by Jenn LeBlanc
Francine buried her head in the pillows and closed her eyes. This isn’t possible. This is a dream.
“You have had a terrible fright, I imagine, miss. His Grace would like to notify your family that you are safe.”
Francine opened one eye and looked at the woman. Where the hell am I? She shook her head and closed her eyes again. Even if she understood the circumstances she was currently faced with, there was no one to notify. Wherever in the world she was, she was completely alone.
She studied her surroundings. The solid wood furniture was thickly cushioned with deep cinnamon hues. She’d been surrounded with what seemed like a houseful of British and Scottish servants, a tired doctor who wouldn’t listen to her pleas, and an incredibly powerful and domineering man that she could only assume was this ‘His Grace’ person they all kept referring to.
Her pulse quickened as she remembered him. He was straight and tall, broad and dark, the very definition of masculinity. For some reason she remembered the smell of his skin, spicy from soap and tangy from sweat. She remembered the endless depths of his eyes, swimming with anger at her outburst, but hinting of some other, deeper emotion. Most of all she remembered his grasp on her arms as he caught her and drew her up to him—flush against him from her chest to her knees—before her mind had faded. She grunted and tried again to sit up, this time a bit more slowly.
Mrs. Weston reached for the pillows at the head of the bed to help. “Here, miss, let me. ‘Tis what I’m here for. His Grace has seen fit to put me at your will. There’s a pull just on your right, and another by the door.”
Francine opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. It hadn’t done her any justice the last time, and at odds as she was with her current predicament, keeping her mouth shut might be the best course of action. She snapped it closed, then tried to clear her throat and instead felt it tighten. She frowned and touched her forehead then brought her hands together in her lap. She implored the woman with her eyes, hoping beyond reason that she would understand and could oblige her even a little.
“Hmm, yes… You are not remembering anything?”
Francine shook her head.
“Well, His Grace was out in the curricle yesterday. From what I gather, you came from the wood, startled the horses, and fell under hoof.” Mrs. Weston gently pushed Francine’s hair back from her face and examined the bandage, then the scrapes and bruises on her cheek. “One of them got you good, miss,” she said. “But ‘tis a miracle you weren’t trampled to death.”
Francine looked away. I wasn’t in a forest. I was in a taxi. I was in a taxi, and I was headed to work and then—then, what then? She closed her eyes, trying to remember, but the memory wouldn’t come. “Where am I?” she croaked, the words barely recognizable.
Mrs. Weston grimaced at the sound. “You are in the manor at Eildon Hill Park, home of His Grace, the Duke of Roxleigh.”
Francine closed her eyes then looked at her again, confused. Mrs. Weston cleared her throat. “County Lanarkshire.” She paused. “United Kingdom,” she said finally.
Francine felt the shock cross her features and Mrs. Weston patted her hand reassuringly. “Now then, we can worry about the rest of it later.”
Francine’s confusion bloomed, and, as though she felt the uneasy shift, Mrs. Weston moved to change the subject. “Meggie, let’s help our miss get freshened up, shall we?” She gave a strained smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied, curtseying then leaving the room. Mrs. Weston looked at Francine, appeared to expertly take stock of her needs with a considering glance, and set about the room to serve.
Meggie returned with a footman, who pushed a heavy copper slipper tub, bright with polish and trimmed with a thick round edge to lean on, followed by a parade of more servants with buckets and steaming kettles. Mrs. Weston urged Francine to stand, lending her sturdy frame. Francine watched them pour the water, letting her thoughts dissolve along with the whorls of steam that rose and twisted.
When the tub was full and the door closed on the other servants, Meggie turned, reaching for the hem of the delicate ivory chemise that Francine wore. Francine squeaked and retreated, and a surprised Meggie silently beseeched Mrs. Weston for how to proceed.
Mrs. Weston waved her away. “Leave us, Meggie. I’ll see to the miss.” Meggie curtseyed and took up the rest of the kettles.
