Under A Duke’s Hand
by
Annabel Joseph
Copyright 2015 Annabel Joseph
Smashwords Edition
Cover art by Bad Star Media
www.badstarmedia.com
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Smashwords License Notes
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
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For my historical readers, who will never look at ginger the same way again.
Contents
Chapter One: A Handsome Stranger
Chapter Two: First Impressions
Chapter Three: So Awfully Uncivilized
Chapter Four: Finished
Chapter Five: Discipline
Chapter Six: Good Girl
Chapter Seven: The Letter
Chapter Eight: Angry
Chapter Nine: In London
Chapter Ten: Perfectly Matched
Chapter Eleven: Audience
Chapter Twelve: Folly
Chapter Thirteen: Frank Talks
Chapter Fourteen: Christmas Dinner
Chapter Fifteen: So Cold
Chapter Sixteen: Love
Chapter Seventeen: Right of Possession
Chapter Eighteen: Epilogue
A Final Note
Coming Soon
Other Historicals by Annabel Joseph
About the Author
Chapter One: A Handsome Stranger
Wales, 1794
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Her cousin Tilda tucked a bit of ebony hair beneath Gwen’s weathered bonnet. “If your father sees you sneaking out in these dreadful clothes, he’ll lock you in your room.”
“They’re not dreadful clothes. They’re riding clothes, my most comfortable ones.” Gwen twitched at her faded skirts. “And Papa can’t lock me in my room if I’m to be married the day after tomorrow. I’m just taking Effie for one last ride around the village.”
“And how will you get home when that ragged old nag keels over dead?”
“Don’t say such things, not when I’ll miss her so. You promised you’d come feed her apples at least twice a week.”
Her cousin’s eyes softened. “I will, I promise.”
“Even when you aren’t sweet on Drustan anymore?” Tilda’s love interest looked after the horses on Gwen’s father’s estate.
“Even when Dru and I are married,” said Tilda with a grin. “I swear to you, old Effie shall have all the apples she desires.”
Gwen pulled at her gown’s ill-fitting bodice. Since her betrothal to the Duke of Arlington, all Papa’s money had gone to wedding and court finery, and she dared not wear those sorts of clothes while she rode along dusty paths. “Thanks for helping me steal away, Tilly. If I must be given in marriage to some horrid English aristocrat I’ve never laid eyes on, I would like one last afternoon all to myself.” She thought a moment. “Perhaps, while I’m away, a handsome stranger will befriend me and fall deeply in love with me, and secret me to his hilltop castle so I needn’t marry the duke after all.”
Tilda giggled. “You and your romantic dreams.” She turned Gwen around to adjust her stays. “You’d better not run off with any strangers, or Uncle Alwyn will have my head for abetting you. I wish you’d take at least one other person along. Drustan will escort you if you ask.”
“Drustan would rather stay behind with you.”
Her buxom cousin blushed a furious shade of red, and her eyes got that glazed, enamored look.
“Why, the two of you intend to steal away for the afternoon,” Gwen accused. “And here you’ve been scolding me for going out to ride.”
“Drustan’s officially courting me, you realize. Papa allows us to spend time together.”
Gwen was so jealous of her cousin. Drustan was a kind, brawny man, with twinkling eyes and a great laugh. When he looked at Tilda, anyone could see that he adored her. “Does he kiss you when you’re together?” Gwen asked shyly.
“You’re a silly girl.”
“Silly girl? I’m older than you.”
“And far more innocent. As you should be, since you’re a fine lady, and I’m only a common relation.” Tilda squeezed her hands. “Goodness, you’re going to marry a duke in two days. How can you stand the anticipation? What shall you do until it’s time?”
“I’m going to ride Effie to some pretty meadow and smell the flowers, and enjoy my last afternoon of freedom. I’m sure once I’m wed, the ghastly duke will expect me to sit about in his ghastly castle and act like a ghastly duchess in a ghastly ruffled gown.”
Tilda, who loved ghastly ruffled gowns, sighed and hugged herself. “Becoming a duchess is so exciting though, isn’t it?”
“Would you like to do it? Marry some stranger you’ve never met, and go with him to London where it’s crowded and dirty, and everyone speaks with a funny accent?” A wave of nerves fluttered in Gwen’s stomach. “Papa says I may have to attend an audience with the king.”
“A duke is practically a king,” said Tilda. “And you’ll be married to him. I wonder what he’ll be like.”
“I’m certain he’ll be intolerably haughty and probably very ugly. He’ll have crooked teeth and a big belly pouring over the front of his trousers. All those old aristocrats do.”
“Not all, Gwennie. None of your brothers look like that.”
“They aren’t that old.” Elrick was the eldest of the seven, and he had no belly at all. “Maybe the duke won’t have a belly. I don’t know. But something will be wrong with him.” She sat to pull on her scuffed riding boots. “Otherwise he could have taken some wife in England, some fine lady with a royal pedigree.”
“It’s because of your father,” Tilda reminded her. “He asked the king to...”
