by Bryn Donovan
Bride for a Duke
Bryn Donovan
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Prologue
The road to London, 1796
* * *
The little girl sighed heavily, fidgeting in her mother’s lap. She was tired, so very tired, that her head lolled against her mother’s breast. The carriage was rickety, the wheels tumbling into every hole on the road and they had been traveling for hours.
But she refused to give into the allure of sleep. There was something strange going on that she didn’t understand and both her parents were tense and fraught. She could just tell. They hadn’t explained anything to her when they had bundled her without warning into this uncomfortable carriage, only that she must be quiet and stay close to them. That under no circumstances must she speak to the odd man, who was traveling with them.
She fidgeted in her mother’s lap, trying to get comfortable, but it was almost impossible. It had turned dark and cold; they had no blanket to cover them. To distract herself from it, she stared openly at the man who was traveling with them, who sat opposite them in the carriage, seemingly in a world of his own.
He was large, with grey hair and whiskers, and a hard face. He hadn’t smiled once during the trip. In fact, his mouth was permanently set in a grim line. The little girl wasn’t used to people acting so rudely towards her parents and herself. Usually, people doted on her, and were deferential to her parents. She couldn’t understand it at all.
She kept studying him. She was sure that she had never seen him before in her life. She usually remembered everyone, from the maids to house guests. Why was he traveling with them and where on earth were they going? She had rarely been away from her home by the sea, and only then on short trips into the local village. They had already journeyed for far longer than she had ever experienced in her short life.
She toyed with the tiny buttons on her mother’s coat as she tried to work out the puzzle. She was a big girl now and she should be able to, shouldn’t she? She had turned four years old just last week. The memory of her wonderful birthday party was still vivid in her mind. A large picnic, on the lawn overlooking the sea, with many guests, lots of cake, and even a treasure hunt. Her birthday gift, a grand rocking horse, took pride of place in her bed chambers.
A wave of sorrow washed over her. Mama had told her she couldn’t take it with her when they had left the house, so suddenly. She couldn’t bring any of her beloved toys except Rupert, her stuffed bear, which was her constant companion, and lay on the seat in between her mother and father, looking as sad and forlorn as she felt.
She was just about to drift off to sleep, finally lulled by exhaustion and the lateness of the hour, when she felt her mother stiffen, gripping her so tight that it hurt. The little girl’s drooping eyes flew open in pain and alarm. She whimpered, wondering what was wrong, but her mother hushed her fiercely. At the same time, she was puzzled to feel her mother’s hand put something heavy into the pocket of the thick grey cloak she had been forced to put on before the journey.
But before she could ask what it was, or why her mother was gripping her so tightly, her gaze was arrested by a very strange sight indeed. The large man sitting opposite them had something in his hand, and he was pointing it straight at them. The little girl studied it, fascinated. It was large, with a long nozzle, and black. The man’s face was even grimmer, as he pulled back a lever on it, the noise making a sharp click in the air.
“No,” cried Papa, putting a hand towards the man, as if to fend him off. “For the love of the Lord, what are you doing?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m only doing my duty. What I have been instructed.” He sighed. “I would say your prayers now, for you are all about to meet your maker…”
Her mother cried out, in pure terror.
Things happened very quickly after that. The little girl clung to her mother as she lurched forward, quickly unlatching the carriage door. Bitterly cold wind hit her in the face. The next moment she was tumbling through the air, before landing on the cold hard ground with a sudden crash.
She whimpered, in pure pain. Her legs were hurting, quite badly, and she felt blood trickling down her face. Her eyelids fluttered, watching the carriage as it continued its haphazard journey. Her head felt so dizzy.
She screamed then, as understanding tore through her. Mama had thrown her from the carriage, out onto the side of the road. Why had she done such a thing? She started to cry, piteously. She was all alone on the side of this road, in the dark, and the cold. And she was hurt, quite badly; she knew that she would not be able to stand if she tried.
“Mama,” she cried, as the wind whistled around her. “Papa!”
But there was no answer. The wind picked up her words, swallowing them entirely. Then, to her horrified eyes, the carriage rounded a sharp bend, vanishing utterly from her sight.
She sobbed, in pure fear and pain. She was all alone on this desolate road, in the middle of nowhere. It was so very dark.
It was all too much. Shadows seemed to loom at her, quite dramatically, and the wind sounded strange; it was howling like a ghost, from a story.
She screamed, over and over, crying for her parents, pleading with them to come back and get her. And then, quite suddenly, everything blessedly faded to black.
