by Regina Darcy
Arya rose and dressed without the services of her maid. The staff, all of them unfamiliar, only increased the feeling of isolation that she had in the house. In her palace, she had been the mistress of the staff and her authority had been unquestioned. But these strangers who served her meals and delivered her mail, who performed the usual housekeeping tasks, seemed to be secretive. She felt as if they were watching her all the time. It was an uncomfortable sensation. She would go to her brother but she would tell no one.
She stole silently out of the house. The morning was still in its early hours, but she was able to summon a carriage to take her to the place where she had been yesterday. Today, perhaps, Param would be there and she would be safe.
Param was in his study with several members of his political organization, a group which met in secret in the early hours of the day to avoid detection by the public as they plotted the overthrow of the British who had planted themselves in a country not their own. Param’s servant told him that his sister had arrived by public transport, not her own carriage, and that she awaited him below.
“Let her wait awhile longer,” Param said with a satisfied smile. “She has made her choice. I shall dispose of her in due course.”
“What will you do with her?” asked Sanjit Chaudhury, one of his most faithful followers and a man as merciless as Param himself. “Will you kill her?”
“No, I think not. She is my sister, after all and her British blood is not her fault. She must be taken far away. I shall send her to a province on the farthest borders of Bharatpur, where she and her child, when it is born, can disappear into a harem. She is beautiful; she will please whatever man I give her to and she will not trouble us. She is only a woman, of little worth, but she and her child must disappear. I will convince my father that the British are behind her disappearance.” He smiled at his allies. “Then we shall see if he is so fond of his British partners.”
“Your father is known for his loyalty,” another one of his adherents pointed out. “He will not easily turn from that path.”
“My father is also known for his affection for my sister,” Param responded. “When she is gone, with no trace of her whereabouts, after I am the one to alert him that she is gone, he will not suspect that I have had a part in her disappearance. He will then have to choose, won’t he? His daughter, missing, his honoured tainted or his precious alliance.”
In the middle of the morning, a servant brought Arya tea and toast to eat, but the servant did not speak and offered no answer when she asked whether her brother knew that she waited to see him. It was several hours before she was taken to Param’s study. The servant, closing the door behind them, remained standing.
“So, sister,” he greeted her. “You have come to me for help.”
“Yes, Param, I realize that I don’t know who to trust. My husband will not tell me what danger I face or from what source. He told me that there are rumours that the child inside me is not my dead husband’s, but is the result of a dalliance with a lover. Why are you smiling?”
For her brother, who had not risen when she entered the room but remained in his chair, was gazing at her with eager attention, a rapt smile on his face.
“Ahh, yes,” he said. “I wondered if those rumours would bear fruit. It’s pleasant to know that my efforts were not in vain.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, gazing at him in horror.
“My dear sister,” he said, finally rising from his chair to go to her. “I have spent a great deal of effort and energy to bring about this moment. I have had your movements watched; I placed spies in your palace. I confess that I had to act quickly when you decided to remarry so hastily, but it was not hard to install my own spies as the household servants. It was not so hard to spread a whisper of suspicion here, a knowing smile there, to cause your late husband’s comrades to discover that the grieving widow was, alas, no more than a harlot. And you played brilliantly into my drama, didn’t you, when you married, without warning, your husband’s best friend.” For each word that her brother uttered, Arya felt as if she was being physically stabbed.
“It was all so perfect. But now, your time on stage must come to an end. You are an inconvenience, and I must rid myself of all inconveniences if I am to achieve my ends. British rule must end; there will be war and I will not have you and your unproven loyalties interfering with my aims. I am sending you to the harem of a far-off potentate who thinks as I do: the British must leave. He will welcome you, of course, for your beauty and your fertility, but you have seen the last of the British world.”
Arya stared at him. “You can’t mean it!”
“Oh, but I do. Take her!”
TEN
“I don’t care if the Maharajah is in council with Krishna himself, I will see him!” Bartholomew pushed back the servant who had granted him entrance into the royal palace.
“You cannot intrude upon the Maharajah!” called the servant but Bartholomew was already on his way up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his sword banging on each one as he raced forward.
He had been in the royal apartments before and knew his way. He burst into the private office where the Maharajah was dictating a letter to his scribe.
“Duke Middleton! What do you mean by this?”
“Arya, she’s missing!”
“Yes, I am aware of that. My son has informed me of her disappearance. He went to call upon her this morning and learned that she was gone.”
“It’s very likely your son who has taken her,” Bartholomew replied. “She went to see him yesterday; he sent her a note. I have it here.”
He unfolded the note that he had found in Arya’s bedroom. The Maharajah read it slowly. “What does this mean?”
“It means that, as usual, your son is plotting against you and against our current alliance. He wants us gone, you know that, sir. You’ve always known that.”
“This letter does not prove that.”
“Who else would send it, sir? Would the British malign themselves and say that they were plotting to rob your daughter of her rightful inheritance? Only Param would profit from such speculation. We must find her, your majesty, before Param has her taken away where she will never be seen.”