To order some poor man to marry you. It stung her pride, that it had come to that. Gwen was twenty-two, long past an age to be married, but she had never managed to attract any acceptable candidates. Not one suitor had asked for her hand.
And the Duke of Arlington hadn’t either.
“He’s probably no more excited to marry me,” she said. “What a disaster for everyone.”
She walked with Tilda toward the stables, wondering why she was so repellent to men. She was tall, it was true, but not shockingly so. She had a bit of a temper, but she mostly kept it in check. She did not whine, or wilt, or put on airs like some of the other gentry’s daughters. Perhaps it was her unusual green eyes that unsettled them. But she’d inherited those pale eyes from her mother, who was considered a great beauty before the fever took her.
If only Mama was still here. She would never have allowed her daughter to be married to an Englishman, and a stranger. “I’m terrified the duke won’t be kind,” Gwen said. “That’s my greatest fear.”
Her cousin took her hand. “I’m sure he’s a very kind man. In a couple of days you’ll be on your way to a grand adventure, experiencing all sorts of majestic things.”
Gwen and Tilda parted as Drustan sauntered over to greet his beloved. Gwen bid them farewell and climbed onto Effie’s swayed back. It was a beautiful October day, warm and bright, with barely a chill in the air. Gwen skirted around the village, leading Effie through the open field beyond the miller’s prope
rty. The leaves were turning orange, brown, and gold, and rustled underfoot as they plodded along the path. They cut through a copse of trees and around an overgrown hedge, and followed a crumbling stone wall until it opened into a half-shaded clearing. The nag took up her usual spot in the shade, and immediately set to grazing.
Gwen climbed down from the saddle and walked into the meadow with a sigh. If this wasn’t the most picturesque, bewitching place in the world, she’d like to see its better. She couldn’t remember when she’d first found this place. She’d stumbled upon it in her wanderings and been struck at once by its beauty. It was private and fragrant with wildflowers, bordered by a shady spot of lake. There was a peaceful feeling here, like one was in a dream or fairy tale.
I’ve come to say goodbye to this meadow, she thought. Just as I must say goodbye to everything else.
She pulled off her bonnet and turned her face to the sun. Her hair tumbled down her back, blowing in the breeze. She’d miss the Welsh countryside, even if she was only moving a couple days’ journey east. She’d be leaving her entire life, her father and brothers and sisters-in-law, and nieces and nephews and cousins.
Gwen had always wished to be married, so she ought to be happy, but she hadn’t expected to be married quite like this. Elrick and Papa had argued for some time about the betrothal. Elrick shouted that Papa was using her as a pawn, but in the end, it was her father’s choice. It was her father’s war heroics that had earned this opportunity from the king, and he chose to sign the contracts which sealed her fate.
Aidan Francis Samuel Drake, His Grace the Duke of Arlington. Gwen felt misgivings about marrying a stranger with ten words in his name. She had no idea if she would make him a good wife, or how she would cope with the intimacies of marriage. Unlike Tilda, Gwen knew nothing of love. She’d never been courted or kissed. Now it appeared her first kiss would come from some aged blueblood with the longest name in Christendom. Maybe the duke wouldn’t even kiss her. Perhaps he would think a Welsh baron’s daughter too common, too far beneath him. He’d certainly think so if he saw her now, in her faded riding gown.
Gwen picked her way through the flowers to the line of ancient boulders bordering the lake, and kicked off her boots. Her stockings went next, tossed upon the grass alongside her bonnet. She climbed atop her favorite rock and dangled her feet down into the water, and wondered how it could feel so chilly when the air was so warm. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap, and began to pray, something her mother had taught her to do when she was a young child. Ask the heavens for what your heart wants, she would say. Ask the flowers and wind and sky. You are never alone; the earth knows your prayers.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please let him be at least a little bit handsome. And patient, and gentle.” Often when she prayed like this, she pictured her mother’s face, smiling and nodding at her. It brought her comfort, even if she was whispering to nothing but the wind. “Please let him have an understanding heart, and a kind manner.” She thought a moment. “If I had to make a choice between the handsomeness and the kindness, I suppose I would prefer to have kindness, although a middling dose of both qualities would be best. And if it’s not too much to ask, I wish...perhaps...someday he might come to love me, if he’s the sort of duke who’s not too lofty to fall in love.”
“Am I in Wales, or am I in Paradise? An angel has flown into my wood.”
The deep voice drew her from her whispered prayers. Someone had discovered her secret meadow! Gwen turned to find the source of the voice, and nearly fell off her rock.
It was her handsome stranger, not twenty yards away.
The gorgeous man sat upon a stump, one leg crossed lazily over the other. He was older than her, but still fit and vital. His long, golden hair framed a starkly attractive face. Not a pretty face. He was no pretty man with those gold locks, but more like a Viking, with a strong jawline and prominent features. Just like a Viking, he was sun-bronzed and able-bodied. She could not remember knowing any man with such wide shoulders, or such a muscular chest. Despite his showy physique, he was dressed plainly in doeskins and a buff vest. He balanced a sketch book on his knee, and a smudge of charcoal sullied his cheek.