“You must feel desperately in need of a bath. I know if my head were full of twigs it would be the first thing I’d ask for. Modesty aside, miss, I see you’re not familiar with being tended to, but here it’s necessary. You must allow me to serve you, lest His Grace be angered.”
Francine saw the lightly veiled worry on the housekeeper’s face and flinched at the thought of Mrs. Weston going to tattle her behavior to that man. She nodded as a tremor started in her knees and traveled throughout her body. She allowed herself to be stripped of her drawers, then waited patiently, her eyes clenched, for Mrs. Weston to remove the chemise. She was astonished when Mrs. Weston merely nudged her toward the tub, and she went, fighting her body’s urge to run.
She eased one toe into the water, only to feel the powerful wash of heat move swiftly up her leg, drawing her into the warmth. She settled into the tub and closed her eyes as Mrs. Weston set about carefully removing brambles before washing her hair.
Mrs. Weston handed her a lump of lavender soap then went to the wardrobe. “We have very little here for a lady to wear, I’m afraid. I’ve some older nightgowns and robes that have been forgotten by previous guests, but there are no day clothes. As it stands, you’ll have to stay here discreetly, for propriety’s sake. And His Grace would never allow a gentle lady to wander his manor in an untoward fashion. He certainly wouldn’t want to be your ruination.”
Francine watched her, thinking of how like a mother she was, or rather, how like a mother she would like, and it soothed her. She remembered the warm feeling of her own mother’s hands moving over her shoulders and massaging her hair while she bathed as a child. She remembered the safe feeling of her mother’s arms when she pulled her into an embrace, and the soft touch of her kisses that covered her face when she was frightened. Her eyes stung and her body trembled in a great sob that seemed to begin inside and extend out, creating a ripple of water in the tub that threatened to slosh over the edge.
“Please, dear one, do not cry,” came Mrs. Weston’s voice, then a pause. “I beg your pardon. I tend to be a bit forward even when I shouldn’t. But I find there’s no reason to skirt the issue.” She wrapped a towel around Francine’s shoulders and urged her to stand.
Francine had no idea how she came to be in County Lanarkshire in the United Kingdom. All she wanted was to go back to her small apartment on Lafayette Street in Denver, crawl into her pillow-top bed, and sleep until she woke up, exactly where she’d lay down.
She shuddered again and stepped out of the tub. Mrs. Weston loosed the neck of the chemise and let it fall to the floor at her feet then dried her off, wrapping the large, soft towel around her and steering her toward the dressing table. She sat her down in front of the mirror and Francine raised her hand to touch her face. It was beaten and bruised, but it looked like the face she remembered. She just could not reconcile the color and amount of hair that fringed it. Hers was short and blonde. She was most definitely no longer blonde. She stared into the eyes in the mirror and the girl in the miniature danced across her memory.
Madeleine.
Her studious silence was broken by Mrs. Weston’s cheerful voice. “Don’t you worry, miss, the doctor thought the bruises and marks would all heal well. In due time you’ll have your pretty face back to rights. As well as your voice. He said you should not be speaking.”
Francine looked at Mrs. Weston in the mirror’s reflection as the older woman combed out the tangles from her long hair. “Francine,” she said on a breath.
Mrs. Weston started, almost dropping the brush, her eyes growing wide as she looked in the mirror. “Beg pardon, miss, did you say some
thing?” she asked as she leaned over.
“Francine,” she said again, barely more than a whisper.
“Francine,” Mrs. Weston said definitively. “Well, that is a beautiful name. French, yes?”
Francine shrugged, falling silent again.
“Well, beautiful in any regard, miss,” she said with a big, gentle smile, one that Francine could not help but to return. “Might you have another name? One His Grace could use for contacting your family?”
Francine stiffened. What kind of difficulty would that bring? If she were here, if she was Madeleine, her last name was the same. That would bring Madeleine’s family, her family, her ancestors. Or this was a dream and all of it irrelevant. But if it wasn’t—she shook her head, hoping to put off—what? She didn’t know. She wanted to go home, but logic told her that finding her ancestors would not make that happen. She had heard the doctor talking about Bedlam before that bitter drink he’d forced down her throat had put her back to sleep. She knew of Bedlam, everyone knew of Bedlam. She rather preferred to stay where she was for now, the devil you know and all.
