by Darcy,Regina
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
BONUS CHAPTER 1:MESMERISING THE DUKE
BONUS CHAPTER 2:FALLING FOR THE EARL
Copyright © Regina Darcy 2016
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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reginadarcy.cleanandwholesomeromance.com
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ONE
Miss Hermione Lang was flabbergasted. She stared at the man in front of her with disbelief. “Marriage? Why should we marry?”
“I am your guardian. I must live here. This is your home. Where else would you go?”
Where else would she go? The words echoed in her mind, but somehow she was unable to grasp their meaning.
There was a life for young women and someday, when her heart was not so heavy, she would return to it. She knew that the vicar had spoken of it when he had met with her to plan her father, Lord Fitzgerald’s funeral service. The local aristocracy had, with delicacy, assured her that she would be welcome to join them for the Season in London next year, once her time of mourning ended.
She had been too weary with the emotional weight of her loss to notice the speculative, cool glances they had given to Mr Wilder, but those images returned to her now as he stood in front of her, implacable and confident.
“I intend to stay here, of course,” she finally replied. “This is my home. Our ancestors have always lived here.”
“A chit of eighteen cannot live on her own,” Mr Wilder said dismissively. “We shall be married in London after we visit your father’s solicitor to discuss your inheritance. It will be a simple wedding, naturally, as you are in mourning but a quiet honeymoon will not be out of place I believe. Not Paris or Italy, of course, but perhaps Scotland.”
For an instant, she saw a flicker of rapacious desire glimmer in his pale blue eyes. How had she ever failed to notice that his eyes were such an icy shade of blue, as if the cold had frozen out all the colour?
He was not ill-favoured, although as a man in his late forties, he was not impressive to a girl of eighteen. He was stocky in build, with large, square hands that seemed to emerge from his tight cuffs like weapons leaving their sheaths. He had bristly dark hair; she wondered for the first time if perhaps he used colour in it. It seemed too unlikely that a middle-aged man would reveal no strands of white or grey in his hair.
“I do not intend to marry,” she said, making the effort to remain calm although she could feel her heart hammering against the wall of her ribs like prey locked in a cage.
“Nonsense, of course we will marry. You are a young girl with a great inheritance. I have taken on the responsibilities that would naturally fall to the head of the household.”
“My father was the head of the household!” Hermione exclaimed.
“Your father,” he reminded her, grasping her wrists painfully in his thick, powerful hands, “was a dying man. I let him die in peace so that he would not be troubled by the affairs of business, which he was not capable of managing. I did not do so with no intention of profiting from my labours. I am not an altruistic man, my dear Hermione. I will be a just husband. Obey me and you will be well treated. But never forget that I am your master.”
Never had she been spoken to with such familiarity. It was clear to her that this was only a glimpse of what was to come. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Do not think that I am a man to be moved by a woman’s pathetic humours,” Donald Wilder continued with a snort.
“You are hurting me Mr Wilder,” she finally whispered.
“I’ll do worse than this if you fail to heed my warning. Tomorrow we will go to London; we will stop overnight at an inn. We will obey conventions and ensure that there shall be no scandal attached to our union. The next morning, we will leave the inn for London. You will continue to dress in mourning until we are married. After that, you will dress modestly in subdued colours. After a year has passed, I expect you to dress in the manner of an heiress. I intend to be congratulated for having a beautiful and fashionable wife. You will no doubt have borne a child by that time, but I require you to maintain your beauty.” Releasing her wrists, he raised his hand. Uncertain of his intentions, she shrank back.
Mr Wilder smiled, amused by her trepidation. He trailed one finger along the slender line of her jaw, stroking her full under lip with his fingertip. “You are a most beautiful young woman,” he said in a hoarse voice. “We shall have many children, I predict, for I intend to share your bed with all the ardour of a besotted husband. I am an experienced man and I shall enjoy exercising my marital rights, my dear Hermione. I have known many women in my life but you are most certainly the jewel in my collection.”
He leaned forward. His kiss was hard and proprietary. She did not avoid his lips but stood frozen, as he stole what she had never given another. Despite her inexperience with men, she realised that for Donald Wilder, a woman’s willingness was insignificant. Her lack of resistance seemed to appease him.
“Until tomorrow morning, then,” he whispered satisfied.
It was very strange, Hermione reflected as she fastened the mourning brooch onto the bodice of her black dress, that a mere seven days could turn one’s life completely around. What she had thought was the worst thing that could happen proved only to be the prelude to the worst. A week ago, her father had been very ill, but still alive. The country estate where she had grown up had been a place of comfort, even as her father’s strength waned and the household staff began to make the necessary preparations for a funeral. Intent on spending every possible moment with her father, she had been grateful to his friend, Donald Wilder, who had returned to England a year ago and renewed the friendship with Lord Fitzgerald, a friendship that had begun when they were both serving in India.