This Viking had called her an angel, which was perhaps not entirely proper of him. In fact, he gazed at her so intently her cheeks began to flush.
“You aren’t in Paradise,” she said. “You’re in Wales, a very pretty corner of it.”
“Indeed,” he replied.
He said only that one word, but the way he said it made her slide down from her rock and go for her stockings and boots. She knew she ought to leave without saying another word, but he was so appealing to look at, and his eyes seemed kind.
“Where have you come from?” she asked, which seemed a very safe and polite question to occupy him while she readied herself to go.
He made a gesture toward the north. “I’ve traveled down from Cheltenham.”
That explained his English accent. “Were you there to take the baths?”
“Yes, and then I continued in search of picturesque Welsh villages.” He held up his book. “I’m an artist, and what a lovely subject I’ve stumbled upon. Will you allow me to sketch you?”
She grimaced as she stuffed her feet into her too-small boots. “I’m sure you could find a better subject than me.” She picked up her bonnet, meaning to tuck her hair beneath it.
He leaned forward. “Don’t.”
The authority in his tone made her go still.
He smiled then, a rakish, disarming smile that was so beautiful. “I wish you wouldn’t hide your lovely face beneath that brim and run away from me. Please, let me sketch you. It will only take a short while.”
Goodness, the way he looked at her. Perhaps a handsome stranger will befriend me and fall deeply in love with me, and secret me to his hilltop castle. She wondered if this man had a hilltop castle. Why, he was so masculine and charming, she’d settle for a cabin in the woods.
Gwen decided she would let him sketch her even though it was not quite proper, because he was her handsome stranger and because she could amuse Tilda with the story later. And here, at last, was a man who seemed to find her appealing. She certainly admired his comely attributes. His steady gaze, his broad shoulders, his lips...
Guinevere Vaughn, you want him to kiss you.
Of course she would never let him, but there was something exciting about a man finally wanting to kiss her. Probably wanting to kiss her. Perhaps he only wished to draw her. He certainly made a fuss about seating her in the best light, and angling her chin just so, and arranging her hair so it fell over her shoulders in just the perfect way.
As he did this, she thrilled to his nearness and his uncommon size. He smelled wonderful, like soap and sandalwood, and his eyes were a beautiful deep blue. He met her gaze for a moment as he composed her hair. His regard was so intense that she looked away. She stared instead at his lips, pursed in concentration. My goodness, did all men have such attractive lips, or had she fallen under some spell? Perhaps he was the angel in this meadow, come down from heaven to tempt her chastity mere hours before she was to wed.
“Can you sit very still?” he asked. “And hold this pose for me?”
“I’ll try.”
She wondered if he was a famous sort of artist. His clothes were common, but his sketch book looked exceedingly fine. She had heard of artists so obsessed with their craft that they cared nothing for manners or appearance, and went about looking almost as hermits, with dirty clothes and disheveled hair. Not that this man was dirty or disheveled. He was exactly the opposite, clean and attractive, and strong, and fine to look upon.
Gwen, you goose. You’re to meet your betrothed on the morrow. She couldn’t lose her head over this handsome stranger. He was not really going to fall in love with her, and he was not going to take her to his hilltop castle, as sweet as the fantasy was.
“How pretty you are,” he said, as his charcoal scratched over the paper. “You have
remarkable eyes.”
“They are like my mother’s.”
“She must be a beautiful woman.”
“She is...beautiful.” Gwen had almost said she was dead, but then she thought, there is no need for truth here. If he was only traveling through the area, he couldn’t know she was Miss Guinevere Vaughn, daughter of a Welsh baron, especially with the way she was dressed. She could be a village girl who could be named anything, and who could have a beautiful mother who still lived. “What is your name?” she asked, partly because she wished to know the name of this handsomest of all men, and partly so she could make up a name of her own.
“I’m called Jack,” he said. “And you?”
“Rose,” she said proudly. She had always loved simple flower names, probably because she’d been named Guinevere, which was long and cumbersome.
“Ah, a fitting name for a lady in bloom. It’s very nice to meet you, Rose,” said the man. “Please sit still.”
Again, she heard that resonance of authority in his voice. She supposed he must be very serious about his art. She studied him as he went back to scritching and scratching at his book. He drew very confidently, as if it were easy for him to do it. It felt strange to be scrutinized so closely by someone—especially someone so blatantly virile. She tried not to blush and flutter when their eyes met.
“Have you a sweetheart, Rose?” he asked the next time he looked up from his book. “I imagine a pretty girl like you has many suitors. Or perhaps...” He paused in his sketching. “You are already wed to some fortunate fellow?”
“No,” she said, feeling embarrassed that she had neither suitor nor husband. Then she remembered, No need for truth. “I’m not yet wed, but I am being courted by a wonderful young man named...Thomas.” It was as good a name as any.
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