The Duke's Secret Desire (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 4)

by Regina Darcy

Param left the meeting place and travelled to his destination in a public conveyance so that his identity remained concealed. He never used his official transport when conducting the private business which consumed his attention; there was no purpose in advertising his errands when the British would be only too glad to find a reason to place him under observation. His father was a fool to think that there could ever be accord between the Indian provinces and the British masters who sought to make the area a vassal of their Empire. But Param was not a fool. It was possible that his sister’s recklessness had just delivered him the means to ignite the revolt that he sought, if he could engineer a ruse to make it happen.

  Param didn’t know it but his half-sister’s marriage, conducted in privacy so secluded as to almost seem that something forbidden had taken place, was not bringing her peace. She had trusted Lord Bartholomew’s insistence that she was in danger; she loved him, although he didn’t know it and she hoped that there would come a time when the subterfuge and unknown threats would dissolve and they could be truly husband and wife. But after the ceremony, when Bartholomew had placed an ancestral ring on her finger and kissed her, he had escorted her to the master bedroom and assured her that he would not impose upon her. He would sleep in the dressing room, he told her; the servants must not know that they were not living as husband and wife. When she pleaded with him to explain his peculiar behaviour, he told her that he sought only to protect her. She needed to trust him, he told her; eventually, everything would be explained. She needed to stay here so that she was safe. That was all that he could tell her.

  He bowed and left her in her room, alone. She could hear him in the dressing room, making his preparations for bed. She did not know whether she was angry or disappointed.

  Why was he behaving like this? What there reason for alarm? Why was she spending her wedding night alone? She felt as if she were no more than a mechanism for more plots to unfold. She had married the first time because of her father’s order; now, she was married a second time because of her late husband’s charge to his best friend. Did no one consider that she was not a chess piece to be moved across the board, but a woman who had never been asked what she wanted for her life? What was she to do for her child? Lord Bartholomew had promised that he would be a father to her child and she believed him, but would he ever be able to view her as a woman and not only a duty?

  Arya, alone in the massive bed, cried herself to sleep on her wedding night.

  Her solitude continued the next day. The Duke was gone before she rose; as an officer, his duty was with his regiment and he was not free to spend his days with her. Her father, outraged at her act, refused to see her. The social set to which she had belonged as the Baroness was scandalised by her marriage and shunned her.

  She spent the entire day alone with her thoughts and her fears and as the hours passed, with no diversion from her thoughts, she felt as if she were a prisoner in a marriage that was clearly even more restrictive than her first one. When the maid, who was unknown to her as were all of the servants, delivered a message that her brother needed to see her on a matter of the gravest urgency, Arya told her to let him in.

  “He’s not here, Madame. A boy came with the message and he’s waiting for your answer.”

  “What answer? Where does my brother wish to meet me?” The maid stared at her, clearly clueless.

  “Send the boy in.”

  The boy entered; he was little more than a child, clearly not a conspirator. Bartholomew had told her to be careful, but there was no reason to fear a child. The boy told her that he had another message and that he had been told to deliver it into her hands.

  Arya took the letter, which was folded and sealed, and opened it.

  “Princess,” she read. “You have been duped. My sources tell me that the British plan to do you harm. By getting rid of you and your child, the Crown will be able to claim your lands and your wealth. I will not allow the British to use you to achieve their perfidious ends. I will send a carriage at three o’clock to come to your aid. Tell no one that you are leaving. Depart from the door in the back, through the garden, where you will not be seen. The carriage will be waiting. Conceal yourself so that no one will know who you are.”

  Arya questioned the boy but he clearly knew nothing and had been chosen for this errand because of his youth and his inability to read. Param was taking no chances.

  But was he telling the truth? Was her life, and her child’s life, in danger from the British? Was Bartholomew part of a vicious scheme to acquire her lands or was he merely an unwitting pawn in a much bigger plot?

  She would obtain no answers from her husband but she knew that her brother was aware of everything that went on in the province. Her father had always said that Param had his ear so close to the ground that the ants told him secrets.. She needed answers and she resolved to get them.

  SEVEN

  “She’s not here, sir,” the maid told him.

  “What do you mean, the Duchess is not here. Where could she have gone?”

  Bartholomew had returned home at the end of the day to find his wife absent. He had stalked through the house, calling her name, opening every door to every room. Racing back down the stairs, he confronted the stolid maid.

  “I don’t know, your lordship. When I returned to the drawing room, no one was there and the Duchess’s cloak was gone. I thought she must have gone calling.”

  “She was told to stay here,” Bartholomew said. “What could have induced her to leave?”

  “She received a message, sir.”

  “A message? Why didn’t you say so? A message from whom?”

  “Her brother.”

  “Her brother took her?”

  “No, sir.”

  Was the girl simple or daft? Was she incapable of providing an account of the events which had led to her mistress’ departure? Forcing himself to mind his temper, Bartholomew questioned the girl further. He learned that Param Singh himself had not come to the house, but had sent a messenger, a young boy, who had said he had a message to deliver to Madame by hand. Madame had said to bring the boy in, and the maid had left. She didn’t know what happened after that, except that when she entered the room with the tea tray, Madame was gone and the room was vacant.