Mr Wilder had taken care of the estate while she nursed her father. He had overseen the household staff, conducted business, and in all respects, behaved as a trusted benefactor. When her father had appointed Mr Wilder as her guardian, it had been with the understanding that at eighteen, Hermione was far too young to manage the diverse business interests of the Fitzgerald shipping empire. She had paid very little attention to those matters.
Her focus in that time had been entirely on her father. Coaxing him to take another sip of broth, trying to tempt him with his favourite treats from Cook’s endless bounty of recipes, reading to him from the novels they had both enjoyed. Occasionally brightening his room with the flowers that remained as autumn endured and then, when winter was upon them, bringing in boughs of pine and holly so that there was always something living in a room where death patiently waited.
Winter had come and her father had continued to live, always weakening, but still able to greet her in the mornings. He would complement her upon her appearance, notice the ribbons adorning her hair and observe how much she resembled her late mother. He had ceased telling her that a young woman had no business spending all her hours with her old father because Hermione had shushed him, s
ummoning a smile that made her eyes sparkle and her dimples dance. No matter how much she felt like sobbing as she noticed how pale and weak he was, her courage never failed. If all she could do to cheer him up was to bring to his memory the woman he had loved, then she would devote herself to that task.
Her father survived up until the very budding of spring. At the funeral, she watched as his coffin was placed into the Fitzgerald graveyard where generations of previous barons and their families had taken their final rest took place. It was a fragile spring day when the sun, despite the chill in the air, mustered enough force to shine, however pale its rays, upon the shivering limbs of the budding trees and the hint of flowers rising from the soil.
Not only the gentry from all over the county had come but the villagers as well, for her father had been greatly loved by all that he had met. He was a kind master and an understanding landlord; no tenant went hungry in the hard times and all the servants knew that their work was appreciated. The household staff, red-eyed, had stood in reverence as the vicar committed Lord Henry Fitzgerald, to his immortal rest.
When the funeral dinner was past and the house was silent again, Mr Wilder had emerged from her father’s study, where he had spent most days.
The memory of his stolen kiss, still made her skin crawl. She had no illusions about his intentions. He was not asking for her hand in marriage; he was taking it.
As he was now her guardian, she had no other recourse than to obey. The next day would see them off to London, where a destiny worse than death awaited her.
TWO
The household servants could have not possibly known what was to happen the next morning. Yet that night, Mrs Kinsey the housekeeper knocked softly upon Hermione’s bedroom door. Upon being told to enter, she had quickly closed the door behind her as if she feared being seen or overheard. She told Hermione to pack her mother’s jewels and to bring with her whatever money she had on hand, in case of an emergency.
Mrs Kinsey had apologised for her effrontery. “But your dear mother, may she rest in peace, would want me to say this to you. You must look out for yourself.”
It was then that Hermione realised that the servants knew more than she could imagine. While she had tended to her father, they had been watching. Never disrespectful, they had nonetheless noticed that Mr Wilder was rather less than the devoted family friend he pretended to be.
Mrs Kinsey told Hermione to keep her jewels upon her person, hidden inside her clothing. If there was ever a time when she was without means, she had only to remember she was not destitute. London was a city where jewels would buy what she needed, if indeed she found herself in such straits.
“You must be alert, Miss Hermione,” said Mrs Kinsey. “You must remember what the Good Book says. Be wise as a serpent, innocent as a dove.”
It was an odd sort of message, but Hermione had thanked the housekeeper and followed her advice. When she boarded the carriage the next morning, Mr Wilder had no way of knowing that hidden in her pockets were handkerchiefs knotted around her mother’s earrings and rings. The bracelets and necklaces she had left in Mrs Kinsey’s keeping. The housekeeper had tears in her eyes when she accepted the nondescript box that contained the private collection that the late Lord Fitzgerald had bestowed upon his adored wife.
She had dressed that morning with the jewels safely hidden in her pockets, but she wondered how she could possibly escape from the man appointed by her father to protect her.
How had her father been so readily gulled? He had been ill, weak, and anxious for her wellbeing, but he had known Mr Wilder when they were younger. Had Mr Wilder been different then or had her father, a kind and gentle man who thought the best of others, never seen the true man hidden behind his countenance? To be fair, she had not seen it either, although she had been so occupied with her father’s illness that she had taken no time to look for evil in a man regarded by her father as a friend.
The carriage ride to the inn had been awkward at best and uncomfortable at worst. Mr Wilder seemed to take pleasure in her reluctance to be with him. Knowing that his touch plainly repulsed her, he found opportunities during the journey to take her hand, or as they left the carriage, to hold her by the waist as he helped her down. They dined together in silence then went to their separate rooms after he gave her instructions for the coming day.