She felt exhausted in every respect, physically, mentally, emotionally wrecked. She returned to the bed and slept most of that day, still hoping to wake up where she thought she belonged.
Roxleigh worked quietly in his study, waiting. He didn’t know for what, exactly. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his mysterious charge since the fracas in her suite two days ago. He couldn’t concentrate, his mind addled with thoughts of the woman in his guest room.
Before her arrival he’d projected a quiet and powerful façade: always attentive, always watching, always in charge. He was born with the sole purpose of becoming the tenth Duke of Roxleigh, Earl of Kelso and Sussex, Viscount Devon and Pembroke. To that end he’d been trained from birth how to behave properly, to control people and situations, to intimidate for the Crown’s gain and to manipulate outcomes to his satisfaction. He was not ruled by emotions, but by propriety, principle, and grace.
That was not how he felt now.
A knock on the door echoed through his study and he flinched, not entirely sure he was prepared for what was to come. He took a deep breath. “Enter.”
Mrs. Weston entered the room, drawing her small frame as tall as she could before him, then visibly melting as her gaze met his. He realized he must be a sight, practically guarding his desk from an intruder, his arms stretched wide across his desk, his knuckles white with tension. He pulled his hands to his lap and massaged the tension away as she approached.
“Your Grace,” she said in a tone of voice a bit too concerned for his spirit.
“Out with it, Mrs. Weston. I would prefer to be left to my work.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I came about Miss Francine—”
“Who?” He sat forward to hear her better. For the love of all that was holy, he needed to calm his nerves so she would speak up.
“The lady, Your Grace. Her name is Francine.”
“She told you that? I thought she was not able to speak.” He played with her name in his mind, then concentrated on Mrs. Weston, who eyed him cautiously.
“Well, she shouldn‘t, Your Grace, and she only told me her Christian name. Nothing more.”
“I see.”
“I did ask, Your Grace, but she seemed confused so I assume perhaps she cannot currently remember much.”
He nodded. “And Miss…Francine, she is well? I mean, she was well enough to let you know her name, so it would seem that she does have her wits then?”
“Your Grace, I am no doctor. I can’t say more than I know. She seems reasonable, but I have thought that of others.” The moment the words were out, she paled and Roxleigh stood, abruptly knocking his chair over as he dropped his guard, taken aback at her callous reference to a past better left alone, particularly now.
“Your Grace, I— I did not mean to… I beg your pardon, Your Grace. What I meant to say was—and I don’t mean to be forward, and I don’t mean any disrespect and you know that. I only meant to tell you in a way that I am sure will leave no doubt. I’m obliged to you. I’ll follow your wishes—without heed for your reasoning—and you know this of me. But I cannot, and will not, tell you what I’m unable to, Your Grace. I do not know the state of the lady’s mental faculties. Now, I’ve said my piece.”
“I understand,” he said as he righted the chair and took a seat. “Why have you come?”
“Your Grace, the lady needs clothes beyond a nightdress and a robe. The gown she had was ruined. She needs day gowns, as well as the—er, other necessaries. It’s right improper for a young lady to be covered by others’ leavings. If she had her own gowns and such she might feel better, and she needn’t be hidden like an unwanted chore. It’s only right, if she surely is a guest.” He could see the challenge in her stare.
He considered Mrs. Weston as he shifted the papers on his desk with one finger. There was the gown he’d torn asunder on the track. Even though she was—at the time—unable to breathe, he did owe the woman at least that, if not more, and he and Mrs. Weston both knew it.
At last, he inclined his head. “So be it. You will see to her needs.”
“Of course, Your Grace. She will be delighted.” Mrs. Weston gave him a relieved smile, but something about that statement rankled and he narrowed his eyes on her. “Did she bid you come here to ask this of me?”
“No, Your Grace, she would not think of it. She’s more than content to wander in a borrowed nightdress and drawers. In fact, she has difficulty accepting all offers of help. In fact, she’s been quite timid,” she said with concern.
