Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke: A Regency Romance Novel

by Audrey Ashwood

  “He is a corrupt man,” she said curtly. “They say that he murdered his own wife, because she… had gone astray.” Minerva tried to hide the interested gleam in her eyes by staring earnestly at the neglected embroidery in her lap.

  That was probably the man Aunt Catherine and Mrs Inchman had spoken about at the horse market. With that, the memory of the well-intentioned, but terribly hurtful deception of her aunt came to mind. Minerva decided to question her Aunt Catherine a little more – even if it made her nerves jittery. “So, it is her ghost? The dead woman, I mean?”

  “Child, if such horror stories delight you so very much, at least do me the favour and speak in full sentences.”

  “I apologise, Aunt. So, is it the spirit of the dead woman that haunts the pavilion?”

  She had sounded flippant and now her aunt looked at her with a disapproving look on her face. “You will most certainly not find that out. No, Minerva. What I am trying to tell you is that you cannot ever set one foot on the land of the Duke of Scuffold. It could be dangerous. His Grace Robert Beaufort might be handsome, but he is unscrupulous and brutal. His young brother is Lord Thomas Beaufort – you might have heard of him. He married an actress – it is just inconceivable!” She narrowed her eyes to slits and the disapproving tone in her voice made it clear, beyond any doubt, that she did not agree with any of it, as she continued. “Since the night the duchess passed away, Lord Beaufort has never been seen again. It is rumoured that even he had failed to reason with his brother.”

  This story was getting better and better! It was such a shame that Minerva did not have her notebook with her.

  “Up there in the manor, the duke has not one female servant – at least, that is what they say. I cannot really imagine how he could manage without any female help. He must be entirely immoral by now. Not that I would wish this fate on any maid or wench, but one would assume that a man as wealthy as he is, would marry a second time. But no, he lives up there alone and receives no visitors. It truly is just incredible! Not even the dignitaries of the village or the surrounding areas visit him.” She shook her head in utter bewilderment. “Of course, everyone wonders what happened back then, but Doctor Springfield has never said one word about it and will probably take the truth to his grave.”

  Every time she paused, it was expressive enough that Minerva was fired with anticipation every time. “But… Do the authorities not get involved when someone dies under suspicious circumstances?”

  Her aunt nodded in agreement. “That is the strangest thing. The duke either covered up his own atrocity, or his wife committed the biggest sin and took her own life. Although they gave her a proper burial, I am still wondering if all of it was done in the right way. After all, his family belongs to one of the oldest families in the country, and apparently, they can trace their ancestry all the way back to John Lackland – which is absolutely plausible, since the Plantagenets have always been a thoroughly corrupt bunch, if you ask me.”

  “And nobody has seen him since then? Maybe on the same night when his wife died, he had a terrible accident and his face was so badly distorted that he will not show it to anyone, apart from his most loyal servants, of course. Or to his doctor,” she added, pondering how she would incorporate every single detail of this extraordinary story into her novel. She would surely find a way. Even though the duke in her book was not actually disfigured, that shouldn’t be a problem. Lady Marianne could set something on fire – unintentionally, of course – and he would escape those flames, only to show the world his true face. He was a monster; everyone would know immediately when they looked at him. Ha! That was a worthy ending to her novel, Minerva thought. His wife... how could Minerva include her into her story? She held her breath when she had a wonderful idea. The duke wanted to force Lady Marianne to marry him in order to get hold of her wealth, which she had somehow got back in the meantime. However, the duke was still married to his first wife, who had gone insane and who he had to hide upstairs in the attic!

  “Are you even listening, child?” Aunt Catherine had grabbed her by the hand and was staring at her with a chiding look. “This man is by no means a worthy object for the romantic fantasies and hopes of a young lady. Even an imagination such as yours will not change the facts. He is through and through corrupt, immoral, and the rudest person in the whole county. On top of that, it is unsafe to get anywhere near him.”

  “Why is that, Aunt? His wife’s death occurred a few years ago now, did it not?”