After he left, she stayed in the room that had been reserved for her, sitting by the fire as her thoughts swirled in her head like frenzied leaves too light to resist the force of the wind that pressed them into motion. Her father was gone. The vast fortune that was hers to inherit would be controlled by Mr Wilder who, once he became her husband, would rule over her and all that her father possessed. The house, the fortune, her body itself would be his and her blatant dread only appeared to incite his eagerness. The direness of her situation dawned upon her.
She did not sleep that night. The next morning, she dressed herself in numb dread, her fingers clumsy on the buttons of her garment.
There was a knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Your husband-to-be,” replied the familiar voice, and even though a heavy wooden door separated her from him, his voice was enough to fill the chamber with the oppressiveness of his presence.
“I’m not ready yet.”
“Twenty minutes,” he told her. “Finish dressing or I’ll come in and do it for you.” Cruelty and amusement were audible in his tone.
When she didn’t answer, he finally left.
Hermione began to pace back and forth. She could not do this. She could not surrender herself to a man who had already proven himself capable of violence and cruelty. She dared not risk her entire future as a slave to a man who coveted her fortune and her body and regarded himself already as her master. She would not—
In a brief surge of what she could only think later was madness, Hermione opened her door, crossed the narrow corridor, and without knocking, opened the door opposite her room.
A man was sat in a chair, with what looked like a manservant attending to his morning toiletry. A pair of dark eyes, interested but not particularly astounded, surveyed her above a white beard of shaving soap lathered upon his jaw.
“Michaels,” drawled a well-bred voice, full lips moving within the calyx of white soap, “we appear to have a charming visitor. Have you been so solicitous of my . . . needs that you have procured a companion for me?”
“No, sir,” replied the stocky young man who went on with the task of shaving as if there had not been an interruption.
“Hmmm . . . . Might I ask, meaning no disrespect or even disapproval, exactly what you are doing in my room? I have rented the room for the day and night, but to the best of my knowledge the fee does not include your very charming person.”
Hermione was too distressed to be insulted or frightened; despite the badinage, he did not appear to be threatening. “I’m very sorry sir, but I must beg you for your aid. My guardian is going to come for me in only a few minutes. He is going to force me to marry him and he is unspeakably vile. I do not wish to marry him and I must hide from him.”
The razor moved smoothly across the man’s lean cheeks. The man continued to look at her as if time were of no significance. “Are you asking me to marry you?” he inquired politely.
“No! I’ve no wish to be married!”
“I see. I merely asked because others have been so inclined and I have thus far escaped the matrimonial snare. Although no one has ever approached me with such a novel offer before. I apologize for misunderstanding your intent. You appear to be in mourning.”
“My father died a week ago.”
“My condolences,” he said simply. “And your guardian has chosen to replace the void of a father with a husband. You present an interesting dilemma. And a solution,” he murmured. “Michaels, have you finished making me presentable?”
“As well as I can, Your Lordship, even with you talking and moving about so.”
The soap removed from his fa
ce, the man revealed to have attractive, lean features of a man less than forty but more, she guessed, than twenty-five years. He seemed to be of good breeding but there was something in his mien, which indicated a man who did not adopt the languid, fashionable attitude of the London habitué. There was vigour in this man’s composition.
Hermione barely noticed him as a person, so caught up was she in her own plight, but as the daughter of a Lord, she was able to assess him by virtue of his servant, his speech, and his appearance as a man who was someone of account in the aristocracy.
He rose from his chair. He was dressed in a striking gold and red dressing gown. Clearly he was not yet ready for the day’s business and she knew that she was out of place here, in a man’s room. And yet, there was no etiquette for terror.
“Will you help me?” she pleaded again.
“You should not ask help of a stranger until you know what he will expect in return,” replied the man, eyeing her speculatively.
“I only need you to hide me until my guardian leaves. He will be back very soon to make me go with him.”
“The Duke of Brentford, at your service,” he said, evidently deciding that despite her haste, introductions were in order.
“Miss Hermione Lang.”
“Lang . . . you are Baron Fitzgerald’s daughter?” he asked. “The Lord who recently died . . . was he your father?”
“He was.”
“I see.”
The door behind her that she had left opened admitted the sounds of someone climbing the stairs down the hallway.
“Under the bedclothes,” the Duke immediately directed. “Sheet up over your head and face away from the door.”
The manservant, Michaels, helped her into the bed and pulled the covers over her so that she would appear as if she had spent the night with his master and was still asleep.
They all heard fists pounding on the door opposite the hall.
