by Matilda Hart
“Is not all that you have described what any woman would dream of? To be lifted out of your – modest – means, and lifted into luxury with a man who is not a husband of convenience, but one whom you could learn to love, whose company excites you – is that not the description of a dream?”
Nodding, her chin dipped, and her lip trembled. “All dreams are unique to the dreamer. And this week, I fear, has been a fantasy, not the fulfillment of a dream.”
He straightened. Caroline could sense his confusion. “Tell me then, so that we can deal in reality, what would constitute a dream fulfilled for Miss Caroline Tibbot?”
She closed her eyes, and tried to picture it in her mind’s eye. It became clear to her, emerging from the mist of the past week: “All I have ever dreamed of was travelling the world. England, I am sure, will always be my home, but I have never thought that it would be enough. I dreamed of sailing from port to port, from the West Indies to Mexico to Brazil to West Africa to the Cape of Good Hope to India to the East Indies, and then to Japan and on to the wilds of northern America, and then back down to Peru and around the Horn,” her voice rising, “and then back to Europe. And all the while proving my worth by trading in each port and sailing on to the next one expecting adventure and profit. A good ship, a loyal crew, and the horizon before me. That’s what I dreamed of as a girl, that’s what my mother promised me and that’s what my mind comes back to each and every day. This, well this has been a lovely interlude, a pleasant stay in a pleasant port. I am not sure how long I can stay here, though, and when I eventually leave I will miss you terribly. Like nothing else I could imagine – “
“ – Or dream of,” Thomas said, finishing her thought.
A silence hung between them. After a few minutes, but what seemed hours, he reached out and took her hands in his. “I cannot tell you that you are wrong. There are other men that I know that would tell you that what you dream of is madness. Folly. Yet I am a man who has not had to dream. Everything I could have wanted is right here, including you. You are beautiful and smart and delightful company. I have but one thing to ask of you.”
“Ask it.”
“Marry me.” She went to speak but he placed a finger upon her lips, tenderly, and she closed her eyes in pleasure at his intimate touch. “Marry me, and please trust me as you have all week, and I will have a surprise for you that will make that it worthwhile.”
“A surprise? I am not sure you have anything left to surprise me with, Thomas.”
He laughed. “Some would say we have put the cart before the horse, in that sense.”
“Horse? You flatter yourself.”
“So, marry me. Trust me. Let me surprise you.”
“I will.”
He leaned in and kissed her, still chuckling. “Flatter myself, indeed. I am flattered that you will marry me, and will trust me.”
Chapter Nine
The date was set: a month from the night that Caroline laid her dream at Thomas’ feet, and he had taken it in his stride. The invitations went out, to as far away as Ewole, and to as close by as the other summerhouses in Whitby. Thomas oversaw the preparations for the wedding feast with Brandon growing increasingly overburdened by his side. Each day the Duke would take him outside, his arms flailing and his finger pointing, and papers being drawn out of his jacket and then shoved into Brandon’s chest.
Caroline observed all of this from the window in her room, as Eliza fussed over her wedding dress, pinning and mumbling, turning her mistress toward the mirror where Caroline would give her approval and Eliza would squeal with delight.
“You will make me him so happy, so proud, when he sees you his chest will puff out!” And then, without fail, she would burst into tears, and Caroline would comfort her, and then Eliza would have yet another idea, and rush out of the room, leaving Caroline staring at her reflection, wondering just what she was doing, just what the surprise was that Thomas had in store for her.
“What are you doing?” she asked her reflection, so neatly bordered by the frame of the mirror.
“You are marrying a wonderful, wonderful man,” she replied.
“You are giving up a dream.”
“Dreams rarely come true – and many who would be standing here, now, would consider this a dream, just as Thomas said.”
“That is true. However, I am not many. I am one, myself, I, me alone. I am tethering myself to this man.”
“To what harm?”
“Just a dream, that was yet to be.”
“So embrace this one, and make it so.”
Caroline bowed her head, whether in agreement or sadness she could not say.
Eliza bustled in with a half-made bonnet, her red complexion even more flushed than usual. “I think this will do, miss, I think this is what was missing. This bonnet and a ribbon which I can make from that beautiful dress you were wearing the night of the Dowager Duchess’ ball.” She paused mid-step. “Oh, dearie, dearie, dearie me. I am just a flutter with excitement and happiness that I didn’t think.”
“You kept that dress?”
“Yes, miss. It – it is such a pretty color.”
Caroline wanted to walk away, but she was pinned in so many places that she dared not. “It is.”
“That night – it was not all bad.”
“No, no it was not.”
“Like here, at the Broad House. You came here, and you were very, very quiet – well, not with me, but with His Grace. But now, it hasn’t ended so badly, has it?”
“No, it has not.”
Eliza smiled. “Then let me make a ribbon of this color, miss. Just to remind you.”
