The Duke's Last Hunt

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  He spotted the housekeeper in the saloon near one of the pillars. “Mrs. Forsythe, could you tell me which room you’ve put Walter Turold in?”

  The housekeeper frowned and looked up from the large vase she was filling with flowers. “I’m assuming you’re having a good reason for asking, Master Henry. No childhood mischief?”

  “Of course not,” Henry assured her. “I need to speak with him.”

  “That is a change,” she remarked. How well the servants knew the relationships of the higher class.

  Henry tried disarming her with a smile. “Please, Mrs. Forsythe.”

  “Oh very well then. He’s in the red room upstairs.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry, planting a kiss on her old cheek.

  “Oh, get on with you!” said the housekeeper, swatting at him as he darted for the stairs, but her wrinkled face melted into a smile as she returned to her flower arranging.

  It was not yet noon, and judging by the midnight quarrel he had overheard, Henry knew that Walter had had a late night of it. He knocked on the door of the red room.

  “Who is it?”

  “Henry.”

  There was a pause, and then the door opened a few inches, Walter’s long hair still tousled and his shirt unfastened. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly.

  “I need to speak with you.”

  “Then do so.” The door opened no further.

  Henry decided to mince no words. “I saw Rufus in the forest today arm in arm with Catherine Ansel.”

  There was a slight pause, and then the door swung open. “Since when do you care about Catherine Ansel?”

  It was the retort Henry had been expecting. “Since that wretched day ten years ago.”

  “Hmm…well, you’ve done a fine job of showing it.” Their eyes locked and Henry refused to flinch. Walter finally softened. “Best come in then and we’ll talk about this disaster. I’m afraid I put Rufus’ back up last night by letting on that she mattered to me….”

  * * *

  Eliza stood in the entrance hall for a few moments uncertainly until it became apparent that Lord Henry’s errand was of a lengthy nature and he would not be returning. She decided to go to her room and change out of her riding habit. Some tea would also be in order and a muffin, for she had forgotten to breakfast before they left this morning.

  “Ah, there you are, Eliza!” said a happy voice. It was her father, coming out of the drawing room.

  “Good morning, Papa,” she said, giving him a filial kiss on the cheek. “Is Mama better today?”

  “A little,” replied Sir Arthur, “but I think she will still keep to her rooms to be fully rested for the hunt.” Eliza supposed that to be her father’s interpretation of events—she imagined her mother cared very little whether she attended the hunt or not.

  “But darling girl, I have news for you,” continued Sir Arthur, throwing an arm around her.

  Eliza’s eyes opened wide. Her father was never this affectionate. “What is it, Papa?”

  “The duke invited me to his study early this morning about a very important matter.”

  “Oh, yes?” Her lungs felt like they were collapsing.

  Sir Arthur turned to face her, placing both hands on her shoulders. “He asked permission to marry you, Eliza.”

  “What did you say?” She could hardly manage more than a whisper.

  “Why, what else would I say but yes! You will be happy to hear that your mother has overcome her aversion to him and now views him merely with indifference.”

  Eliza did not consider indifference to be identical with a glowing enthusiasm. “Were you thinking of consulting me?”

  “Have I not already done so?” Her father sounded hurt. His hands dropped to his sides and his shoulders stooped a little. “I am quite sure that I did in the carriage ride to Harrowhaven. You said that you did not know him well enough yet, but now that you have improved your acquaintance with him, I can fathom no reason why not to proceed.”

  “Papa!” One of the housemaids was scurrying by, and Eliza, afraid to speak so publicly, grabbed her father’s hand, dragged him into the empty drawing room, and shut the doors. “Now that I have improved our acquaintance, I have discovered that I don’t wish to wed Rufus Rowland.”

  He blinked at her in incomprehension.

  “Papa, I am wholly and utterly opposed to the notion.”

