The Perfect Duchess

by Erica Taylor

“A towel—something!” Andrew commanded, looking around at the terrified servants. “Something to press to her head. She’s bleeding.”

  The maid hurried to the wash basin and returned seconds later with a plush white towel, still damp from when Clara washed her face that morning.

  Pressing the towel to her head, Andrew angled her wound against him, slipping his hands and arms under her limp body, lifting her up. As he stood, he addressed the remaining servants who were peeking into the room from around the doorframe in terror and awe.

  “Get me a carriage. Now.”

  A footman scrambled out of the room, and Andrew followed him, holding Clara carefully in his arms, the towel pressed between her wound and his chest.

  “Have all of Lady Clara’s things packed and ready,” he told a formidable looking woman he assumed was the housekeeper.

  “Yes, of course,” she said and bobbed a curtsy. “Where shall I send them?”

  Andrew thought for a moment. “A carriage will arrive for them. I want eyes blind to the crest upon it. Lady Clara does not need any more scandal than she has already had to endure. But I assure you she will be safe and protected.”

  The woman curtsied again, and Andrew saw how her eyes misted up before she hurried up the stairs, grabbing two maids with her along the way.

  “The carriage, sir,” a man who must have been Morton’s butler said to him, and Andrew hurried out of the house. He managed to get Clara into the hackney before turning to the butler at his heels.

  “I am sorry to leave you all to Morton’s wrath,” Andrew said. “If any of you find yourself in need of employment, you can present yourself to a Mr. Evans at Evans, Smith and Watson on Piccadilly.”

  “Very good, sir,” the butler replied. “And if we wish to inquire about the lady’s health and well-being?”

  “I will make sure you are kept informed,” Andrew replied.

  “Very well, sir,” the butler said with the same misty look in his eyes. Andrew nodded and closed the carriage door, rapping his knuckles on the top of the roof. The carriage lurched into motion, and he was thankful to see Morton House fade around the corner.

  He looked down at Clara’s tear-streaked face, the blood smeared through her blonde hair. Please let her be okay, he prayed.

  “Where are we headed, good sir?” the driver asked through the hatch, and Andrew answered with the address. He did not live far from Morton House, but far enough that he did not want to be seen carrying Lady Clara’s form through the streets of London. It took only a matter of minutes before the carriage was rolling up to his front door.

  “Fetch Dr. Lennox on the Mall,” Andrew said, getting down from the carriage, still holding Clara in his arms. “There is a ten pound note in it if you can do it quickly, and don’t speak of this to anyone.”

  “Aye, sir,” the driver said, tipping his hat, and he was soon rolling out of the Bradstone House gates.

  The front door opened before Andrew, and he hurried into the house.

  “Sarah!” he cried once he was inside, taking the stairs carefully, not wanting to jostle Clara even further. “Sarah! Now, I need your help!”

  He managed to open the door to the first bedchamber he came to, kicking the door wide open and setting Clara gently on the four-poster bed.

  “Andrew!” Sarah exclaimed as she came into the room. “What on earth is going on?”

  “She’s not conscious, Sarah, and she has a head injury,” Andrew explained, barking orders for towels and blankets at the few servants who had entered after his sister.

  Sarah looked down at the unconscious woman on the bed, and he thought he heard his very proper sister let out a very unladylike swear.

  “Sarah, what if . . .” he swallowed, unable to even say the horrible words rattling about in his mind. No, Clara would be all right.

  Sarah lay a steadying hand on his arm and told him, “She will be fine, Andrew. Just wait and see. Has the physician been sent for?”

  Andrew nodded numbly, his gaze dropping down to his front, realizing blood from her head wound had seeped onto his jacket and shirt. He looked as though he had been shot.

  With Sarah’s steadying hand on his shoulder, Andrew sat near the bed as blankets and towels were carried into the room, sheets were pulled from chairs, and the curtains were pulled back to allow sunlight to shine through.