Caroline thought for a moment. The symbolism of the color was not lost on her, but it was not something she wanted paraded about at her wedding ceremony with Thomas. Flagrantly wearing a part of the dress that was torn from her by the despicable Gilroy – what would people think? “No, Eliza. It is not for display. Instead, line the inside of the bonnet with it. I will know it is there, and that will be enough.” She turned ever so slightly and carefully, imagining the approaching day and Thomas’ surprise.
That day dawned bright. Caroline’s family had arrived a few days earlier, and the girls had been giddy with renewed relations and new stories. Edwin was giddy with the best brandy and the quiet self-congratulations he bestowed on himself for organizing such a marriage for his Caroline. “Once I have walked you down the aisle,” he whispered to her as they waited to make their entrance into the church, “I have but two tasks left.”
“And they are?”
“To find two dukes for your sisters.”
The music began. “Let us settle on this task.”
Edwin took her hand, as she slipped it through his arm. “I am proud of you, Caroline. As would be your mother.”
She focused on the doors as they were flung open, and she searched out Thomas, resplendent in his dress suit. He turned as they entered, his chest puffed out as Eliza had predicted. After a walk that seemed so long yet momentary, her father placed Eliza into Thomas’ hands. She looked deep into his eyes, and breathed deeply – if her dream was to end here, as she spoke words of love and commitment to Thomas, then it was not such a bad end. As they vowed bonds of love to one another, the thought of leaving Thomas became unbearable.
As the well wishers gathered about them afterwards, and they boarded the carriage, Thomas turned to her and smiled. “I have not forgotten my promise to you. Before we go back to the Broad House, I have a surprise to show you.”
“Very well, husband.”
They snuggled together in the carriage, and kissed leisurely as they approached the port. “Almost there, my love.”
“Where?”
“You don’t understand – if I tell you, it would not be a surprise.”
The carriage came to an abrupt halt. As the door opened, Caroline heard the cry of gulls. Before her was a magnificent ship, moored but at the ready.
“Surprise,” smiled Thomas.
Caroline’s m
outh dropped open. “This – this is the surprise?”
“Yes.” He pointed to the side of the ship. “There is more to the surprise than that, though.”
On the side of the ship, Caroline read its name: Freedom.
Her hand gripped Thomas’ arm.
“There is one condition to this surprise. You may travel anywhere and trade anything – on that, there is no condition. The one condition is this: wherever you go, I must go with you.”
Caroline wrapped her arms around him, and laughed freely and wholeheartedly. “I approve, Thomas, I approve. I can think of no better way of my dream ending. When can we board?”
He kissed her, deeply and possessively, and she responded, knowing that in his arms she was truly free.
“We can board tomorrow, after my wife and I spend the night together.”
They jumped back into the carriage, and made their way back to the Broad House. Caroline was content beyond her wildest dreams, knowing full well that freedom awaited her – not just in the morning, but in the embrace of the Duke she had come to love.
THE END
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Dominated by A Duke
Introduction
Lady Annabel Fletcher is the daughter of the wealthy, domineering Duke of Birkenhead, from Liverpool. She has longed to engage in the wonderful parties and balls of London, where she can mix with the elite of society. Upon finally getting permission from her parents, she finds herself at a ball hosted by the most notorious bachelor in all England – Lord Donovan Hayden. Not only is he the most notorious bachelor in all England, he is the most handsome. He takes an instant liking to Annabel, and she to him. But how will they overcome the obstacles of rumors, innuendo, forbidden love and an overprotective family? Annabel must come to a decision about her future – will she settle for a comfortable life, or will she choose a life of passion and love with Lord Donovan?
Chapter One
Lady Annabel Fletcher held her fan to her face as she looked out on George’s Dock as another ship entered in. She had no great love of ships, or anything of a maritime nature in fact. What she appreciated – and appreciated deeply – was knowing the names of the ships that her family’s wealth was built on. Knowing their names was one thing, of course, and knowing what time they would dock with the goods that would find their way into her father’s treasury, was another. Normally that would mean tipping her father’s steward a few shillings out of her father’s treasury.
Today, it was the turn of the Shrewsbury, which was returning from the West Indies with more sugar than Annabel knew what to do with. How many cakes would be baked with this sugar? How many cups of tea sweetened? How many pounds would merchants pay at the docks? She smoothed a wrinkle out on her lap with her free hand, and paused to consider when she would shop again for another new dress. Another new dress…yes, it would do well to impress the local Liverpool gentry, but would it be wasted on another Liverpool season, when London beckoned with its lavish parties and men who could appreciate her finery, whose manners would be as perfect as their form?
Annabel lowered the fan for a moment, and sighed. Truth be told, she was bored. There was only so much Liverpool’s social life could offer her, and only so many of the same men to amuse her. Being wealthy was one thing – and as the eldest daughter of the Duke of Birkenhead, she was wealthy – but wealth, surely, should be able to buy one entertainment, buy one’s way out of the sameness that was encircling her, the tedium that was building itself up as quickly as Liverpool’s business district? If only her parents would let her travel to London.
