Miss Dane and the Duke

by Louise Allen

  The girl started and stared upwards in alarm. ‘Yes, ma’am, sorry, ma’am.’

  She was still very pink as she handed over the missive to Antonia. ‘And just what are that young man’s intentions?’ Antonia demanded. ‘I am not aware you have asked Miss Donaldson’s permission for a follower to call.’

  ‘Intentions? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss,’ the girl stammered. ‘I’ve known Josh Saye all my life. Friend of my brother’s, he is, Miss.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Donna observed, not unkindly. ‘I am sure if he is one of His Grace’s men he is respectable, but even so, if he is to call on you, then I must know and you can both sit in the kitchen in a proper manner. And,’ she added, ‘no dallying on the front doorstep.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.’ The girl scuttled from the room, clearly relieved to have got off so lightly.

  ‘Oh,’ Antonia said blankly, as she scanned the letter.

  ‘What is wrong, dear?’

  ‘The Duke writes that he is unable to call this morning after all. It seems the parish constables have brought a most complicated case before him and he must sit, perhaps all day, to hear the evidence against them before deciding whether to commit the men to the County gaol.’

  She could have handed the letter to Donna without a qualm, for the business-like lines in his firm black hand contained nothing beyond the simple message, Marcus’s formal regrets and his intention to call later that evening.

  Antonia was puzzling over the household accounts after luncheon when Jem was admitted to the small parlour.

  ‘I’ve brought the post, Miss.’ He held out the papers in one slightly grubby hand and hesitated, looking at Donna, who was settled in the window-seat stitching a pillowcase.

  ‘Have you eaten, Jem?’ she asked, just as he had doubtless hoped.

  ‘Not since a bite of bacon at breakfast, ma’am. Long time ago, that was,’ he added, managing to sound half-starved.

  ‘Then go to the kitchen and tell Jane I said you were to have a bowl of soup and some bread. And when you have finished, go to the kitchen garden and see if there is any weeding you can do for Johnson.’ The lad grinned and dashed off.

  Antonia spread the handful of letters on the table. ‘There is a note from Great-Aunt Granger. That is a hopeful sign, her handwriting seems much firmer. And a bill from the corn chandler for the chicken feed. And I think this is from Mr Blake.’ She broke the seal and spread out the crackling sheets. ‘Yes. He writes that Sir Josiah and Lady Finch will be arriving at Rye End Hall the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘How interesting.’ Donna put down her sewing and gave Antonia her full attention. ‘How soon do you think we should call? We must not be backward in paying our respects to our new neighbours. On the other hand they will no doubt be fatigued after their removal and one would not wish to intrude.’

  ‘Then let’s leave our cards in four days’ time.’ Antonia finished scanning her great aunt’s letter and handed both it and Mr Blake’s note to Donna. ‘Great-Aunt does indeed seem more like her old self, I’m glad to say.’ She pushed the ledger away and stood up. ‘These figures are giving me a headache. I think I will go for a walk. Will you come too?’

  ‘No, thank you, dear, I think I will remain here and finish this linen. Keep to the shade and do not forget your hat,’ Donna called after her.

  Antonia strolled along the river bank, idly swinging her broad-brimmed straw hat by its ribbons and taking deep breaths of the warm air. Above her skylarks sang in a clear sky without a hint of cloud. The river glinted in the sunshine as it hurried along, its surface disturbed as fish rose to take flies from the surface.

  She paused to pick dog roses as she went, sucking her finger as she pricked it on the thorns. Her spirits were rising as she walked and she began to sing under her breath. The trees closed in over the river in a green tunnel and she strolled beneath them, grateful for the shade and uncaring how far she had walked.

  It seemed to her that she had her heart’s desire. She was in love with a man who wished to make her his wife, whose every action showed his desire for her. She had secured her family home from ruin and by her actions in the neighbourhood had made the name of Dane respected once more. To have found a husband so close to home was an added joy, because she had grown to love the rolling beauty of the countryside, to value the good relations she felt she had forged with her tenants.