“He would not do that,” the Maharajah said, but there was no conviction in his words. When his eyes met Bartholomew’s, the Duke knew that Arya’s father recognised the danger into which his daughter had been placed.
“I came home unexpectedly and she was gone. I summoned the maid, a silent girl but not so stupid as she conveniently pretends to be. I threatened her with everything from a flogging to a sacking to drowning her in the Ganges, when she finally confessed that she is in the pay of your son, and that he has been conspiring to abduct Arya and use her disappearance as a reason to ignite unrest in Bharatpur. He has spread false rumours about Arya’s character to cast aspersions against her. I finally realised what was happening; last night we had a terrible row and I thought the worst. But after I forced the maid to confess what she knew, I alerted my superiors. The British army is out in force, your majesty, on all borders. They will not allow my wife to be taken.”
“Your wife,” the Maharajah said slowly. “This was why you married her. To protect her.”
“Yes, sir. But I love her as well. I have said nothing all these months because she was the wife of my closest friend and a brother officer. But I mean to tell her how I feel so that she can decide whether or not to accept my affections. If she decides that she cannot forgive me, she can decide what we are to do. But if she chooses to allow me to atone for my accusations, she will make me the happiest man alive and I will dedicate my life to her,” Bartholomew declared.
“You say the army is already out?”
“Yes, sir. As soon as I prevailed upon the Major General to listen, he recognised the need for haste.”
“Your army can continue focusing on rescuing my daughter. My forces will deal with my son.” The Maharajah’s forbidding expression left no do
ubt that his firstborn son was about to face his father’s wrath for what he had done.
Four hours later the Duchess of Middleton was discovered held against her will, but in perfect health at one of the Prince’s holdings.
“You are finally home Duchess,” said the officer who escorted Arya and a female servant from the carriage. “A bit shaken up, I daresay, but nothing that a good night’s rest and a good meal won’t mend, sir.”
It would take more than sleep and food, Bartholomew thought, to dispel the haunted look from his wife’s eyes. When she raised her gaze to meet his, she looked so forlorn and frightened that, despite the presence of the officer, Bartholomew pulled her into his embrace, wrapping his arms around her and holding on to her as if he meant to keep her for an eternity. “My love,” he said. “What a horrible time you’ve had of it. But you’re safe now. Truly safe.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“No sorrier than I. Lieutenant, have you heard any news?”
“We received word that the Maharajah’s soldiers overtook Prince Param while he was in flight. His father has said that he will be tried and sentenced appropriatly. The second son, Prince Rajiv, will be the heir.” The lieutenant saluted and left.
“You see, my love? All is well now. Let’s return home.”
“Not to that horrible house,” Arya shuddered. “I’d rather return to the palace. I felt as if I were constantly being watched the entire time that I was there. Even when no one else was in the room, I felt eyes upon me.”
“You were being watched,” Bartholomew said, revealing to her the elaborate layers of plotting that had gone into her abduction. “We’ll return to your palace if you like. I’ll go anywhere you want to, but I must tell you something. Wherever we go, I very much hope that you will give me another chance to prove myself to you. I should have been honest with you from the start. When I proposed marriage . . . it’s true that I thought it the only way to protect you from danger. But I have been in love with you since the day I met you.”
“My wedding day,” she said and for a moment, the fearful expression faded and a smile returned to her lovely face.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I know that I’m a cad for saying it, but when you left my arms after our waltz that night, I wanted to be the one you were pledging yourself to. Are you disgusted with me?”
Arya’s eyes were shining. “You winked at me and smiled as I came down the aisle. I had felt as if I were walking to my doom, and then I saw you smile. Before the night was over I knew that I should not, but I could not help it; I fell in love with you.”
The Dukes eyes shown with all the love he was unable to express.
“Then you forgive me?”
“Can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said simply. “You are, as you always have been, the most honourable woman I have ever known. I will dedicate my life to making you and your child safe and happy.”
Arya looked up at him with an impish smile. “I hope, my Lord Duke, that you will, as our marriage progresses, be able to make that vow not only to me and to my child, but to our children as well.”
Bartholomew stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter. “My Lady Duchess,” he said. “You have quite thrown me out of countenance.”
“I will not be married out of duty,” she said as they walked, arm in arm, to the awaiting carriage. “I will not be a dutiful wife and I do not want a dutiful husband. If you can agree to this, then we can be married as we ought to be.”
“Love, rather than duty? My dear Arya,” he said, helping her into the carriage. “You will be the scandal of Great Britain with such ideas.”
“Then you must accustom yourself to having a scandalous wife.”
Bartholomew hit the roof of the carriage with the hilt of his sword to signal the driver to proceed. He leaned forward and his lips found hers. Their kiss was long and probing, a sensual and delightful excursion into the passion of one another. They were both left breathless.
“Scandalous,” Bartholomew whispered lovingly. “Kiss me again.”