She heard voices, far off voices, muffled, as if they were speaking through a tunnel. She tried to move her legs and her arms, but pain shot through her. With great difficulty, she managed to open her eyes, gazing around, so confused that she couldn’t understand anything.
“She is waking up,” said a gruff woman’s voice, just above her. “Little girl. Can you hear me?”
She blinked, trying to clear her vision. She was in a large room, with many beds in a row. They were all empty. Fearfully, she raised her eyes, gazing at the woman who had just spoken to her.
She was old, with coarse grey hair beneath a white cap and a face so heavily wrinkled that they all seemed to blur together. She wore a plain brown gown with a long white apron. She bent down towards her, so that she reared back a little, suddenly afraid.
She didn’t know this woman. She didn’t know this room. Where was she?
“Little girl,” boomed the woman’s voice again, her face now inches from hers. “What is your name?”
The little girl blinked rapidly, trying to think. Her name. Yes, she did have a name. But what was it?
She screwed up her face, trying to concentrate, to answer the question. But nothing came to her. Everything was blank in her mind like a heavy curtain had fallen over it.
“She is concussed,” said another voice. “That large lump on her head…”
The woman nodded, gazing at her curiously. “Yes, she seems confused. It is a miracle that she is even alive, with all her other injuries.” She drew a deep breath. “Little girl, you were found by the side of the road, all alone. Just outside of London. Can you tell me what happened to you, and where your m
other and father are?”
The little girl’s eyes filled with tears. She didn’t know why. Her mother and father? Somehow, she knew that these words meant something, but as hard as she tried, she could not picture the people that the woman spoke of.
She could not remember anything.
The side of a road. London. All alone. The words drifted into her mind, confusing her further. She didn’t know anything. She strained her mind, trying to remember, but there was only darkness…
The woman abruptly straightened, staring at her down the length of her long nose. “You have been delivered here, child. To the parish of St. Jude’s, where all abandoned children come in this district.” She paused. “If you cannot remember where you live, or who your parents are, we must house and feed you… in return for service, of course.”
“Service?” asked the girl, wondering what the woman meant. Her voice sounded rusty and strange to her own ears.
The woman nodded. “Yes, service. You cannot be expected to live for nothing, can you? All the orphaned boys become chimney sweeps, or something similar. And all the orphaned girls must go into service, to homes, as maids. It is the Lord’s will.”
The little girl didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say. The woman’s words were as strange to her as everything in this place.
“I am Mrs. Clark,” said the woman. “I shall oversee your progress. Now that you are awake, we shall get it all settled, if no one comes forward to claim you. Once all your injuries are healed, of course, but the physician is happy with your progress. He claims that there should be no permanent damage, and that you shall walk and live as normal. Do you understand?”
The little girl nodded obediently, but she didn’t understand. This strange woman was saying that she was going to become a maid. The word was vague and meant little. All that she knew was that she was very, very sore.
“Good,” said the woman, in a clipped tone. “I shall send for some broth for you. Are you quite certain that you do not remember your name?”
The little girl shook her head slowly.
“We shall call you Mary, then,” said the woman. “After our Lord’s mother. A meek and mild woman, whom you should seek to emulate, if you are to do well in this life.” She paused. “And your last name will be Clark, like mine, for I cannot be bothered thinking of anything else.”
The little girl’s face dropped. She didn’t like the name Mary.
Suddenly, as if by some instinct, her hand drifted to the pocket of her cloak. There was something heavy and cold within it. She felt it, running her fingers over the bumps. She was just about to lift it out of the pocket and hold it up, when something stopped her, almost whispering into her ear.
A whisper of a memory drifted back to her. Someone had put it in her pocket. Someone important. And somehow, she knew that whatever it was, was important too. Too important to give away to this strange woman, who talked of meekness and service and wanted to call her Mary.
She resolved then and there, that the object would be her secret.
The woman turned away, speaking to the other woman in low whispers. They kept glancing at her, from time to time, as they spoke. They were just about to walk away, down the length of the room, between the row of beds, when she called out to them.
They both turned, gazing at her curiously.
“What is it, child?” asked the grey-haired woman sharply.
The word had slotted into her mind, right then, as clear as a bell. She was certain of it. She could remember nothing else, but she knew this. The two women waited impatiently, tapping their feet, for her to speak.
“Well, out with it,” said the other woman, her eyes snapping.
The little girl drew a deep breath, struggling to sit upright. It was very important that she tell these women. It was very important that she not be known as Mary. She did not know why, but there it was. “My name,” she said, in a clear voice. “My name is Abigail.”