  With a start she realised how far she had ventured. Although she had never walked such a distance along this path before, she guessed she was on Brightshill land now. In fact, she calculated, if she walked on around that bend, she might be able to glimpse of the roof of the house where Marcus was. The evening, when he would come to her, seemed a long way away…

  The turn of the river revealed a summerhouse built as a small Classical temple set on closely scythed grass. The lawns swept up towards the house, almost hidden by the rise of the land. It all seemed deserted, shimmering in the heat of the afternoon. Antonia gazed towards the house for a long moment, hardly believing that she would be mistress of it, perhaps before the year was out. A duchess.

  The pillared portico of the temple was casting tempting shade and the day was getting hotter. Antonia realised just how far she had to walk back and decided that a few moments’ rest would be welcome. She sank gratefully on to a wrought-iron bench and fanned herself with her hat. Through gaps in the trees she could see the sky was no longer cloudless and great thunderheads were building, threatening a storm later. It might be as well to set out again before she was caught in the rain, she thought, standing up.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Marcus’s voice enquired from behind her.

  She whirled round, her heart beating with delight at the sound of his voice, then found she could not see him. Puzzled, she descended the short flight of marble steps and rounded the far corner of the summerhouse.

  Trees had been planted to surround a grassy glade where the wild flowers had been allowed to grow unchecked in the natural style. A semi-clad goddess in marble gazed out to the river with unseeing eyes, a docile fawn at her feet.

  For a moment Antonia stood enchanted by the tranquillity of the spot, then she saw Marcus. A hammock had been slung between two trees, providing a shady resting place, and he was lying, coat discarded, shirt open, a book and pitcher on the ground beside him.

  What was he doing there when he had sent a message that he was engaged all day?

  Whoever Marcus had spoken to, it was not her. His gaze was fixed on someone within the grove of trees, someone who at that moment emerged.

  For a dizzy moment Antonia believed the statue had come to life and descended from its plinth, then she realised it was Claudia. Her hair was caught up in Classical ringlets, her body was moulded by the diaphanous muslin of a white gown. The garment, confined only by a criss-cross of ribbons at the bosom, was to Antonia’s eye, quite outrageous.

  Claudia skirted the foot of the hammock to stand at Marcus's side, her back to Antonia. As the sunlight caught the gown, her limbs were clearly defined beneath the delicate skirts.

  They were talking, low-voiced. Antonia, frozen to the spot, was unable to hear what passed between them, but through the bushes she could see Claudia reach out to brush the hair from Marcus’s forehead before leaning down and fastening her lips on his. Surely he would rebuff her, push her away?

  Then, before Antonia’s startled eyes, his arms encircled Claudia, pulling her into his embrace. The hammock swayed wildly, the slender trees supporting it bent inwards and Claudia, ever graceful, subsided on to Marcus’s broad chest.

  Seconds later the hammock tipped, tumbling them both onto the grass where they lay in a tangle of limbs, lips still joined.

  With a sob Antonia whirled round and ran blindly back along the river bank, stumbling over roots, briars catching at her skirts.

  Behind the summerhouse Marcus freed his lips from the voracious, experienced mouth above him and pushed Claudia Reed from his chest with more force than
gallantry. The confounded woman had precipitated herself into his arms so that he’d had to catch her, then plastered her lips to his in a way that had sent masculine instinct triumphing over sense for a few seconds.

  He raised himself on his elbows, panting slightly, and glowered at her as she sprawled enticingly at his side.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, Claudia. What do you think you’re about? Anyone could have seen you.’

  ‘You said you would be busy all day and then I find you have sneaked off down here – surely you must be in need of company?’

  ‘The confounded constables left half the paperwork behind them and I am not sitting in a stuffy study until they return. And no, I do not require company.’ And especially not yours, he thought.

  Claudia pouted prettily. ‘Why so hot for respectability, my love, when you used to be so hot for me?’

