Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke: A Regency Romance Novel

by Audrey Ashwood

  Minerva had been the only one who had remained seated, and she awoke from her trance and saw her mother and aunt both blushing – the one surely for joy and the other purely out of anger.

  “It is my pleasure to welcome you to Beaufort Castle, Mrs Honeyfield. You too, of course, Mrs Buckley. It is extremely kind of you to help me with my little problem regarding the servants.”

  “I will keep my promise,” Aunt Catherine replied. She did not seem to glower anymore, and Minerva wondered if the duke had magical powers or animalistic magnetism. His deep, soothing voice was uplifting, and her imagination lead her to see a young Duke of Scuffold – one who had travelled with the gypsies, back in the day, where he had learned all kinds of shady tricks. After all, he had disappeared for a year after his wife’s death!

  “Miss Honeyfield,” the seductive voice reached her ear. A treacherous heat made her cheeks glow. “Are you ready?” the man, whom she had pictured at a funfair mere seconds ago, asked. Unsure, she turned around to her mother, who nodded encouragingly. Minerva got up and walked over to the duke, who politely offered his arm to her. She would have loved to back out, as she did not know what she had just committed herself to. “Mrs Honeyfield, Mrs Buckley... my servant, Johnson, will accompany you to my administrator’s office, with whom you will be able to discuss the first steps. Please be assured, madam, that your daughter is safe in my hands. I shall see you later tonight at dinner.”

  Just as he had said, a liveried butler stepped into the room. This had to be Johnson, for he bowed before her mother and her aunt, before asking them to follow him. She gazed at the man with interest, but also with a little fear. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken more than once, and his fists looked huge and rough.

  Minerva had expected that the duke would now lead her out of the parlour, but instead he waited casually until the door had closed behind Johnson and her two chaperones.

  At once, Minerva removed her hand from his arm and took a few steps back. “What have you done to my mother? And where is Lady Annabell, whom I am supposed to keep company?” After all, he was not the only one, who could break any rules.

  “Where were you when I told your relatives about the unplanned delay?” He shook his head, partially amused, partially reprimanding. It was a shame that the valet had cut the hair that had fallen into his face during their first encounter, Minerva thought and was startled by herself. He leaned towards her – a gesture already familiar from her two meetings in the forest. Hazelnut-coloured eyes with golden sprinkles eagerly took in every single detail of her appearance, whilst he spoke. “The visit of the Duke of Evesham and his daughter is unfortunately delayed,” he announced.

  “And you did not find it necessary to inform us about this change of plans?” she asked. Unfortunately, her voice didn’t sound as self-confident as she had hoped. “That means that we can leave now,” she declared and did not know whether she should feel relief or sadness.

  A mocking smile accompanied his reply. “Unfortunately, the letter from my good friend arrived only an hour ago.” She wanted to snort derisively to express her disbelief, but he was able to read her reaction in her face. “If you would be so kind as to accompany me to my library, as I suggested, you will not only be able to see my collection of books, but also have a look at the letter,” he assured her and, once more, gallantly offered her his arm. “I would be delighted if you would take advantage of my hospitality for a few days longer.”

  Reluctantly, she laid her hand on his arm and regretted having taken off her gloves again and forgotten them. His skin was warm, and even though her fingers didn’t touch it, she could feel the warmth and muscles underneath the fabric of his jacket. Carefully, she repositioned her hand, until her bare fingers rested on his starched cuff. She saw a dark fire blazing in his eyes – but, he allowed her to do it.

  “Shall we,” she suggested and gazed up at him. “But on our way there, explain to me what you have done with my mother and my aunt.”

  He adjusted his steps to hers and led Minerva up the wide marbled staircase. How often had he led his wife up these stairs? Minerva tried to shake off her thoughts of the dead woman, which gave her a soft sting.

  “All I did was ask them to help me choose a few servants.”

  “But why?”