He nodded and dismissed her with a gesture, but called her back before she reached the door. Mrs. Weston waited. His shoulders were tense; his troubles swam in his mind. His fingertips were once again white from being pressed into the surface of his mahogany desk, and he felt the muscles of his arms twitching as though he were wrestling with an unseen foe.
When he finally spoke, he rose and looked directly at Mrs. Weston. “I appreciate your effort. Please send Ferry to my quarters and have Davis ready Samson.”
Not wanting to push his difficult mood, she curtseyed. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said with a smile.
When Ferry entered Roxleigh’s bedchamber from the door behind the large fireplace, Roxleigh had already managed to change into a pair of doeskin-lined riding trousers. A fresh white shirt hung open at his neck and sleeves. “My boots,” he said as Ferry went to the wardrobe.
Roxleigh looked around his bedchamber as he waited. The paneling was dark imported cherry, deeply tinted with hues of burgundy. The center of the room was overtaken by a large fireplace that stood out from the wall, providing a passage in the depths beyond.
As a child Roxleigh had run the passages, hiding from his father who could never catch up to him. He remembered one time in particular, not long before he lost his mother. He’d run from his angry father who thought to ambush him at the front staircase, but Roxleigh ducked through a panel next to the great entrance and ran through the winding passages and up the stairs to the first floor behind the master suite, only to be caught up in a flurry of skirts by his mother coming from the other direction.
She’d kneeled, clutching him to her chest, wrapping him in her softness, kissing his tear-streaked face, quietly repeating his name to soothe him. He could almost smell her skin again, sweet and fresh, like the gardens. She swept him away, his face hidden against her neck, into a room filled with soft, translucent panels hanging throughout like a willowy maze. The breeze from a window he couldn’t see moved the delicate fabrics, causing them to graze the floor.
She carried him deep into the room to a sitting area near a large white bathtub. It was covered with hand-painted tiles, tiny flowers in hues of purple, pink, and yellow dancing across the surface.
Roxleigh shook his head, forcing the memory away. He must have embellished it greatly, because no such room existed at Eildon Manor. There was no piped water in the manor; the estate had not been wealth
y enough to make such improvements until recently, but the feeling of that one imaginary room was what he wished for the entire manor to be: safe, peaceful, and joyful. He frowned; he didn’t fit into that picture very well.
Ferry set Roxleigh’s well-worn top boots next to the bench in front of the fireplace and he pulled them on, still lost in his thoughts. He’d recently decided to rid the manor of its previous masters’ deviousness by rebuilding parts of the interior. He didn’t approve of the clandestine way the manor was used for improper pursuits.
He knew the past had kept many in the peerage away and he hoped he could turn it into a more inviting home, one that many guests would visit. He knew no proper lady would willingly wed him and make a home in such a wickedly deceptive place. To that end, he had invited one of the brightest new London architects, Amberly Shaw, to the manor to assist him.
He stood. His personal demeanor tended to be more off-putting than anything else, including the layouts of the guest suites that tended to bamboozle visitors. It was merely his status that drew them.
Ferry returned to the wardrobe to retrieve a neck cloth, cuff links, jacket, and riding gloves.
“Don’t trouble,” Roxleigh said. He left Ferry there, his finishing items hanging limply from his valet’s hands. His eyes wide.
“Bollocks!” Ferry exclaimed after the door clicked shut.
Roxleigh paused momentarily, then moved on.
Roxleigh rushed out the side entrance of the manor, heading directly for the stables. “Davis! My steed!” he yelled.
“Here, Your Grace, warming in the paddock,” Davis replied.
Roxleigh stabled nearly forty horses, some of them mares sent to him from as far away as the Netherlands to be foaled with Samson. He preferred Friesians, beautiful, large, strong, jet-black horses known for their carriage and manner. They had an inherently smooth gait and incomparable demeanor, and the fact that their presence was often viewed as both regal and foreboding was also an asset. He took a great deal of pride in his breeding program and in turn it brought success and notoriety to the Friesian line.