  Andrew had a hard time putting into words what he had seen or what he was feeling. He recognized the heart-gripping fear at seeing her immobile, unconscious, so distracted in his own worry he never even questioned the depth or reasoning for his distress. He did not see Sarah’s knowing glances or question why she was not putting up more of a fuss at his presence inside the bedchamber.

  Within ten minutes, Dr. Lennox had arrived, and Andrew told the account of what he had witnessed, ignoring Sarah’s shocked gasps and the look of worry increasing on the good doctor’s face. He was middle aged, Andrew knew, though time had been kind to him. He had sandy-brown hair and clean, simple attire: brown breeches, brown coat. His gentle eyes made him seem trustworthy even if his methods and remedies were a little unorthodox at times. Some of the medical community thought him eccentric—Andrew thought he was by far the best physician in town.

  “Sounds as if she’s been through quite an ordeal,” Dr. Lennox said and dabbed a wet cloth over Clara’s head, examining the wound just beneath her hairline. “I will need to examine her to make sure nothing is broken, so it would be best if you leave, your grace.”

  Andrew nodded though he did not want to budge. He spun around meeting Sarah’s eyes, and he prayed she saw in them what he was always so careful to hide. He cared for Clara, much more than he was willing to admit aloud, and this realization frightened him. He did not want to leave her alone.

  “I will stay with her, Andrew,” Sarah said, nodding.

  “Thank you,” he muttered hoarsely, overcome with relief.

  He stepped outside the room and glanced back at Clara’s slumped form on the bed before the door closed upon him.

  Andrew felt exhausted. He swallowed back the lump in his throat and took a few steps forward, wondering what to do next. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to cause Jonathan Masson pain. Descending the stairs, he hurried down the hall to his study, slamming the door shut before collapsing into the chair nearest the door.

  He wanted to murder Jonathan Masson. He wanted to rip him limb from limb. He wanted to go back to Morton House and finish what he should have finished twelve years ago.

  But he could not leave Clara. She had been in his life again for less than a day, and she was already deeply entwined in his senses. He ran his hands through his hair, linked his fingers at the back of his head, and leaned back, closing his eyes.

  When he’d slid into Clara’s doorframe and saw Clara crumpled and bleeding on the floor, Morton standing over her, ready to strike again, he had gone red with rage. Fury had blurred his vision and he had attacked a peer. Brother or not, he would not allow Clara to be bullied and abused by Jonathan Masson ever again. Never mind that Andrew had assaulted the man in his own home and abducted the man’s sister . . . he was not going to allow Clara to feel that brand of hatred ever again.

  “What the devil has gotten into you?” a voice asked, and Andrew opened his eyes. A grinning red-headed man was hovering over him, and Andrew blinked up at his friend, Lord Rheneas Warren, Earl of Bexley.

  “Seems like everyone wants to know the answer to that question, most of all me,” Andrew replied.

  “You are acting quite out of character,” another of Andrew’s friends, Lord Jeremiah Aster, Viscount Halcourt, said as he walked into the study followed by Lord Redley Ralston, Viscount Kensburg, Andrew’s maternal cousin.

  “Please, by all means, gentlemen, come right in,” Andrew drawled at his best friends.

  “Oh, we will,” Bexley replied. “I say, Andrew, but yo
u are covered in blood.”

  Andrew glanced down again. “S’not mine,” he mumbled.

  “Give the man a moment to breathe,” Halcourt said. “He’s just abducted someone. Allow him to regain his composure.” Redley gave him a bewildered look as he tossed his hat onto the chair, followed by his gloves.

  “Funny, Halcourt,” Andrew said to his dark-haired friend.

  Halcourt merely shrugged as he removed his gloves. “I did not say it was funny.”

  “It really is not like you, old chap,” Bexley agreed, tossing his hat and gloves beside Redley’s. Redley shook his head and sat down.