  He opened the door himself and for a moment he let go of her arm. It was a strange feeling, when she realised how much she missed the warmth that she had wanted to get away from only moments ago.

  “I am planning to get married,” the duke announced.

  Minerva, who had meant to step over the threshold into the library, stopped, rooted to the spot. Her heart started beating twice as fast and a haze seemed to fall over her eyes. Had her mother been right after all?

  Apprehensive and excited at the same time, she looked up to him, unsure of what her answer would be.

  The duke cleared his throat.

  If he wanted to ask her for her hand in marriage, why had he not asked her father, or at least her uncle? Why had he acted out this charade, luring her here to his castle? Why was he now avoiding her gaze?

  “My good friend, the Duke of Evesham, has agreed to give me his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  Chapter 12

  The duke was an unscrupulous scoundrel, who routinely broke the hearts of many delicate young women, just to consume them entirely afterwards.

  Minerva didn’t know where she found the strength to endure the following hours.

  Her first thoughts were to escape.

  All she had to do was to pretend some kind of sudden indisposition, or the hint of a headache, and she could escape his presence – and yet she was unable to speak the words. So, she followed him into his library and mechanically answered the few questions he asked her, whilst her eyes wandered across the many titles of the books, which were arranged on numerous shelves.

  Only when she discovered the novels by Mr Walpole and Mrs Radcliffe, was she able to think about something other than the duke and Lady Annabell Carlisle, who would soon be married.

  The weird, stinging pain inside her chest faded when the duke handed her a copy of “The Castle of Otranto”, before he took, in a fluid motion, yet another novel from the shelf and handed it to her.

  “I recommend you read both books at the same time, alternating one with the other,” he said. “Oh, and only read Mrs Radcliffe’s work during the day – it is not good for someone with weak nerves.”

  “I do not have weak nerves,” Minerva answered through gritted teeth before gazing at the second novel. It was “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” by Lord Byron, a book she had long yearned for and which her parents did not allow her to read. “Thank you,” she said quietly and with some difficulty. She did not understand why he, who was as good as engaged to another woman, handed her a romantic, dark novel such as this. Any other man would have won her heart forever with this gesture. Through a small gap in the curtains, the setting sun sent its rays through the window into the room. The duke’s face was hidden in the shadows, but his hair seemed to be surrounded by a devilish glow. He stood there motionless, seemingly deep in thought, and looked at her.

  The spell broke when her mother and aunt, both in the best of moods, joined them. Minerva looked at the two women and wondered what had caused the mood change, which bordered on exuberance.

  Was one small task in the house of a desirable bachelor all it took for them to forget everything around them? Even though it seemed as if everyone had forgotten the possibility that his lordship, the high-born Duke of Scuffold, could potentially be a murderer, she had not. How could she, since he was the most inscrutable man she had ever known?

  Not without fear, she thought to have caught a glimpse of her future. She saw herself growing old at the side of a boring but reliable husband. He would take all responsibility away from her, and would make all decisions for her, until the day she even left it up to him to choose the colour of her embroidery silks.

  Another realisation hit
her with full force.

  No man would ever allow her to write. Should she be fortunate enough to marry a gentleman with a more liberal mind, he would perhaps allow her to write a guidebook for other women. About the art of running a household or even about etiquette – yes, those were the only topics she would be allowed to address as a woman.

  She almost wanted to cry. She was filled with a strange feeling of endearment towards her mother and her aunt, who did not know any better, and she replied attentively and lovingly to their chatter. They only wanted what was best for her, Minerva realised. Up until now, she had dismissed their efforts with little to no gratitude. Should she immediately inform her mother about the duke’s marriage plans? She hesitated. For one, it had been a long time since she had seen her mother so lively and excited, and it was probably inappropriate to volunteer any information that his lordship had given her in confidence. Or was she silent because of the quiet hope that his upcoming engagement was nothing but a made-up ploy to get her to… she could not come up with a reasonable answer. She was more or less forced to stay here at Beaufort Castle and play along with this charade. Hopefully, she could think of a valid reason to speed up her departure by the time Lady Annabell arrived.

