Wicked Temptations For The Seduced Duchess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  “Where are you taking me?” the young man asked.

  “To see His Grace, the Duke of Greenwick. He can decide your fate.” Mrs. Benton gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. Although His Grace was an anxious, paranoid sort of gentleman, he had a kind spirit. He was unlikely to turn a young man away, especially one in such dire need of assistance.

  * * *

  George Bradford, the Duke of Greenwick, stared at the young man, who had lapsed into unconsciousness on the settee in the drawing room.

  Mrs. Benton and Fiona, her assistant, had brought him from the woodland and deposited him there. A fire raged in the grate, casting warmth on the unconscious man, but George felt only a chill when he observed the man.

  However, he had no clue what he was supposed to do with such a stranger. He feared for the safety of his lands and the protection of his three precious daughters. He had no son to defend his title, but he did not want any uppity son of this fellow and that fellow to come a-calling for his daughters. That had been instilled in him from a very young age, especially considering the troubled past that had plagued his grandfather.

  You can never be too safe.

  That was what his father had taught him, and his mother had always highlighted the importance of keeping the ladies in his family protected from any who might do them harm. There had not been any continued unpleasantness between the Greenwicks and the Summerhills, not directly, but there were always saucy looks and bitter exchanges of words whenever their paths crossed in London.

  George took a small vial of smelling salts and wafted them beneath the stranger’s nostrils. They widened, the young fellow jolted awake. He glanced around the room, an expression of utter bafflement written across his features.

  “Where am I?” he gasped.

  “You are in the drawing room of Greenwick Abbey, and I am George Bradford, the Duke of Greenwick.” He sat beside the young man and pocketed the smelling salts. “Now, the true question is, who are you?”

  The young man frowned. “Edward…I think my name is Edward.”

  “You do not remember?”

  The young man shook his head. “I am trying, Your Grace.”

  “You speak well. Are you of noble peerage?”

  “I cannot recall, Your Grace.”

  George tutted. “Well, that will not do. Do you remember how you came to be in my grounds?”

  “I cannot, Your Grace.”

  “The physician has been sent for, and he will further investigate your current well-being. However, it would appear you have taken a rather serious hit to the back of your head. That could well be why you do not remember anything. I trust your memory will return.”

  The young man nodded. “I pray that it does, Your Grace.”

  “Until then, it is clear that you cannot be allowed to fend for yourself in such a state as this. I suppose you must remain here.”

  The young man stumbled over his words. “That is very kind, Your Grace.”

  “However, if you are to remain here, we must find a suitable employ for you. Naturally, there will be a period of rest, in which you may well recover your memory. If you do not, then you cannot be allowed to sit idle. Tell me, do you know if you have any particular skills?” George waited patiently for the young man to answer, though even the slightest response seemed to take much of his energy.

  “I think I am good with horses…but I cannot be sure.”

  George looked at the man, noticing his smooth hands. He did not look like one who was used to physical labor. “You might care to work with them, do you think?”

  “Yes…yes, I might be of some use, if you have any employ you might offer me?”

  George smiled. “Excellent, then perhaps it might be best if you were to earn your keep in the stables, as a stable boy. Just until your memories return. Would that suit?” He did not care to force this stranger into an unseemly occupation, but the fellow seemed eager enough.

  “I think it would, Your Grace.”

  “And you are sure you cannot remember a thing?”

  The young man shook his head. “Nothing, Your Grace.”

  George tapped the side of his chin in thought. “Very well. You should remain here until Doctor Bartlett arrives, so he may fully examine you. I have sent for some tea things to be brought to us, so you may recover some of your strength.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The Duke rose and moved to the opposite settee, where he sat with one leg balanced across his other. The young man continued to glance around in complete confusion, blinking slowly at the flickering flames of the fire.

  The presence of this man perturbed George more than he dared to admit, for there was a familiarity to the gentleman’s face that he could not quite put his finger on. He had handsome features and a dopey sort of smile that young ladies adored, but he vowed that this particular young man would not get within a few yards of his own daughters.

  George would keep an eye on this fellow, in case this entire episode of amnesia revealed itself to be an elaborate ruse. An ordinary man would not suspect such a thing, but George was no ordinary man. He lived and breathed conspiracy, always fearing that someone might come to upset the applecart of his beloved family.

  He had not always been that way, even though some modicum of it had been instilled in him by those who had come before him. No, it had been the arrival of his firstborn, Caroline, that had brought his paranoia to the surface. Charged with the care of such a small, vulnerable creature, all those fears had morphed into something beyond his control—a terror that his children would come into some danger he could not defeat.