  “Where is the message?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “It must be here, unless she disposed of it.”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Apparently,” Bartholomew said bitingly. The girl merely looked back at him with no expression on her face. He went back upstairs to Arya’s bedroom. She seemed to have taken nothing with her except her cloak. He roamed about the room, opening drawers, looking for something, although he didn’t know what. Finally, lying on the floor as if it had been forgotten, he found a note in an unfamiliar hand and he read the message that had sent his wife to flight.

  Bartholomew read the note again. It was ludicrous that she would have given credit to such a message which asserted that her life was in danger from the British. What was Param Singh’s plan?

  Without another word, Bartholomew left the room, ordering the footman to have his horse saddled.

  “Yes, sir. Where will you be going?”

  “I have a business engagement,” the Duke replied coolly, wondering whom in the house he could trust. He had not thought to vet the household servants, but it was obvious that someone within was working with outside forces and Bartholomew suspected that Param Singh had inserted his own spies into the staff.

  The Major General, when he received the message from his aide-de-camp that the Duke of Middleton was in the library to see him on an urgent matter, agreed with Bartholomew’s premise. “Param Singh will do anything he can to break the truce that’s keeping the peace in the province between the Maharajah and the Empire. If word gets out that his sister has been abducted by the British, there’s no telling what reaction the populace will have. We can’t risk a revolt. We must find the Duchess.”

  “Is
she in danger?”

  “I won’t pretend that she is safe. Param Singh is an opportunist. He’d throw his sister to the wolves if it meant striking a blow against the Crown. I’ll investigate this further. For your part, return home. She may return, or you may receive a message from her brother.” The Major General paused, “ You know, Middleton, there are rumours that the child she’s carrying is not her husband’s.”

  “Sir,” Bartholomew replied frigidly. “You impugn the honour of my wife.”

  “Yes, well, that honour is only intact if the rumours are false,” the Major General replied. “I’m a practical man, Middleton, and I’m of a mind to wonder what kind of woman marries a man less than a week after her husband dies.”

  “I told you, sir, I prevailed upon her to marry to because her husband, my friend, begged me to keep her safe.”

  “A woman of delicate sensibilities, carrying the child of her dead husband, would surely have been reluctant to engage in matrimony with such undue haste. But if she had something to hide, perhaps she was eager for this marriage? You must at least consider the possibility that your Duchess is not quite what you believe her to be.”

  “I am surprised at the direction of this conversation. You, yourself gave permission for our arrangement to go ahead. You agreed that Param Singh is a potential threat.”

  “So he is,” the Major General said, pouring himself a drink from a decanter of whiskey. “But now that your wife has done a bunk, I’m wondering if those rumours that I’ve been hearing have some basis in truth. I advise you to think this matter through, Middleton. Some crucial parts of this puzzle are missing and I won’t allow an unfaithful wife to jeopardize the interests of the Crown.”

  “I understand.”

  The Major General dismissed him and Bartholomew rode back to his residence. He stabled his horse himself and went into his home, deep in thought. Entering the drawing room, he came to an abrupt halt at the door. Arya was sitting before the fireplace.

  EIGHT

  “Arya! Where have you been?”

  She was unused to hearing Bartholomew address her in such a peremptory tone of voice.

  “I was out on an errand,” she replied evasively.

  “You were told not to go out,” he reminded her. “And I know where you went.”

  Arya lifted her chin defiantly. “And am I forbidden to see the members of my family?” she demanded. “You have brought me here as a captive, and now you scold me as if I were a child because I chose to go out!”

  “I brought you here because your husband said you were in danger and I want to protect you!” he flung back. “Your brother is a threat to your safety and yet you met him.”

  “You are the one who claims that my brother is a threat. I have no indication that this is true. Am I expected to mindlessly obey you with no proof of your accusations?”

  “You met with him.”

  “I did not!”

  “I know that you did, Arya. Do not lie to me! I read the message. I know that you left in secret, telling none of the servants that you were leaving or where you were going. It seems that you are far more adept at deception than I realised.”

  “If I am deceptive by your appraisal, who can blame me? You have accused my brother of intending to do me harm, but I have received only consideration from him since my husband’s death. Yes, you are correct and the message came from my brother. I followed the instructions in his message, but I was not taken to my brother. I met with a member of his household, who simply wanted to let me know that if I need help, my brother will be of service. He does not trust the British and he fears that some plot is afoot.”

  “Does he also fear for your reputation if the rumour is true that the child you carry belongs not to your late husband but to your Indian lover?” Bartholomew demanded, goaded beyond patience by her trust in her brother and her refusal to credit him with noble motives for her safety.

  Arya stared at him in disbelief. “You dare to make such an accusation against me? When have I ever given cause for such an insult? I went from my father’s palace to my husband’s bed and at no time during that journey did I ever commit any act which would have dishonoured either. I have been faithful to my duty. You should grant me that much, you with your talk of duty!”

  “Arya, I’m sorry, I met with the Major General and he told me of the rumours.”