  The thought of having to sit through multiple dinners for multiple hours, with him and his entourage, and having to lead meaningless conversations and not be allowed to show her true feelings – all that was almost enough to give her a real headache.

  To her immense relief, two more guests had also arrived. The brother of the Duke of Scuffold, Lord Beaufort, and his wife ensured that not all of his attention was focussed entirely on her. Lord Beaufort was everything that the duke was not – polite, friendly, and not at all arrogant, despite his nobility and title. Like his brother, he also had brown eyes, although his were a touch darker, and so was his hair, which had a slight reddish shimmer to it, and which reminded Minerva of chestnuts. His figure was slightly more slender, his skin was paler and his fingers were the sensitive fingers of a man who knew how to play a musical instrument. In fact, he moved his hands around as if he did not really know what to do with them, and as if there was a tune in his head to which his hands were already half-responding.

  Secretly, Minerva thought that he resembled the picture of what she had envisioned a duke would be like. It should have been the other way around, she thought, and she let her eyes wander back and forth between the two brothers. This title would have befitted the younger brother much better. It was her direct comparison of the two men that showed her, now, what she had not seen before. The duke did not seem to be comfortable in his beautiful and tailored suit. Of course, he looked the part, and she could also very well imagine how he would lead Lady Annabell across the dancefloor – however, he seemed much more comfortable in himself in those worn gamekeeper clothes.

  After they had moved from the library into the dining room, she had not paid attention to the conversation, once more. All eyes were on her expectantly. “Lady Beaufort is interested in what you are currently writing,” her mother repeated patiently. Minerva blushed and flashed the duke an angry look. Had it been necessary to mention her secret pastime in front of everyone? She saw that her aunt was obviously embarrassed for her, and her mother was just as uncomfortable, since the conversation had revealed her rather unladylike pastime. She started when Lord Beaufort let his fork fall onto his plate with a loud chink. Compared to his brother, his lordship had a very pale complexion, but now he looked as white as a sheet of linen.

  “Oh, it is nothing,” she pretended, and shrugged off her novel, trying to gloss over the awkward moment, in which she had stared at Lord Beaufort so blatantly. “You can hardly call it writing, and there has not been a lot of progress yet anyway.”

  “I really do admire Mrs Radcliffe a great deal,” Lady Beaufort said. She seemed to sense Minerva’s discomfort, and gave her a genuine smile. “Have you ever read any works by Mary Godwin?” A tiny and almost inconspicuous hesitation, as well as the way she put her words, revealed that she had not been born in England. If one were to take into account the slightly understated elegance of her wardrobe, one could assume that Lady Beaufort was most likely French.

  “Oh yes,” Minerva replied and heard her mother inhale sharply, next to her. She wished the ground would swallow her whole for she had kept her reading, written by the well-known women’s rights advocate, a secret from her parents – until now. Beneath the disapproving eyes of her mother, who now took a second serving of dessert, Minerva smiled shyly at Lady Beaufort.

  “Certainly, you agree with Miss Godwin and her notion that women and young ladies should benefit from a thorough education, just as young men do, do you not?” the duke asked. He had leaned back, and his eyes seemed to glare at Minerva provocatively. This man was absolutely impossible!

  “Of course,” Minerva replied and drank a sip of the marvellous red wine to win some time. “Every rational person would have to agree with her opinion.”

  “However, wouldn’t women, almost exclusively, act out of passion, whilst men are guided by common sense and rationality?” He spoke the challenging words casually. “After all, it was the German philosopher, Kant, who said that women…” For a moment, he closed his eyes and for mere seconds Minerva felt relieved, until his eyes opened again with a new-found fire in them, “… draw their wisdom solely from their feelings, whereas men retrieve it from calculating considerations.”