  Marcus snorted, pushing himself into a sitting position. ‘When was I ever your love, Claudia? We had a brief affaire, that was all. It was over as soon as it began. Admit it, you love only yourself.’ And why hadn’t he seen that immediately? Perhaps he had, but in those days, short months before, he had not met Antonia Dane and lost his appetite for meaningless sensual pleasures.

  ‘And you, Marcus? I suppose you are going to tell me now that you love that provincial chit. What is it that attracts you, my dear? It surely cannot be her clothes, her lack of style and connections? She is all ungainly legs and country complexion.’ Her drawling tone did not quite disguise the malice behind the words.

  Marcus got to his feet. ‘Enough.' He stooped to take Claudia’s hand and help her up, suddenly seized by an unexpected and unwelcome feeling of pity for her. Her life, it seemed, was so empty without admiration. ‘I intend to marry Miss Dane. It is an entirely suitable match.’

  ‘In terms of land, I suppose it is wise,’ Claudia conceded. ‘I can see the advantages of connecting the two estates, they march together so well. I am quite fatigued, my dear, and bored with talking of your little country mouse.’ She slipped her hand through his arm, her affront apparently soothed by the thought that he was offering for Antonia simply for her lands. ‘Let us go back to the house and take tea.’

  Antonia reached the last stretch of river before the Dower House. Her breath sobbed with a mixture of anger and savagely-suppressed tears as she ran, and now, breathless and dishevelled, she sank to the bank edge.

  She could not go into the house like this, unless she was prepared to tell Donna everything. Antonia bent, scooping up cold water to splash on her hot eyes, and eventually felt calm enough to return home.

  In the parlour Donna was sipping tea, the mended linen in a basket at her feet. ‘My dear, look at you! Your face is flushed, your eyes are red. Come and sit down. You have walked too far, undone all the good work of this morning. I do hope you are not sickening for something.’

  ‘I think it is the weather.’ Antonia was surprised at the matter-of-factness she could achieve, although her heart felt as though it were breaking. ‘See, the clouds are banking up, we will have a storm soon.’ Despite the heat, she felt as though something had frozen inside her. It was as though she had known all along that he did not love her, that he had offered only for her land, not for her love.

  You fool, she told herself, as she mechanically drank the tea Donna passed her. You have been living in a fool’s paradise. You knew he has never spoken of love. I cannot fault him in that. It was all my own foolishness, my own romantic daydreaming.

  Her own inexperience had ensnared her, leading her to believe that a man’s passions were all allied to love. But men, she was learning, could desire a woman with their affections entirely unengaged. And, it seemed, could feel that desire for more than one woman at a time.

  And several hundred acres of land were, no doubt, a powerful inducement to desire.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Antonia was still more despising of herself than angry with Marcus when, after an early supper, she sat waiting for him in the garden. Donna, in obvious expectation of a proposal, had tactfully made herself scarce.

  The air was heavy, with a threatening chrome yellow tinge to the banked clouds. Lightning flickered over the Vale and tiny thunder flies swarmed above the flowerbeds. Antonia, despite the light summer gown, felt as if she were wearing furs, the heat was so oppressive.

  She was fighting to keep calm, rehearsing the dignified, frigid speech with which she intended to withdraw her acceptance of his offer. She had no intention of bringing Claudia Reed’s name into it. No, she would say in measured tones that she had thought better of it, that they would not suit. After all, she could never admit she had seen them that afternoon.

  The old longcase clock from the hallway struck seven, the sound echoing faintly across the garden from the open casements, set wide to catch what little breeze there was.

  Where is he? The longer she waited, the harder it became to maintain her fragile composure. Then she heard the hoof beats and started to her feet, heart beating painfully.

  Marcus, trotted up the driveway looked across and saw her and turned his horse’s head. He tossed the reins over a branch and strode across the lawn towards her, a smile warm on his lips.

  Antonia knew her face was set but, try as she might, she could not arrange her features into any semblance of welcome. As he neared her and saw her expression his changed, too, into a look of questioning concern.

  ‘Antonia, what is wrong?’ He took her hand in his, raising it to his lips.