  “That is true, but the strange happenings people talk about seem to have increased since he has returned. One of his servants died mysteriously during a hunting excursion… and he himself has called upon Dr Springfield twice already, since he has been back, to get treatment. I do not even want to know what diseases he has caught during his travels across Europe. Apparently, he is also a friend of Lord Byron and stayed with him and his unspeakable entourage at his residence by the Lake Geneva for some time. I also do not want to know what gruesome things they were thinking about there, just to amuse themselves.”

  Then, as if she suddenly realised who she was entrusting all these indiscretions with, her aunt’s eyes became alert. “Should you ever be seen with him, or even just talk to him, I can promise you this. No man of honour and morals would ever consider taking you to be his wife, regardless of how big your dowry might be. Stay away from the duke and Beaufort, then you will not have any difficulty finding a decent husband – even at your age.”

  Minerva opened her mouth to disagree resentfully, but she decided against it. Her aunt had finished talking, and there was nothing she could do to coax her into continuing. Dutifully, she turned back towards her embroidery, but her Aunt Catherine took it from her hands and looked at it with eagle eyes.

  “I fear that you will never be a good wife,” she determined. “Your rose buds look withered and the violets up here do not help with the overall appearance.” She handed her the tiny needlework scissors. “You will have to unravel all of it and start again. However, this will guide your mind towards more suitable thoughts, which will be much better for you than those absurd ghost stories, my dear. Just remember always – you have a reputation to uphold.” The switch from her embroidery back to the Duke of Scuffold was a daring one, but Minerva understood what her aunt was trying to tell her. For someone such as her, a prospective author, it was of even more importance to live an untainted life without any scandal. However, her breath quickened – her secret activity offered her an escape.

  For if she was a woman of questionable morals already, well then – what harm would yet another small escapade do?

  Chapter 4

  Lady Marianne de Lacey looked at the duke’s face and immediately shuddered.

  After a while, which had seemed endlessly long to the impatient Minerva, her aunt and uncle left home to visit some other acquaintances. She had had to wait a full eight days for that long-awaited opportunity to explore her discovery in the forest. This time, they invited Minerva to join them, but she turned them down, pretending to have a headache, and she even skipped lunch to emphasise her situation. The time had come.

  She waited for a while until a hasty return could be ruled out, in case her aunt had forgotten something, and sneaked out of the house. Across her arm she carried a basket, similar to the one Sally had brought along at their first encounter.

  Hidden underneath a cloth, she had brought her notebook, the carefully closed inkwell, and her favourite quill – the one that lay in her hand ever so perfectly. The cloth not only hid the contents of her basket, but it would later also serve to cover the dirty seat inside the pavilion. Minerva was prepared for everything.

  If someone were to ask her what she was up to, she had already thought of an excellent excuse. She was picking mushrooms.

  Only when she was already halfway out of the village, she thought of something. Was there not some kind of season for mushrooms? She thought that she remembered her aunt and Anna had said something like that when they were p
lanning a dinner. Regardless, Minerva walked onwards with her head held high, relieved that all residents greeted her, but nobody asked about the basket or her destination.

  As soon as she reached the forest, she knew that she had made the right decision to allow herself some freedom and this little pleasure behind her relatives’ backs. She was no longer just a child who needed constant supervision, even if the rest of the world seemed to think that she still did. Her father had sent her away, without asking about her wishes or listening to her reasons for why she had denied Mr Meade’s proposal. She was ready to get married – however, she did not want to marry somebody who was after her significant dowry or taken by her pleasant appearance. Was it really too much to ask that she should retain some hope for happiness and true love?

  She laughed quietly when a rabbit hopped in front of her across the path, before disappearing beneath the bushes. It was so cute, the way it had looked at her with its big round eyes, and it seemed to have nodded towards her, as if it were agreeing with her less than prudent behaviour. Even this creature had more freedom than her! Was it really that inconceivable for a woman to do something entirely by herself? Minerva had heard that Mary Godwin, who was surrounded by scandal, had not only fought for an educational system for young girls, but she also demanded equality for women. Minerva shook her head. She did not even want to sit in the parliament and vote on political decisions, nor, God forbid, take a lover, as some women of the Beau Monde allegedly did. No, all she wanted was a husband who would love her for who she was, and who would grant her the freedom to be herself.

