravagance, I tell you.”

  “That’s true.” Max wondered why he hated politic so much. He tried to avoid it at all cost. But then he was a peer, after all, and he must perform his duty to the crown.

  He turned to the earl and said, “Remember England do have great soldiers out there, Lord Mornington. I’ve heard only great words about the Lieutenant-General Arthur Wellesley.”

  “Ah, the Viscount of Wellington,” the earl nodded.

  “Aye, he seems a very capable man indeed,” Max commented.

  “Aye, a very capable man indeed to bring napoleon down, even by a mere notch or two,” the earl said and chuckled. He gathered his reins. “I’ve been out long enough. This beauty is getting tired I’d rather say.” He patted his mare and smile.

  He was about to ride away when he turned and said, “Ah yes, forgot to ask you if it’s all right. We’ll be calling at Westwood Castle tomorrow for tea. Caroline couldn’t contain herself from meeting your cousin. Should have seen her face when Lady Hart described how her children nearly kill your cousin.”

  Max frowned. “Cousin?”

  “Aye, your cousin staying at Westwood Castle,” the earl said. “Now when was it? Ah yes, about a week ago in Staffordshire town. Lady Hart’s daughter was playing catch with Dan, her foster son. They ran straight toward your cousin’s mare. She fell from the horse. Lucky Mr. Oliver, the surgeon, was at the scene. He examined her and said she was okay, sprained her ankle she did, your cousin. Lady Hart gave her a ride in the carriage. Mr. Oliver said it would only worsen her injury if she were to ride home on horseback.”

  Max narrowed his eyes as he listened to the tale. “I apologize, Lord Mornington, my cousin?”

  “Aye, your cousin, now what was her name? A beauty Lady Hart said, black hair and violet eyes. There was a maid too.”

  “Ivy!” Max said, his hands gripping onto the reins.

  “Aye, Ivy, that’s her name. Lovely, can’t wait to meet her though. Ah yes, I will see you tomorrow then, your grace, for tea.” The earl nodded and turned his mare.

  Max sat there, staring darkly into nothingness as the earl rode away.

  Ivy! So she had sneaked off into the town, did she? And his damn servants had hidden that fact from him. He turned his stallion and rode hard toward Westwood Castle.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ivy gazed out the window, a book—Sense and Sensibility: A Novel written by A Lady—laid on her lap, forgotten. She was lost in thought for a moment when she realized that she had not heard any news of the duke. She took that as a good sign, for the absence of his news meant that he had not yet planned to return. She sighed in relief with that realization and smiled.

  She turned her attention back to her book.

  She was so engrossed in the novel that she did not know time had past by. She did not know that a man was standing at the doorway watching her.

  Max had forgotten the purpose of his presence in the library as he watched her. When he got his wit about him, he walked toward her and halted only a few feet away from her.

  Ivy looked up and jumped in surprise, dropping the book.

  So many questions jumbled up in her head then. Why was he back? Why did the servant not tell her anything? Why did he have to come back so soon?

  “Your grace,” she whispered.

  He stared at her, and his gaze, she thought, would probably slice through her like a knife through apple if it had the power to. So sharp it was.

  He reached his hand out to her. “Come, we go riding together.”

  “Riding?”

  “Aye, do you not want to get some fresh air?”

  “Fresh air?” she repeated stupidly.

  “Aye, come. You can ride, can you not?” He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Aye, but not very well.”

  “Very good then.” He dragged her from the seat.

  As he was pulling her, the pain shot from her ankle and pierced through her heart. She bit her lower lip to suppress the pain.

  “Mayhap not to day, your grace,” she said and pulled her hand free.

  “The day is nice, Ivy, I do not want to imprison you in here now, do I?” he said mockingly and grabbed her arm again.

  “Nay, your grace,” she said breathlessly, the pain was unbearable. She took three steps and fell to the floor on her knees. She sobbed quietly as the pain intensified.

  He came down beside her, took hold of her right leg, and thrust the hem of her skirt up.

  “Your grace!” she sobbed.

  He stared at her bound up ankle. “How did you get this?” He looked at her as if he was digging deep into her guilty soul.

  “I...I...”

  He raised his brows. “Surely, Madam, it does not appear by itself?”

  “Nay, that is, of course not. I was...” She bit her lip and commanded herself to think of a lie.

  “You were?”

  “I, I fell down the stair yesterday. It did not hurt much. I’m sure it will heal itself in a few days.” She shoved the hem of her skirt to cover her leg.

  “Aye, it will heal itself soon enough,” he said, his gaze still on her.

  She turned to look at him and saw him moving his head toward her, slowly like a lion would toward its prey.

  She hesitated and moved her head back. When his face was only inches from hers, he grinned. “But, Ivy,” he said, his blue eyes gazing deep into her violet ones, “that is not what the servants have told me.”

  She widened her eyes in shock.

  He grabbed her chin between his fingers and thumb and said, “Our noble butler told me, my dear mistress, that you tripped over the mattress in the drawing room. Your lady’s maid, my dear, told me that you fell out of your bed and sprained your ankle, and Mrs. Price told me you fell d
own from a chair while helping her fetching some herbs up in the kitchen cupboard. Now, my dear, from all of these stories I’ve heard so far which should I believe is the truth? But then the one that is likely to be true is the one that comes from the person who has her ankle sprained, would that be right?”

  Ivy lowered her eyes and looked down at his large, strong hand touching her chin. She was ashamed to actually have been caught lying. But what could she do? He weren’t supposed to find out.

  “The truth, Ivy,” he demanded.

  “I...I fell from the mare.”

  “Where?”

  She looked at him and said quietly, “In the town.”

  He released her chin. “Did I give you permission to go?”

  “Nay,” she said with her head bow.

  “You only need to ask if you want to go out, for I will gladly accompany you myself.”

  She couldn’t look at him because she was ashamed of herself and so she sat there uttering not one word.

  Suddenly he lifted her up in his arms and carried her over to the sofa.

  “Thank you,” she said once she was seated.

  He stood there looking at her, and all the while her heart was beating furiously within her chest.

  She heard him sigh and turned to look at him. She saw him turned on his heels and left. She stared after him, wondering why he did not punish her as she thought he would for disobeying his order. This was not at all like him--like how she would picture his character.

  She was relief but her relief, however, was short-lived when that evening a maid that she did not recognized came into her room.

  “Where is Lisa?” she asked.

  The maid bowed her head and said, “M’ lady, the duke has ordered me to help you dress for dinner.”

  “Aye, aye, but Lisa is my lady’s maid. She will help me dress. You may go. I don’t need another maid to help me.” She turned to the wardrobe, looking through the many dresses, searching for ones that wouldn’t show too much of her skin.