  Now, a strange, unknown individual had walked into Greenwick Abbey, disrupting the tight running of his proverbial ship. If the young man overstepped his bounds, even by one foot, George would not be so benevolent again. Indeed, he was surprised by his own generosity, for he ordinarily vetted his servants to within an inch of their lives. He did not know why he had allowed this young man to remain.

  Perhaps I feel sorry for him. It is no easy thing to lose one’s memory.

  He had watched his mother, the late Duchess, endure painful years of slowly forgetting everything she knew and loved. One day, he had walked into the library to greet her, and she had not even recognized him.

  It had pained his father, too, for she could not remember him in his aged state. She loved a man by the name of Percy Bradford, but to her, he was a much younger man, not the wrinkled imposter who stood before her.

  He remembered her babbling of a great trauma, and how his father had burst through the door to her rescue. She would retell the same stories over and over and beg for the man who had saved her that day. George’s father had gone to her, to try and calm her, but she only wept, for she did not know him.

  And when she looked into a mirror, she screamed, for she did not know herself, either. The older woman in the looking glass was not the woman she expected, and her wails of confusion had been heard throughout the halls of Greenwick Abbey.

  That must be why.

  He attempted to convince himself, though he still felt a grip of concern that this young man had come to cause them harm. One thing was for certain—if the young man threatened his daughters in any way, George vowed to come down upon the young man like a guillotine.

  From that, there would be no mercy and no escape.

  Chapter 3

  “Who is this stranger that the house cannot stop wagging their tongues over?” Lydia Bradford, the Duke of Greenwick’s middle daughter, asked. She leant against the doorway of the library, whilst her mother read by the fire. She had heard the first whisperings of the stranger’s arrival two days ago, though she had only just mustered the courage to discover more.

  It had been a long while since anything exciting had happened at Greenwick Abbey, and Lydia was quick to learn of any and all gossip that found its way into the house.

  She longed for adventure and excitement, but she had been brought up in the wrong household. Here in the Hertf
ordshire countryside, she was far removed from any sort of thrilling event. She did not much care for balls and soirées, for the ones held in the nearby stately homes were always somber affairs, designed solely for the art of matchmaking. Indeed, she much preferred the freedom of riding her horse through the woods and burying herself in a good book.

  “You are not to go near him,” the Duchess, Annabelle Bradford, replied, without looking up from her book.

  “Is it true that the cook found him naked amongst the trees?” The idea thrilled Lydia to the core.

  At two-and-twenty, she had learned of the world through the books she read beneath the covers at night. The tantalizing, titillating tales of Udolpho, and the forbidden Grecian myths of Phryne and Myrrha, and the poems of Sappho. They spoke freely of intercourse, in a way that would have prompted her mother to shriek in disgust, though Lydia indulged in them with aplomb, delighting in the lurid description therein. After all, there was little else to keep her occupied within the confines of Greenwick Abbey.

  Her father allowed his daughters little freedom, aside from her weekly rides out into the woodland. Even then, she was watched from the house by her father’s trusted servants and she was never permitted to go further than the border of the grounds. Still, it was her one joy in an otherwise dull existence.

  Her mother cast a withering look in her direction. “Of course, he was not found naked, Lydia. What on earth has got into you? I worry for your mind sometimes, for it is so often inappropriate. Indeed, I wonder if I should ask Doctor Bartlett to take a look at you, for you concern me greatly.”

  Lydia pouted. “That is what the maids were saying, Mother.”

  “Well, they ought not to be spreading such vulgar gossip, for it is not true. He was discovered fully clothed and has been set to work by your father.”

  “Where?”

  “That is none of your concern.” Her mother folded her book in her lap. “It is fortunate that you should come to find me on this fine afternoon, for I thought it due time we discussed your situation.”

  Lydia arched an eyebrow. “My situation? I was not aware I had one.”

  “Do not be obtuse, Lydia. You know perfectly well what I am referring to. I know your father would see you remain a spinster for the rest of your days, but I am disinclined to agree. As he has no son, we must find you an excellent gentleman so that your future may be assured.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. She had lost count of the amount of times they had endured this conversation with one another, with it never coming to a decided conclusion. Lydia did not wish to marry for anything short of true, exciting love, whilst her mother would happily marry her off to the next wealthy Duke that happened to come along.

  It was as though she had learned little from the family heritage, for though Lydia’s grandmother had suffered a great sickness of the mind at the end of her life, she had loved her husband until the bitter end. Even when she could no longer recognize him, she had spoken of him in the past and her overwhelming love for him.

  That was the sort of love she wanted—the passion, the desire, the longing, of which her books spoke, and her grandparents had shared.