  Without realising it, she had quickened her steps and stepped out rather vigorously. She was hot, and when Minerva held her hand up to her cheeks, she felt the heat radiate from her skin. She assumed that her hair was now in complete disorder as well. The curls she had styled so carefully this morning, and all without Anna’s help, stuck to her forehead. The hem of her light-coloured muslin dress was dirty, just like her shoes and probably her underskirts. She hoped that she would make it back to the house before her aunt returned, and convince Anna to clean her clothes, at least provisionally.

  With a touch of defiance, Minerva thought that now that she might have given her secret away, she should just do what she had come here to do – continue writing on her story.

  She sighed with relief when she stepped into the abandoned building. The pale English sunlight shone through the tree cover, providing just enough light for her to be able to see her words. She looked around to find the perfect spot to sit down where she could safely set down the inkwell, but that proved to be difficult. Well, then the narrow ledge of the balustrade would have to serve as her inkstand. It was a little inconvenient that she had to turn around every time she needed to dip the quill into the ink, but there was nothing she could do about that, now.

  She frowned and reread the last paragraph she had written. Marianne de Lacey had been able to escape the sinister duke at the very last minute, thanks to her ability for making witty conversation. Only because of her skilled tongue, had she managed to distract the brutal villain long enough to be able to sneak out of his castle. She had fled through the surrounding woods, had steered the trained wolves in the wrong direction, and now she stood at the edge of a cliff. Behind her, she heard the thundering hoofs of the duke’s stallion as he rode after her, and below her she saw the steep rocks and the roaring sea.

  How was Marianne supposed to get out of this situation? She should have thought of some alternative for her heroine. Now, she sat here in the Duke of Scuffold’s forest, chewing on her quill, and she had no idea how to continue her story. For a moment, she considered having Marianne jump courageously into the rushing sea, but could Marianne even swim? She thought about Lord Byron, who was supposedly one of the bravest and best swimmers in all of Europe – had he not swum across the Turkish Hellespont and almost died when he did that? Also, why shouldn’t she create a woman who was just as physically capable as a man? Jumping off a cliff was a daring move, but the biggest obstacle would not be her heroine’s lack of courage. It was Lady Marianne’s clothing that troubled Minerva. How quickly would a dress and coat soak up all the water and then undoubtedly drag the lady all the way down to the bottom of the deep sea? Or maybe she could let Marianne flee in just a nightgown? No, that was equally impossible.

  Minerva sighed. Marianne de Lacey had no other choice. She had to surrender herself into the duke’s hands and hope for his mercy, or to perish. She wouldn’t be able to distract him a second time, since he was not only an attractive and evil man, but he also possessed an almost devilish intelligence. Minerva wondered what he would do to Marianne as soon as he had her back in his claws. Did his castle have a dungeon, where he would chain her to a wall and gloat every day anew over her sheer helplessness? Marianne would no longer be able to escape on her own, so she needed help. But unfortunately, all of the duke’s servants had sworn their loyalty to him until their death.

  Minerva looked up as she heard a soft cracking sound.

  Was someone watching her? No, she was alone. Something rustled behind her, but no matter how fast she turned around, there was nobody there. She assumed that it had been an animal – maybe just another curious rabbit. Or… could it have been the ghost?

  She shuddered and instantly chided herself. “Ghosts do not exist,” she said loudly, immediately wishing that she had not done that. In the seclusion of the forest, her voice sounded strange and anxious. Her heart was beating so loudly that she was unable to hear anything other than its wild thudding. Her throat felt parched and tight. For a moment, she considered staying in spite of her discomfort, but in that second, a rustling sounded immediately behind her, much louder and closer than before. She startled and jumped up from her seat.