  He threw himself down upon the sofa and pounded a fist against the cushion. “But how can this be, Eliza? And why have you said nothing to me on the subject before? I gave the duke assurances that you were amenable to his proposals.”

  “How could you, Papa?” A few tears streaked down her face. She sat on the sofa opposite him.

  “But, my dear…what is there to object to? Perhaps you do not love him yet, but that can come in time.”

  “No, it is not that—although, certainly, I do not love him. It is his character, Papa. He is not considerate of his mother or his sister. He is not considerate of me. He puts his own amusements before everyone else’s. He takes liberties that I would rather he did not—”

  “Oh, pish,” said her father. “A young buck in love. You understand very little of men.”

  “Perhaps so,” said Eliza, her courage rising, “but I don’t think it is asking too much for one’s husband to be courteous…and kind.”

  “Listen here, my girl,” said Sir Arthur, leaning forward. “I am sorry that it comes to this, but I must be quite plain with you. You are one and twenty with no other prospects than the Duke of Brockenhurst. The Malcolms have more creditors than you can count on your fingers and toes, and if we are to avoid retrenching to a tiny cottage in the country, you must make an advantageous marriage—this marriage. Would you sentence your mother and me to penury?”

  Eliza began to sob. “Of course I do not wish that, Papa. But think what you are sentencing me to!”

  “Nonsense. It’s hardly a hardship for you to be a duchess with lots of pin money and pretty gowns. What does it matter if the duke likes hunting better than conversation—you’ll have plenty of other consolations.”

  Eliza’s whole body was trembling. “And does Mama feel the same?”

  “She would not put it in so many words, but I know she acknowledges the prudence of the match.”

  Eliza remained silent for the space of a minute, her father’s eyes boring holes into her. She should have known it would come to this—should have known it from the moment her father had grasped at the duke’s resolution to come calling. But somehow, Eliza had assumed that it would all be for naught—that Rufus Rowland would cry off as soon as he knew her better and that she would not be obliged to make any decision concerning him.

  Her father had got his hopes up now, and it was too cruel of her to disappoint him. It was only her future she was giving up. It was only the rest of her life.

  Eliza brushed the tears off her face and, folding her hands meekly in her lap, said, “Very well, Papa. I shall do as you bid me.”

  “Good girl,” said Sir Arthur, exhaling in obvious relief.

  “Where is the duke now?” Eliza asked faintly.

  “Out for his morning ride,” said Sir Arthur, “but I’m sure he’ll be back before long. Perhaps you should go change out of…that dress”—he waved a hand at her brown riding habit—“and put on something more appealing.”

  “Yes, Papa.” She brushed the tears from her face one more time and, exiting the drawing room, hurried up the stairs to her room. As she went, she said a little prayer that she would not meet Henry Rowland again until all was said and done. It was not that she necessarily preferred him to his brother—but to see herself fall in his estimation? That was something she could not bear.

  * * *

  When Henry came downstairs again, he found his sister, along with Stephen and Robert, standing by the dining room windo
ws that looked out to the garden.

  “Is there some exotic bird in the hedge?” he demanded.

  “More of an exotic event,” replied Robert smugly. “What think you, Hal? Our dear brother has taken Miss Malcolm outside to offer his hand and heart.”

  “Miss Malcolm is far too sensible to make that mistake,” said Henry briskly. His stomach lurched inside him, however, and he prayed that the lady in question would substantiate his claim. She had seemed set against Rufus when he broached the subject earlier, but other forces might come into play besides her personal inclinations.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Henry,” said Adele, her nose pressed against the glass, “but the proposal is happening as we speak, and…she appears to be agreeing.” Adele shrieked and put a hand over her mouth. “He is kissing her! No, not on the lips—she turned her face away—merely on the cheek.”

  “Come away from the windows,” said the duchess. “There are some things that should be done in private.”

  “And some things that should not be done at all,” said Henry shortly. His brows turned into thunderclouds. What kind of man proposes marriage to a gentlewoman directly following a tryst with another woman? He growled under his breath and sat down heavily on the sofa, beating his fist into one of the cushions.