Chapter One
Abigail Clark eased back down as she plunged the flight of stairs, stressing her ears. Something wasn't right. She could hear raised voices coming from Lord Nightingale's examination. Three particular voices, that she right away perceived, of course.
One had a place with Lord Nightingale. The other to his better half. What's more, the third, high and sharp, unmistakably had a place with Clara, their little girl. Woman Clara, their lone youngster. Her fancy woman, for she had been raised to the situation of woman's servant now. She waited on the flight of stairs, attempting to hear what they were contending about, however the examination entryway was solidly shut. She could just make out one in each three words. It was anything but an uncommon event, at any rate. Woman Clara was her old buddy presently, yet even Abigail could concede that she was exceptionally ruined, and wilful. She frequently contended back to her folks when they needed her to accomplish something that she didn't like.
Her mind floated back to the absolute first day that she had begun administration in this excellent, stupendous condo, in an elegant region of London, two years prior, as parlor servant. She had been so glad, thus energized, to be working for a particularly excellent family. It was an unmistakable cut over her past position, where she had served for ten long years, ascending from scullery house keeper. She would even not like to think about different houses she had served in as a child.
Abigail moaned profoundly. It had been a hard life, as a vagrant in the region of St. Jude's. However, she had buckled down, and she had ascended to the position she had now. In any case, the distress that she had no family had never left her, shadowing her wherever that she went.
She attempted to reveal to herself that it didn't make a difference yet it did. Different servants had families, who they returned home to once per week. Be that as it may, she had never had anybody since they had discovered her out and about, seriously harmed, right outside of London, in the time of our Lord 1796. They thought her around four years of age when she had been deserted, which would make her around one and twenty at this point. In any event, she thought so.
Clara thought so as well, and had announced it actuality. Clara was one and twenty, had quite recently commended her birthday in great style, with a gathering in the parlour.
"Why, it very well may be your birthday as well, Abigail," the youngster had pronounced, her eyes shining with fervor. "We may pass as twins! For everybody says that we look such a lot of the same, all things considered. Like sisters… "
Abigail's heart had grasped firmly at Clara's imprudent words. There was no fabulous family party for her, and never would be. Nor would she actually have a sister. However, Clara had good intentions, she knew, and maybe was as near a sister as she could actually have in this life.
She moaned once more. It was sufficient. It would need to be sufficient, for there could be nothing more. The most she might expect out of life was to work well for her bosses. A rooftop over her head. Food in her tummy. Garments on her back. It should be enough.
She continued moving towards the clothing, forgetting about the contention immovably. It was not her concern all things considered, furthermore, Clara made certain to reveal to her about it later. There was once in a while whatever her woman didn't talk about with her now. She was aware of the entirety of Clara's deepest musings, and a few mysteries as well.
Clara. She had never expected that they would turn out to be such dear companions. A woman and her house cleaner. It was disliked, conflicting with all the severe conventions, however Clara was extraordinary. She had a free, autonomous soul, which Abigail realized her folks gave up on ever taming.
Abigail grinned drearily to herself. Truly, Clara had privileged insights. She recently trusted that this specific contention wasn't going to tear her enormous mystery, the one she firmly protected, wide open.
* * *
"Abigail," the woman cried when she opened the bedchamber entryway, after two hours. "There you are! I believed that you could never come!"
Abigail
gazed at her. Clara's face was streaked with tears, her cornflower blue eyes wide with trouble. "Obviously I am here," said Abigail, in as consistent a voice as she could assemble. "Where did you figure I would be? You should dress for supper all things considered, and I am your house cleaner, and should help you to do so."
Clara's base lip wobbled significantly. "I couldn't care less about supper, Abigail! I don't figure I could eat a scrap. It would make me very wiped out." She stopped, cleaning ceaselessly the tears with the rear of one hand. "It is essentially dreadful! You have no clue about what Papa and Mama have at their disposal now."
Abigail moved toward her delicately, as one would a scared pony. Clara was fickle, given to upheavals of wild fierceness and tears, and she had figured out how to proceed cautiously, and calmly.
"Come, my woman," she said in a delicate voice. "You should go to supper. Find a spot at the dressing table, and you can reveal to me about it as I do your hair and toilette."
Clara moaned once more, however complied, plunking down before the huge mirror. Without a word, Abigail rapidly fixed her woman's brilliant hair, allowing it to tumble down her back in delicately undulating twists. She got the brush, starting the night ritual.
Clara gazed at her servant's appearance in the mirror, a woebegone demeanor all over. "I don't have a clue what I would manage without you, Abigail," she said in a delicate voice. "You are my absolute best companion in the whole world."
"And you are mine," said Abigail, grinning at her in the mirror.