  Redley was the only man in the room Andrew was actually related to by blood; though, by appearances, one could not tell they were related as Redley’s light grey-blue eyes and light blond hair contrasted Andrew’s. Despite being cousins, Andrew had not met Redley until later in their teen years, and Redley had never disclosed all the details of his life before that. Andrew only knew their upbringings had been significantly different, and as a result, Redley was a peculiar sort. He rarely ever spoke a word.

  The other two men were two of five men whom Andrew would trust with his life. Those five men had stood by him before and after his inheritance of the dukedom, remaining true in their friendship when so many others had been there only for personal gain.

  “Honestly, Andrew, you need to be careful who you abduct in broad daylight,” Halcourt said.

  “What made you do it, Andrew dear?” Bexley asked. “Just trying to thwart Morton? By nabbing his sister?”

  “Will you lot please stop?” Andrew sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. “I don’t know what came over me; I don’t even know what possessed me to be there. All I know is that he was hitting her, and she was . . . lying on the floor bleeding, and I just lost control. The lot of you would have done the exact same had you been there.”

  There was a brief moment of silence wherein his three friends regarded him, and he eyed each one of them, silently daring them to continue their chastising.

  “Gads, boys, he looks actually torn up about this,” Bexley commented with a grin. “I think he might be in love with the chit.”

  Redley nodded in agreement.

  “Can’t be in love with her yet, can he?” Halcourt asked. “He just met her yesterday.”

  “Again,” Bexley reminded them. “He technically already knew her.”

  “I am not in love with her,” Andrew grumbled. “And she was the sister of the girl I intended to marry when I saw her last.”

  “Has she even made her bows?” Bexley asked.

  “Don’t know if she has, actually,” Halcourt replied. “Would the Queen even receive her?”

  “With a reputation such as hers?” Bexley asked. “Not likely.”

  “She made her bows with her twin sister before their father died,” Andrew interjected. “Those horrid rumors about her did not start until this season, well after the death of the old earl and Jonathan Masson ascended to their illustrious title.”

  Bexley snickered. “Illustrious title,” he muttered into his drink. “Who does Jonathan Masson think he is? His title is no more illustrious than the rest of ours, our favorite duke excluded, of course.”

  Andrew rolled his eyes as his three friends snickered. Jonathan Masson had been a first-born son with a courtesy title when they had all been chums at Eton. He and Andrew had been best friends. Jonathan enjoyed listening to the plans Andrew had for his life, knowing he would never be granted such freedom, since Jonathan’s first born status deprived him of a life of entirely his choosing. It was not until Andrew became a duke and Jonathan was still waiting to inherit that their friendship came to an abrupt end. That was when Jonathan’s true nature had come out, though Andrew did not know why he hadn’t seen it earlier in their acquaintance. Andrew had once been his right-hand man, but he had never noticed the depth of Jonathan’s vile nature. With the inheritance tables turned, Andrew became Jonathan’s favorite target. He was never openly rude; it would not look good to openly snub the young Duke of Bradstone. Instead he used everyone around him as his weapons. Slowly he poisoned the thoughts of the other boys in school; even some of the faculty began to believe the lies that Jonathan spread about him. And he had done the same thing to Clara. A few not-so-subtle hints, some sly innuendo, and he let the imagination of the ton run wild. The stories about Clara were outrageous; some were downright mean. And no one else realized her own brother was the source.

  “You don’t believe what’s been said about her?” Halcourt asked, and Andrew shook his head.

  “Not for a second,” he replied. “We all know how horrid Morton can be when he sets his mind to it.”

  “If you believe her, that is all that matters,” Halcourt said.

  Andrew jumped to his feet and stood nose-to-nose with his dark-haired friend. “I do believe her, and that is all that matters.” Redley stood up as well, placing a hand on Andrew’s shoulder, like he had when they were lads brawling in the school yard.

  Halcourt’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “Calm down, Andrew,” Bexley said and handed him a glass of brandy. “Don’t hit him before dinner, it is bad form.” Redley pushed Andrew down into his chair before retaking his own seat.

  Andrew accepted the offer of his own liquor and gulped it down.