  “Don’t be jealous, Henry,” said Adele. “You had your chance in London, didn’t you? I suppose Eliza must simply prefer redheads…or dukes.” Adele smiled at her own witticism, but Stephen sent Henry a look of quiet sympathy.

  Henry’s mother came over and sat down next to him. “My dear,” she said quietly, “is it true that you fancied Miss Malcolm?”

  “I had rather not answer that.”

  The duchess looked at him gravely. “I am sorry, Henry.” She glanced over to the window. She was a strong woman, beautiful, but with a hard cast to her face, made stern by the vicissitudes of life. “Perhaps he is actually fond of her too. She could reform him, you know.”

  Henry pushed himself up from the sofa and, bending down, planted a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “I wouldn’t count on it, Mama.”

  Her eyes grew sad. “A mother can hope, can she not?”

  Henry opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it. He would not vent his spleen on his mother.

  He saw Robert abandoning the window and heading toward him with a simpering smile. He could bear no more questions. Turning sharply, he made to escape the dining room and nearly collided with Sir Arthur.

  “Pardon me! Have you seen my daughter?” said the older man.

  “I believe she is otherwise occupied at present,” said Henry, “with becoming a duchess.”

  “Ah!” said Sir Arthur, his eyes shining. “Capital! Capital!”

  And in that moment, Henry—who had hitherto only considered him weak—found Eliza’s father to be utterly despicable. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Sir Arthur,” he said, forcing a smile. He was too well-bred to say what was really in his mind.

  “Thank you, thank you!”

  “Here they come!” shrieked Adele.

  Henry cringed and backed toward the door. He was more than adept at dissimulation, but this was one well-wishing he did not wish to be part of. He needed a moment to himself. Later, he could put on a brave face and decide what was to be done.

  * * *

  Eliza was trembling all over by the time she came in from the garden on Rufus’ arm. It had all seemed like a swirling dream of inchoate events. She had known what he would say before they stepped out of doors. And when he had said it, she had not hesitated…but she had felt, for all the world, like a painted marionette, stiffly playing the part the strings assigned it.

  “Yes,” she had said, rubbing her dry lips against each other. “I will be your wife.”

  And then he had tried to kiss her—an action not horribly improper at the scene of a betrothal—but Eliza had panicked at his proximity, twisting away so that his lips only grazed her cheek.

  He had not liked that, she could tell, but he did not express his displeasure beyond a slight stiffening of his upper lip. “Come, let us tell the others the happy news,” he had said. Was it only her imagination that he dwelt overlong on the word “happy”? Was he being ironic? Did he know how unhappy this engagement was making her?

  “Miss Malcolm has done me the honor of accepting my proposal,” said Rufus, leading her into the circle of his family. They were all there—sans one, but it was the one person she had resolved not to think about—the dowager duchess, Mr. Curtis, Adele, and her admiring Mr. Blount. In the corner stood Eliza’s father, beaming his approval.

  The dowager duchess bestowed a kiss on Eliza’s cheek, and while her words were not effusive, they also did not seem unwelcoming.

  Adele squealed with delight and pressed Eliza to her bosom. “We shall be sisters! Just think of it!”

  “Steady on there, Adele,” said Rufus. “You would not want to frighten Eliza into calling off the match before I’ve got it into the banns.”

  Everyone laughed at that, save Adele, who gave her elder brother a petulant scowl.

  “Never fear that!” said Sir Arthur, and walking forward, he planted a kiss on Eliza’s cheek. She looked at him reproachfully. No, she had committed herself to the course her father had laid out in front of her. She could not call off the match now.

  “I must tell your mother the glad tidings,” said Sir Arthur, clapping his hands together. He took Eliza’s hand in his and pressed it.

  “Yes, do,” said the duchess, “and tell her I hope she will be recovered enough to join us this evening to celebrate.”