  Annabelle Bradford, née Forrest, had not married her father for love. That much was clear to all those who witnessed them, for though they made an exemplary partnership, Lydia could not remember them sharing so much as a kiss at Christmas. How they had created three children, Lydia did not know. Indeed, they did not even share chambers, and there was no middle-of-the-night creeping between bedrooms. Not that she had heard, anyway.

  I want what my grandparents had. I do not want the banal and dull perseverance of an arranged union. She wanted love, and nothing else would suffice. If that meant she spent her days as a spinster, as her father wanted, then so be it.

  “Who do you have waiting, Mother” Lydia teased. “Should I peer around the door, lest he jump out at me?”

  “Goodness, listen to you! Anyone would think you had been dragged into womanhood, rather than raised with the utmost care,” the Duchess muttered. “I thought we might attend the Sherringham’s ball on Friday, where there shall be an excellent selection of eligible young men.”

  “Should you not worry for Caroline first?” Lydia knew this was a trying subject for her mother, and so she delighted in pushing the right buttons. Caroline had decided to turn to a life of religion and charitable endeavor, preferring it over marriage and eligible bachelors. It had caused their mother no end of grief, for though she was somewhat dull in her interests, Caroline was a pleasant young lady to behold.

  “You know very well that Caroline has chosen an…alternative path. I will not have this discussion with you again,” the Duchess retorted, with a note of exasperation in her voice. “As for you, I shall have the modiste design a new gown, so we may impress at the Sherringham’s. They have a delightful son, and I am certain he will take a liking to you, so long as you behave.”

  Lydia smiled. “I can make no promises.”

  “You must behave, Lydia. You must find a suitable gentleman before the year is over, so that you may begin a family of your own and find your future in safe hands.”

  “I am hardly ready to begin having children, Mother.”

  The Duchess frowned. “At two-and-twenty, you are long overdue in the pursuit of children. Meredith Rochefort already has two darling boys, and she is but twenty.”

  “How fortunate for Meredith.” Lydia flashed her mother a smile, but she did not seem amused.

  “Why must we always be at odds on this matter?” The Duchess sighed wearily. “Can you not understand the need for security? If you had a brother, things might be different, but I was unable to bear one. As such, your circumstance is not as safe as you might like to imagine.”

  “Father is not sick. Why should I worry?”

  The Duchess shot her a cold look. “Because one can never tell what may happen in the future, Lydia. You must have a husband before anything befalls your father. It is far better to pre-empt such eventualities than find yourself floundering when the time comes.”

  “May we discuss it another time?”

  “No, we may not. The invitation has already been replied to, and you will be expected to attend the Sherringham’s ball on Friday.”

  “And must I find a husband there and then?” Lydia retorted sourly.

  “It would be preferable, yes.”

  Lydia shook her head. “I will attend this ball, but I cannot promise an engagement. The gentlemen often lose interest once they have spoken with me a while.”

  “Because you are determined to frighten them away with your coarse remarks and discussions about Greek literature.”

  Lydia blanched. “I do not.”

  “You think I do not know of the filth that you read? You think the maids do not tell me of the books you hoard beneath your bed? You may claim you are expanding your knowledge of Greek and Latin, but I am no fool, Lydia.” The Duchess took a deep breath to calm herself. “All I ask is that you comport yourself in a ladylike manner, without scaring the young gentlemen away. Is that so much to request?”

  “I am late for my afternoon excursion,” she mumbled.

  “You are like a common stale, always out in the stables.”

  “You would deny me my one joy?” Lydia stared at her mother.

  “If you do not accept your attendance at the Sherringham’s ball, perhaps we may have to rethink the freedom you have to ride as you please.”

  The threat lingered in the air between mother and daughter. For, though Lydia knew how to press her mother’s buttons, the Duchess knew precisely where Lydia’s weaknesses were.

  Lydia balled her hands into fists. “Very well, then you may call upon your modiste and have her prepare a gown. I will attend the Sherringham’s ball.” But I will not be happy about it, and I will not comport myself as you have asked.

  The Duchess smiled. “Excellent, I shall send word to her at once. I thought emerald green might be rather becoming, with your dark hair and
dark eyes. Yes…emerald would be rather pleasing.”

  “Whatever you prefer, Mother.” Her mother had won this one, but she would not always be victorious.

  Unwilling to wait around for further discussion about eligible bachelors, Lydia slipped out of the library and headed out into the brisk April air.

  A light shower had sprinkled the verdant lawns in crystalline droplets, and the beautiful blooms in the gardens were raising their colorful heads to sup the sweet dew. Lydia loved to be outdoors and walked as often as she was permitted, though today she skirted hurriedly around the exquisite gardens and headed for the stables.