The Shrewsbury had docked. Seamen busied themselves with unloading her, and Annabel pondered what they might have seen, what foreign breezes had ruffled their hair, what sun had warmed their back and caused them to sweat and wipe their brows. She raised her fan again, to hide – from who she was not sure – the redness that flushed her face as she watched men her own age strain themselves to unload the cargo that would make her family even wealthier. This boredom was bordering on what her mother would label ‘impropriety’. Of course, anything that went against her mother’s wishes was improper. The Duchess was able to end any conversation with her excessive use of the word.
Annabel tapped on the window to gain the attention of her driver. “It’s time!”, was all she had to say, and the carriage lurched forth to return her to Birkenhead Hall, her family residence, where she lived out her time in the shadow of her domineering parents. She sighed again, and tears appeared in her pale, blue eyes, and her normally perfect complexion again reddened. She brought the fan down, as her hands shook – not from the comforting vibrations of the carriage, but at the mere thought of the conversation she was determined to engage her parents in that night. Indeed, it was time for more than one journey. As she traveled home, she pursed her fulsome, red lips and considered just how she was to convince her parents to let her travel to London for the summer, so that her wealth and looks could be displayed at the Prince Regent’s exciting and extravagant parties.
Her father, the Duke of Birkenhead, was a man of immense wealth and little culture. He sniffed snuff regularly, often interrupting the flow of thought from others to keep them off balance, designed so that he could interrupt any path of a conversation he did not enjoy. His complaints about the severity – real or imagined – of his gout were another favored interruption to unwitting participants in conversation who dared to raise subjects his grace was averse to hearing.
Annabel determined that there was not enough snuff in the world to service her father during their forthcoming conversation. And, then, of course there were her mother’s patented ‘ahems’, which were also designed to distract any speaker with whom she disagreed. Annabel knew that her parents meant well, it was just the manner in which they delivered their ‘care’ consistently crushed her and her dreams. Time, and time again, conversations that could have worked their way toward compromise were boarded and sunk by the Duke and Duchess as though they were rogue pirates, hell bent on nothing but pure conversational destruction. They seemed to take delight in nothing but the wreckage of a conversation, not noticing the damage that it inflicted upon their daughter, who had now reached eighteen but was still treated as a wayward child.
Annabel arrived first once the dinner bell rang, and was seated by their butler, Marlowe.
“Miss,” he said in formal but warm tones.
“Thank you, Marlowe. How do the Duke and Duchess today?”
He cleared his throat, and cast a quick look about him. Not hearing the shuffling gait of the Duke, or the ‘ahems’ of the Duchess approaching, he felt free to answer. “I suspect they spent the best part of the day worrying about you, Miss Annabel, once they heard you had driven to the docks.”
“Of course.” She played with the napkin before her.
“Or they would have – but a letter arrived from your brother, Charles, which seems to have flared up His Grace’s gout in a terrible fashion.”
“Really?” Annabel’s smile was treasonous. “I wonder what Charles has done?”
Her mother’s ‘ahem’ interrupted Annabel’s flow of thought. The Duchess bustled into the dining room like a minor tropical gale, and Marlowe moved wi
th a speed beyond his age to seat her in a style befitting her rank. “Your father, Annabel, will be down shortly – and, Marlowe, he has instructed that dinner should not await him. He sees no reason to delay its arrival for – ahem – so called ‘innocent’ parties.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” murmured Marlowe, who then pivoted and left the room.
“Mother, what delays father from dinner? It is one of his favorite past times.”
“Annabel, I am sure that you can tell me.”
“I am sure I cannot.”
“Are you telling me – ahem – that you have not been in correspondence with your brother Charles, of whom I had a higher opinion before today? It seems Charles is not content to be improper on his own, but must involve you as well.” The Duchess raised a quizzical eyebrow.
It took everything in Annabel’s armory of self-control not to smile at her mother.
“Again, mother, I can say that I am unaware of your meaning.”
“Well, it will be explained to you –“, but before she could suitably ahem, her sentence was interrupted by the arrival of the panting, flushed and limping Duke of Birkenhead, and the two footmen whose role it was to guide him to his seat.
“By the heavens! So much talk while the pain in my toe is fit to make me a cripple! A cripple! I do not jest, Annabel, so curb your smile, daughter. For I fear that my gout has reared again due to you, and you alone.” He sat with a groan, and demanded a stool with a pillow to be brought to him.
“Sir, I was just about to relay to our daughter the contents of Charles’ letter that have ailed you so, said contents of which I am sure she has had prior – ahem – knowledge of, and she has been,” at this point the Duchess was interrupted by an almighty sniff from the Duke as he took his first pinch of snuff for the evening.