  “Luckily no one saw you carrying Lady Clara out of Morton House or into Bradstone House,” Halcourt began.

  “Then how did you know about it?” Andrew asked.

  “Bloody man has spies everywhere, I tell you,” Bexley replied when Halcourt did not.

  “—so there will be no accounts of the event,” Halcourt continued as if they hadn’t cut him off.

  “What about Morton?” Andrew asked. “I half expected you to be the watch called out for my arrest. I did assault him and abduct his sister.”

  “Actually, he’s already left London,” Halcourt replied.

  “Already?” Andrew repeated. “I was there scarcely an hour ago.”

  “Apparently he came around shortly after you left with Lady Clara and took off straight away.”

  “Halcourt, how is it that you know these details?” Andrew asked.

  Halcourt merely shrugged and took a sip of his drink.

  Andrew’s mind was spinning with the information Halcourt had delivered. Morton could not be trusted, and Andrew would not trust him to not go after Clara again. She’d reentered his life for less than a day, and yet, he was unwilling to let her slip away again. Her safety was of the utmost importance. He would do anything to keep her safe.

  Andrew eyed the men surrounding him. “You lot would offer unconditional support, should I need it, right?”

  “Dare I ask where you are going with this?” Halcourt asked.

  “I have an idea,” Andrew began. “Granted, it is still half-formed and hare-brained, but Lady Clara needs to be protected. Halcourt, can you do . . . whatever it is you do and find out what you can about Morton? He was in the process of throwing Lady Clara out when I intervened.”

  “That seems a rather extreme reaction,” Halcourt replied. “What did she do?”

  Andrew shrugged. “Last I saw her was early this morning, leaving the ball. I cannot imagine she would do anything to warrant such a vicious response from her brother.”

  Halcourt nodded. “I agree. I will see what I can find out.”

  “If your idea of protecting the chit is leaning the way I think you are, you are going to need more than unconditional support from just us,” Bexley pointed out. “But you have it, regardless.”

  Redley agreed with a curt nod.

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and a butler stepped in.

  “The doctor has asked for you, your grace.”

  “Yes, very good,” Andrew replied. “Thank you, H
owards. Also—please send a carriage around to Morton House. I suspect Lady Clara might be staying with us for some time. I’m sure she’d appreciate some of her own things.”

  Howards nodded. “Yes, your grace.”

  “We’ll be off, your grace,” Halcourt replied.

  “We just came by for your brandy, anyway,” Bexley said, picking up his hat. Redley downed the rest of his glass before setting it on the side table.

  “I take it you will not be at Almack’s this evening,” Halcourt said, pulling on his gloves. The four of them moved into the main hallway.

  “I don’t know,” Andrew admitted. “But it is doubtful.”

  “Very good,” Halcourt said, making his bow before leaving.

  Bexley and Redley rolled their eyes at their always overly-formal friend and bowed as well, more of a way to mock Halcourt than as a sign of respect to the duke.

  Andrew did not mind. He always took their jokes in stride.

  Andrew turned and hurried up the main stairs two at a time, coming to a halt outside the bedchamber where he had left Clara. Dr. Lennox was just coming out of the room.

  “How is she?” Andrew asked.

  Dr. Lennox looked pale. “She hasn’t regained consciousness, so I surmise she is heavily concussed. I’ve cleaned and treated the wound and bound it to prevent further bleeding. If she wakes up—”

  “When she wakes up,” Andrew corrected.

  The doctor swallowed and nodded. “When she wakes up—and I am very hopeful she will—she will need to rest the first two days, three solid meals each day. But try to keep her in bed.” The good doctor had the decency to blush and quickly amended his comment. “Do not let her on her feet while her dizziness remains. Twenty-four hours at least before she should walk unassisted. She’s been through an ordeal and will require a good amount of support,” the doctor warned. “There is no telling what damage abuse can leave in its wake.”

  “May I see her now?” Andrew inquired and was relieved when the physician nodded.

  “Please send word when she regains consciousness.”

  “Of course.”