  “And you gave them credence? You have known me since my marriage and have you ever seen me conduct myself in a manner which was in the least improper?”

  “Arya, you must believe me when I tell you that your brother is after his own ends, not your welfare. I should not have reacted as I did, I admit that, but you were gone. What was I to think?”

  “Were you to immediately leap to the conclusion that I was a faithless wife? You are overly fond of rumours; you hear that I am an unfaithful wife and you believe it. You hear that my brother intends to do me harm and you believe it. Yet you expect me to trust what you way when you can offer nothing in the way of evidence.”

  Arya’s voice was shaking but inside, her heart was breaking. Bartholomew had been the man to whom, in silence and in secret, she had given her heart. She had married him trusting in his account of her late husband’s concerns and hoping that his proposal meant that he had some regard for her, which she stupidly thought was a token of affection. She had been a fool. Bartholomew had taken advantage of her ignorance and her isolation. He held no affection for her. Her brother was the only one who could help her now.

  “Where are you going?” Bartholomew demanded as she headed away from him.

  “I am going to bed,” she declared.

  “Do not leave the house,” he told her. “I realize that you don’t believe me, but you are in danger.”

  She didn’t answer. She knew what she needed to do. Her brother was the only one she could trust. He would look out for her; everyone else was intent on motives which served their own purposes. All of her dreams were dashed. It was time to think of her unborn child.

  “Arya,” he called after her. “I mean what I say. You must not leave.”

  At the foot of the staircase, she turned. “Am I to be your prisoner? Are you aiming to subjugate me as thoroughly as your Empire is trying to subjugate Bharatpur?”

  “That’s not fair. I am trying to protect you.”

  “So you say. But you have not been successful in telling me what, exactly, you are protecting me from. Good night.”

  “Arya —”

  But his wife continued her ascent up the staircase, her head high and regal, refusing to acknowledge his presence or that he had any right at all to make demands on her. As she made her way up the stairs, he watched from below. She was so beautiful; the generations of breeding marked her bones and her carriage so that even the graceful glide of her hand upon the railing seemed majestic. He was used to European royalty and the ponderousness of ceremony with which British monarchs established their status. But the slender woman disappearing from his sight was queenlier than any ruler who ever sat on a throne of England.

  He wished he could take back his angry, accusing words. How could he tell her that it was his love for her, and his jealousy, that had risen to the bait of the Major General’s words? Seeing her now, he knew that she had never been faithless to her husband, nor would she ever succumb to any dishonour. He would make it up to her, he resolved. Once their tempers had cooled, and they were able to react calmly, then he would be able to apologize, and she to hear him. Perhaps he would then even be able to proclaim his love for her. Or should he wait? Would it be too callous to do so when she was still grieving for her lost husband and bearing the infant, the only remnant of her affection for the dead Baron? Perhaps. Perhaps he should continue to bridle his passion until she had given birth, until the traditional period of mourning had passed, and then declare himself.

  Unaware that, had he followed his initial impulse and followed his wife up the stairs to tell her how he felt, he would have found a warm, responsive woman
ready to welcome his passion, Bartholomew went back into the drawing room. Upstairs, waiting on the landing, Arya heard the door close behind him. Holding in her sobs, she hurried to the bedroom before her composure failed her and the tears that were waiting to fall like an invading army burst forth.

  She had not really intended, when she returned home, to seek out her brother a second time. She had been troubled by his message, and she had obeyed his instructions because she needed to know what he meant. But he had not been there; the member of his household who had been waiting for her had delivered his message dispassionately. Arya had returned home, no more enlightened than when she left as to what terrible fate the British had in store for her. Nor, when her husband chastised her, did she know any more about the dire intentions that her brother had regarding her wellbeing. It was a matter, then, of deciding what was best for her and her child. She needed to take a decision, because in this she was utterly alone.

  Caressing her belly, she whispered to her unborn child, “Do not worry my love, mama will protect you… somehow.”

  NINE

  The door that adjoined the master bedroom with the dressing room was locked the next morning when Bartholomew tried it before leaving for morning drill with his regiment. He flushed with shame; did she really think him so base that he would violate her wishes and invade her bedchamber with no indication that she was willing to have him join her? There was no hope, then, he realised as he left the house. He was a husband in a sham marriage of convenience, contracted to honour an arrangement with a dead man. He would do his duty as he had promised, but he loved a woman who plainly loathed him.

  Arya heard the knob try to turn and open the door into her bedroom. For a moment, wild hope surged in her heart, until she recalled the terrible argument the night before, when her beloved Bartholomew had accused her of being an adulteress. She could not stay here, she realised, when her integrity was in question. Bartholomew had repeated a vile rumour that was no doubt making the rounds of the regiment; any of his fellow officers would have heard it, likely believed it, and would forever cast doubts on the legitimacy of her unborn child’s paternity. Param was right; there was a plot by the British to discredit her and rob her and her child of what was due to them. She had no choice; her brother was the only one who had perceived the dangers of this alliance with the British and the flawed foundation upon which her marriage had been based.