The End
BONUS CHAPTER 1:
–
FALLING FOR THE EARL
ONE
Alden Haddington, the Earl of Beckton, cleared his throat nervously, wishing he were anywhere but here, in the assembly rooms of the Bookman Arms. He had come to visit Nathaniel Hughes, Viscount of Wiltshire, his dearest friend since boyhood. Both had served in the same regiment under the Duke of Staffordshire.
Lord Wiltshire had invited him to attend the annual Mariners’ Ball. Whilst their views on the fairer sex differed wildly, since the Earl had particularly strong, disapproving views on Lord Wiltshire’s recent string of heartbroken mistresses, a night in the Viscount’s company always proved anything but boring. The irony was that the Earl was known to have left an equal trail of heartbroken beauties behind him. The only difference being, he had never touched them.
The Viscount was one of the few people who knew Beckton found the challenge of conversing with the fairer sex, insurmountable. He had yet to finish a sensible conversation with any eligible young woman he had actual designs on. Half the broken hearts he left behind him were due to disinterest, and the rest due to an inability to approach the lady in question.
One woman in particular made this infirmity even more pronounced, because he did more than find her eye-catching. The Earl was completely enamoured with her.
As he had watched her blossom into an accomplished young woman, he found himself incapable of either declaring his intentions or commencing a courtship.
Yes, Phoebe Alexander had stolen his heart even before her very first debutant ball.
Ever since her outing, he had been dreading that her affections would soon belong to another. He sighed deeply and sipped on his drink.
No doubt, he should be looking for Wiltshire, whom he now suspected had brought him here because he knew of Beckton’s affections for Miss Alexander and was playing Cupid.
It had been four years since he had first become smitten by the lovely Phoebe, and a year since he had been informed by his father, on his deathbed, of the agreement which he had reached with Phoebe’s father, Mr Percival Alexander. It was a gentlemen’s agreement, betrothing him to Phoebe. And if his father were to be believed, this arrangement had been made when several years ago. Both parents had hoped that their children would naturally gravitate towards each other, eventually.
He sidestepped a tipsy gentleman who was arguing rather loudly with a friend as they walked by. The man stumbled, jostling the Earl’s hand and spilling the drink he held in it. Shaking his head in annoyance, he went to put down the now almost empty glass and wipe himself off with his kerchief. He did not want to reek like a drunkard. In a few minutes, the dancing would begin, and he would hold the woman he loved in his arms for the first time.
His skin grew warm as he thought of all that he would like to say to her, because he knew none of it would be said. The very thought of holding her, even at the distance demanded by good manners, and with as little actual touching as there would be, tied him up in knots. He hated that he was so weak in this one respect, the one where he most wished to be strong. He did not wish to drive her away, but long experience had taught him that unless he could find a way to utter more than a few monosyllables, he was doomed to lose her.
She was his betrothed…but he needed to win her affections. What sort of marriage would he otherwise have? The thought of being tied to a woman who despised him made his head hurt.
The musicians began to tune their instruments, and he turned to search the room for Phoebe. He spied her standing with her parents on the other side of the room, looking as uncomfortable and unsure as he felt. Their eyes met, and she offered a polite smile. He did not return it.
He could not make his lips spread, or his cheeks crease, and he saw with a sinking heart that a frown replaced her smile. He looked away for a moment, to gather himself, and then he walked over
to where she was standing and extended his hand.
“Miss Alexander, I would be honoured if you were to grace me with your consent to this first dance.”
“It’s very kind of you, Lord Beckton, however—” she began, but was interrupted by her mother, who spoke effusively.
“It is certainly an honour for our dear Phoebe, my lord,” she said. She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder for a second until Phoebe accepted his extended arm, and walked with the Earl to the dance floor. They danced a set together in almost complete silence, after the required pleasantries had been spoken between them.
Her “How do you do, Lord Beckton?” had been prettily said, her smile gracing the words with an extra touch of beauty.
His “I find myself very well, Miss Alexander,” had been cool, at best, and not seasoned with an answering smile.
Beckton despaired of himself as the set came to an end. Giving himself a mental shake, he tried again, as he escorted her back to where her mother stood anxiously waiting.
“I would be honoured if you would dance the evening’s final set with me, Miss Alexander,” he said, managing to keep his tone cool and even.
Phoebe looked up into his dark brown eyes, and he wished he knew what she saw. Instead, she looked away and said coldly, “If my dance card has not since been filled, my lord, I will happily oblige.”
She walked away then, leaving him standing at the edge of the dance floor feeling like all kinds of a fool. She was haughty and dismissive, and though it burned in his gut, he could not fault her. He had been no less as they danced, unable to speak even ordinary pleasantries because he was so undone by the fragrance of her that bloomed in his nostrils each time she exhaled. And her beauty took his breath away. Her deep auburn hair fell in endearing ringlets about her face, and down her back, and her green eyes sparkled with animus the longer they had danced together. And when she had dismissed him just now, they had shone with active disdain...and hurt.