  Antonia pulled her hand away, her legs suddenly weak with longing for him, for his touch. She could not allow herself to falter, weaken, or she would be lost.

  ‘Your Grace,’ she began formally, her lips stiff. He began to speak, but she held up her hand to forestall him. ‘Your Grace, I have to tell you that, flattering as your offer to me yesterday was, I feel my acceptance of it was mistaken. Upon reflection…’ Her voice wavered slightly as a frown gathered between his brows, but she pressed on. ‘Upon reflection, I must decline your proposal, sensible though I am of the honour you do me. Your Grace, we should not suit,’ she finished baldly.

  This was as far as she had gone with her prepared speech. Her imagination had not allowed her to picture Marcus’s reaction.

  ‘Should not suit?’ His voice was incredulous. ‘Antonia, what the devil can you mean? I thought – ’

  Antonia drew herself up and took a steadying breath. ‘I mean what I say, Your Grace. We should not suit. I am only grateful circumstances were such that we made no announcement last night.’

  He let out a short bark of humourless laughter. ‘We may have made no announcement, but our friends know what to expect.’

  ‘I have done nothing to lead them to draw conclusions,’ she said stiffly. ‘What you have done, Your Grace, is your affair.’

  ‘Damn it, woman, will you stop calling me Your Grace every other sentence.’

  ‘Do not swear at me!’ The thunder cracked and rolled overhead, and she started in alarm, stumbled.

  Marcus did not hesitate. He caught her in his arms, fastened his mouth on hers. His mouth gentled, cajoling her into returning the kiss. His hands moved, caressing over her, finally settling on her shoulders, hot on the bare skin exposed there.

  She wanted him so much that when his tongue invaded her mouth she opened to him, welcoming the intimacy. Her hands tangled in his hair and, as they did so, a picture of Claudia flickered against her closed lids.

  Antonia stiffened in his arms. It was as though she could taste the other woman on his lips and it repelled her. With a gasp, she wrenched herself free of him.

  ‘My God, Antonia.’ Marcus found it difficult to control his breathing. He ran his hand through his disordered hair in some attempt at control. ‘How can you claim we do not suit? I have never known a woman respond so, with such passion, to my touch.’

  ‘And you have known so many, Your Grace,’ she retorted.

  So that was what it was all about. Damn Claudia. This was what he feared would ha
ppen when she had turned up uninvited and against his wishes. He had implored her to be discreet, not flaunt their past, brief, relationship. But he should have known that the slightest hint of competition would drive Claudia to a display of ownership as provocative as it was indiscreet.

  ‘lf this is about Claudia,’ he began, with fatal misjudgement.

  ‘About Claudia? You have the effrontery to invite your mistress to your home at the very time you make me a proposal and you wonder that I reject you? I had a better opinion of your understanding than that. Did you really expect me to ignore your relationship with that… that strumpet?’

  Heavy rain drops began to fall, plopping weightily on the dusty earth. Antonia brushed them away from her face, clearly too angry to seek shelter.

  ‘Strumpet? That is fine language for a lady to use. And Claudia Reed is not my mistress, if we must speak plainly of such things.’ His eyes were narrowed in the failing light, but he could still see the angry glitter in hers through the rain that now lashed down on them.

  ‘Do not lie to me.’

  ‘How dare you doubt my word?’ His voice echoed the thunder above. Of course she can doubt it, you idiot, the voice of common-sense told him, shouting to be heard above his anger at his own behaviour, Claudia’s actions, his irrational hurt at Antonia’s mistrust. Anger was still winning, he realised, groping for the words to make this right.

  ‘I dare because I speak the truth. I cannot deny the evidence of my own eyes.’ As soon as she uttered the words he saw her wince. She had not meant to say that.

  ‘What evidence? What are you speaking of?’ The water was running down their faces now, her mass of hair was sodden.

  ‘Don’t stand there glaring at me like some furious river god,’ she threw at him wildly. ‘I saw you this afternoon. I saw you behind the summerhouse with your… That woman. You sent me a message that was nothing but lies.’