  “It is of course your prerogative, to trust the works of a dead German philosopher more than your own observations, my Lord,” countered Minerva. “Surely you can think of women, even within your own immediate surroundings, who are not guided by their feelings alone.” From the corner of her eyes, she saw that Lady Beaufort nodded approvingly. Her mother did not seem to be listening anymore and had busied herself with the sugary confectionary that Lord Beaufort now offered her. Much like her mother, Minerva also loved sweets. When the duke noticed her gaze, he offered her a piece and Minerva accepted it graciously.

  Whilst she savoured the sweet treat on her tongue, she decided that she would no longer be guided by her emotions and that she would, from now on, act rationally. “What of the woman you plan to marry one day, my Lord? Do you expect her to display reason or emotion?” As soon as the words had left her lips, Minerva wished she could take them back. Just a few seconds ago, she had determined not to let her emotions get the better of her and to act rationally, and in the next minute she had ignored her very own decision. Mr Kant would have taken great delight in watching her.

  “You are getting married?” Lord Beaufort interrupted the conversation. “Congratulations.”

  “It isn’t yet official,” the duke replied, and he glanced at Minerva in such a way that she was unable to interpret. “I would prefer not to speak of it just yet.”

  From here, the conversation turned to other topics, as Minerva noticed with great relief.

  * * *

  She was glad when the dinner was over, and it was time for her to go to bed. All the other guests seemed to feel the same way. She could not even retell what she had eaten. Most likely, it had been something delicious – however, she could not remember the taste or the appearance of any of the foods that had been served tonight. Sally came to help her undress, and once the young woman had finally left, Minerva allowed herself to cry the tears that she had held back for so long. There were not many, because as her head fell onto her pillow, she felt something hard underneath it. She jumped up into an upright position, relieved that she had not yet blown out the candle. Her hands pulled out a wrapped little parcel which bore her name, written in bold letters. “Miss Minerva Honeyfield, promising author,” someone had written on the paper.

  There was only one person who knew about her hopes and would have titled her this way. Her hands were trembling so much that she could barely open the loosely tied riband holding the package together, in order to pull the paper aside. She caught her breath when she realised what the Duke of Scuffold had gifted he
r.

  It was a new notebook, bound in the finest and smoothest leather that felt almost like silk beneath her fingertips. There was also a selection of quills in different grades and two brand-new sealed inkwells, each with a different coloured ink.

  This was worse than the works of Lord Byron – so much worse – because this gift hit her right in her heart. It was the gift of a gentleman to his chosen one, with which he would court a woman he hoped to marry.

  At the thought of his strong hands writing her name onto the wrapping paper, she felt a wave of genuine joy flood her body and soul. In the next minute, her excitement was replaced by anger. She had been upset with the Duke, unsettled by his demeanour, and had been thinking for days about his inscrutable motives for seeking her company; and in the moment when he had revealed that he was planning on marrying another, he had begun to court her.

  This was reason alone to be angry at him.

  What was he thinking?

  She jumped out of her bed and ignored the cold that touched her feet. Besides, Minerva thought, as she rummaged for her woollen shawl inside her trunk, it was better to feel anger than this strange all-consuming pain. She grabbed the unwelcome gifts, wrapped them back in the paper – making sure that her name was now hidden on the inside where nobody could read it – and tied the ribbon over it.

  The silent regret she felt as she touched the magnificent notebook, Minerva pushed aside.

  She put on her slippers, then opened the door and peeked into the hallway. As she expected, there was no one to be seen. With a candle in one hand and the package in the other, she sneaked out of her room. Since she had no idea where to find the duke’s private chambers, there was only one way she could show him that his attentions were unwanted. She would have to deposit the package inside the library. The possibility of his finding it there was good, even without her writing his name on it. The part of her that always was on the lookout for intricacies and grand gestures for her novel, regretted that she was unable to return his gift directly to his doorway. Well, she had no other choice than to be satisfied with the options that presented themselves to her.