  Sir Arthur bowed to his hostess and departed from the dining room.

  “Come, Eliza,” said Adele, drawing her away from her brother. “We must discuss a whole new bridal wardrobe for you. And your wedding trip! You and Rufus must go to Italy.”

  Eliza looked over at her intended and saw his brow furrow. He cleared his throat. “Italy is a little far, don’t you think, Adele, with things being so unsettled on the continent? And I would not wish to leave the estate. Better to stay close to home, I think.”

  “Oh, how dull!” said Adele. “When I get married, I shall certainly wish to travel. And not just to Italy, but to Greece and Spain as well.”

  Eliza could not help but look at Mr. Blount. He looked a little worried himself—Eliza wondered how well his finances could afford the extensive traveling that Adele had in mind.

  She did not mind that Rufus did not wish to travel abroad, but perhaps they could take a wedding trip to the north of England or to Scotland. If she was to marry a man she barely knew, it would be nice to become acquainted with him when it was only the two of them—rather than in a large house full of servants with the duke’s family always waiting in the wings.

  “…and you must have a veil of Chantilly lace,” Adele was saying. Eliza murmured something polite, but her mind was not really on the subject. Rufus, bored with the conversation, had drifted over to where his brother Robert stood. Eliza could not hear the gist of their exchange, but within moments, they had both headed for the door, looking as if they had some business to discuss—either that, or a particularly excellent glass of brandy was calling their names.

  The rest of the day passed by in a blur. While the other gentlemen made themselves scarce, Mr. Blount soldiered manfully through the nuptial planning well into the afternoon, offering helpful affirmations to queries about flowers and candles. A few times Eliza suspected that Adele was far more interested in Mr. Blount’s opinion than in hers, perhaps making mental notes about a different wedding that might one day come to pass.

  It was not until dinnertime that the dreaded moment occurred—the moment when Eliza must see Henry Rowland again, after flouting—so blatantly—his well-meant advice that morning. Rufus met her outside the dining room and led her in for dinner. He attempted no more d
isplays of affection, for which Eliza was grateful.

  She half expected Lord Henry to ignore her or else to glower at her, but whatever annoyance he might be feeling, he was concealing it admirably. When Rufus seated her beside him, Lord Henry contrived to take the chair on her other side. Eliza swallowed hard and tried to maintain her composure.

  “I hear you’ve had an eventful day,” Lord Henry murmured, holding out the platter of veal cakes.

  Eliza’s hand shook as she laid her fork down on the side of her plate and took a small veal cake. “Yes, so it seems.”

  Rufus, who had been resting against the cushioned back of his chair, lips pursed in thought, leaned forward at this. “Are you not going to congratulate me, Henry?” He took Eliza’s hand in his. It was hard and rough from handling the reins of his horses, and Eliza felt her own hand dwarfed by its size.

  “Yes, I believe congratulations are in order,” said Lord Henry, clearly and confidently, “to one of the parties at least. Congratulations, Rufus.” He raised a glass to his brother and took a sip.

  “Thank you,” said Rufus smugly. He left his hand atop Eliza’s, like an explorer’s flag on some newly claimed piece of territory. “I am excited that I will soon be able to install my wife as mistress of this place.” He looked around the table, and Eliza—if it was not her imagination—noticed that his gaze halted when it came to his mother.

  “I am sure you will wish to make some changes as most brides do,” said the duchess, addressing Eliza in an even tone. “And I am sure that I shall not stand in your way.”

  “Of course not, Mother,” said Rufus, “and I applaud your decision to move out to the Dower House following the wedding.”

  There was a pause following that statement, until Adele broke in with a little cry of indignation. “The Dower House! Why should you wish to move into that moldy pile, Mother? I was told I must never go near it on account of it being in such poor repair.”

  “Oh, is that the story going around about it?” said Lord Henry innocently. “I was not aware that the Dower House was dilapidated…or vacant.”