  Hastily, she scrambled to gather her scattered belongings together, threw the blanket into the basket and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Maybe it had not been such a good idea after all, to come here by herself. Nobody knew where she was, and if something was to happen to her… she carefully placed one foot in front of the other, avoiding the slippery areas on the ground, which were covered with fallen leaves.

  She had almost managed to leave the pavilion behind, when her gaze fell on something that did not belong here. Feet – male feet, clothed in heavy leather boots, which ended at the knees and turned into legs that were clothed in breeches… Minerva jumped backwards and released a most unladylike squeal, before she fell, landing on her back like a helpless beetle.

  “What are you doing on my land?”

  The voice sounded dark and coarse, as if it belonged to someone who wasn’t used to speaking anymore.

  Minerva looked up and stared into a face that was sinister, masculine, and beautiful, all at the same time. Tan-coloured hair, which was slightly too long for the current fashion, formed a bright halo surrounding his face. Eyes that changed from gold to hazelnut-brown, stared at her from underneath angrily frowning eyebrows. His mouth was wide... however, she could not see his lips, since they were pressed together into a thin, hard line. He leaned down nearer to her, and Minerva could do nothing else other than make herself stiff and small, while praying that he wouldn’t harm her. She opened her mouth to reprimand him, but she only managed to emit a weak croaking.

  “Can’t you talk, or are you refusing to?” He pulled up one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows, whilst he looked at her with utter contempt.

  This was the first time she noticed that he was wearing exquisite clothes. They had a practical cut, but they were made from the finest material.

  So, this was the Duke of Scuffold, the man Aunt Catherine had so strongly warned her about! Why had Minerva thrown all caution to the wind and ignored her aunt’s warnings? Now it was too late. She would consider herself lucky if she – similar to Marianne – did not end up in his dungeon.

  “Come, let me help you up,” he stretched out his hand impatiently, and when Minerva didn’t react, he simply grabbed her hands. He pulled her back up o
nto her feet, and the unexpected momentum not only catapulted her upright but also pulled her much closer to him than what would be considered decent. For a second, her head leant against his chest. Marianne – no, Minerva, she was not her own novel’s heroine! – thought that she could hear his heart beating, strongly and steadily. It was a masculine sound, just like his scent, which was clean and fresh, and yet somehow… manly. She lifted her head and looked up into his surprised eyes. She had never seen anyone whose hair and eye colour were so alike. It was fascinating and enchanting to behold. He was by no means disfigured, as she had imagined, but instead he had an… attractive face. She swallowed, embarrassed for her inappropriate thoughts.

  “I will ask you one more time. What are you doing here? Are you even aware that you could have easily injured yourself inside this crumbling old building?”

  Hastily, she stepped further away from him. To win some time and hide the trembling of her hands, Minerva started to knock the dirt off her dress. “I was looking for a place where I would be able to… think in peace,” she answered, with as much dignity as she could muster. “I am sincerely sorry that I ended up on your land, but I did not think that you would care about it. You are the Duke of Scuffold, are you not?”

  “Yes. I am. At your service, Miss.” He quickly bowed in front of her, which seemed more ironic than she would have liked. “And you are?”

  “Miss Minerva Honeyfield. I am living in Scuffold with my aunt and uncle – Mr and Mrs Buckley.” Why was her heart beating so quickly?

  “You are the niece of the lawyer – the one who was sent away into the country by her parents,” he determined. “What was it you did that was so terrible that your own parents sent you away? A secret dalliance with a young boy?”

  That was unacceptably cheeky, and she did not acknowledge his impertinence with a direct answer. “Sir, please accept my sincerest apologies for having crossed your boundary. I would like to go now.” She bent down and began to pack her scattered things into the basket. The inkwell was still intact, and her notebook only had a few stains on the outside but was otherwise fine. God only knew what she herself looked like in this very moment, but Minerva would worry about that later. Right now, she had to concentrate on getting out of there.