It was not as easy as she had thought, to find the way in the darkness. The house was huge, and the silence that surrounded her seemed to pull on her already tense nerve strings. The flickering light of the candle did not really help to locate the library, and she was equally disoriented, because she had – due to her inner turmoil after the duke’s revealing of his disastrous plans – not paid attention to her surroundings. The wind had grown colder, and it howled around Beaufort Castle as if it had jumped straight out of Mrs Radcliffe’s imagination.
Hesitantly, she kept toddling forward and regretted that she only wore thin slippers. But was not this the portrait of a man whose face she vaguely remembered? Minerva lifted her candle up until the light fell on his well-proportioned features. His cheekbones were slightly less striking than those of his descendant, and he had a terrible beard, including some wildly out-of-control sideburns – however, the resemblance was uncanny. She had compared that face with the duke’s, when he had led her to the library earlier in the day. Minerva tiptoed further along the hallway. She was certain that she was going into the right direction. And there it was finally – the massive door that hid the incredible collection of books. She pushed the handle down and entered the room.
What she had not sensed during the afternoon, now washed over her like a wave. The smell of paper engulfed her, a known scent and intimately familiar in a way that only a scent intertwined with the most precious memories could be. The soft, lightly worn carpet beneath her feet swallowed any sounds from her steps. How wonderful it was to be surrounded by all these exquisite and selected treasures. In the far corner, near the window, she saw a sofa. It had been placed there without any regard for a harmonious interior, but simply because the light would still be bright enough to read there, even in the afternoon. A small table stood nearby, where one could place a book down or a drink.
Soft cushions ensured that it was comfortable to sit there, whilst preventing any unpleasant stiffness in the neck from reading too long.
This was the room of a man who preferred the company of books to that of people. She carefully placed her package on the table next to the sofa. He would almost certainly find it here. It was not necessary to write to him that his attentions were not welcome. A man who made such a thoughtful gift, would understand the meaning of the unspoken message. With a sigh of regret, she placed the parcel down and looked longingly at the sofa. How nice it would be to just sit there for a few minutes and to escape in the soft shine of the candle, into another world. She could forget what had happened and also what might happen tomorrow. Maybe… just a short moment, only to warm up her frozen feet?
Minerva walked over to the shelf from where he had pulled out Mrs Radcliffe’s work and observed the titles. Apart from translations of the passionate German poet Schiller, she found the notorious work by Mr Lewis, right next to the works of Shakespeare, and “School of Widows” by Mrs Reeve. She could not help but smile. Someone should bring some order here, she thought, as she ran her finger across the spines of the books. Should she dare? Her heart pounded in her chest treacherously, and her hand stopped right at the book by Mr Lewis. Nobody besides her would ever know that she had actually had a glimpse into a book, which was labelled by critics as “sensationalist” and “rotten”.
With a dry throat, she pulled the book off the shelf and blew the dust from its back. This work had not been read by anyone in a long time. It was highly likely that it was one of the first publications. Her aunt would have probably taken her straight back home, if she knew of the existence of the book in the duke’s collection; and her mother would have… a hand lay on Minerva’s shoulder from behind. She yelped and dropped the book and the candle at the same moment a dark voice sounded behind her.
“That book is not a suitable lecture for a young lady,” the duke said as he bent down to retrieve the candle from the floor. Fortunately, nothing had gone up in flames, and the candle was still burning. With shaking legs and feeling short of breath, Minerva turned around and stared at him.
“What on earth possessed you to scare me like that?” The tone of her voice had jumped up by at least an octave. She felt how the rage inside of her started to boil again. Here he stood, with a self-satisfied and smug smile on his face, and his hand did not tremble in the least.
“No, Miss Honeyfield, the question is a different one. What were you thinking, sneaking around my house in the middle of the night, gaining access to my library and…” He went silent, as his eyes fell on the treacherous little parcel. She could not really make out his facial expressions in the faint light of the candle, but Minerva thought that he looked surprised.
“I just meant to return something,” she answered and deliberately ignored the other book lying at her feet. Once again, he stood much too close to her, which made it impossible for her to relax. Whenever he was present, she had the feeling that she was the centre of his attention, much like a rabbit who was the prey of a hound.
“What are you talking about?”
Impatiently, she nodded towards the package with her head. “The notebook, ink and quills that you left beneath my pillow.”
He seemed to take a minute to understand what Minerva was talking about. It was highly peculiar. Had he already forgotten what he had done?
“Does this mean that you have given up your writing?” He underlined his voice with mocking regret. “What a shame. I was looking forward to stimulating conversations with you.”
“It only means that I do not find it acceptable to receive gifts from a man,” she had not used the word gentleman on purpose, “... who is engaged to another woman.”
“It angers you that I am planning to get married?”
“Not at all,” Minerva returned and pulled her shawl tighter in front of her chest. “You are a rational man, whose actions are not guided by his heart, but who is dictated by his calculating mind instead. I am most certain that it is the right decision to marry Lady Annabell Carlisle.” Where did the certainty that her words would resonate with him, come from?
“So, you mean to say that I never follow my heart?”
The intimacy of their night-time encounter caused Minerva to say the first thing that came to her mind.
“I believe that your wife’s death has hurt you much more than you realise and that, for this very reason, you are striving to not enter your next marriage with a deep connection to the woman who is going to be your second wife.”
“You really should write novels,” he determined, before he fell silent. This silence between them stretched out to the point where Minerva could no longer take it. She lifted her head. She wanted to say something, but she could not find the right words, as the duke had lowered his head. She noticed every single detail she had not noticed before. The shimmering golden stubble of his beard and the colour of his lips, which even a young lady would envy. His eyebrows were shaped in perfect arches, she thought dreamily, and she regretted that his eyelids were slightly lowered. Seeing the sparkling gold spatters in his hazelnut-brown eyes this close would have been a true spectacle. Where did the sudden heat she felt come from, the closer his lips came?
A quiet sigh escaped her, and in this long and yet much too short moment, even if she had wanted to, she would not have been able to move. It was good that his hands circled her waist, for Minerva’s legs threatened to collapse under her.
Long after she had returned to her room, she could still feel his lips on hers.
Chapter 13
His gaze burned like fire, his eyes shimmered diabolically.
It had only been a kiss, but it had changed everything.
Minerva only noted her aunt’s departure in passing, as if it happened in a dream. Her aunt had realised sour-heartedly that she was no longer needed, now that the Duke of Scuffold could accept the help of his sister-in-law. Minerva’s body made all the correct moves, her mouth said all the correct things, but none of what was happening around Minerva reached her inside.
Her mother had deci
ded to stay. “Although the duke regrets that your aunt had to go back home, he was still kind enough to renew his invitation to you and me both,” she told Minerva during their breakfast. They sat alone at a grand table, and their conversation was only broken when one of the servants asked what their wishes were. “I am so very glad that you have finally made the acquaintance of a gentleman, whom you like. And what’s more, he is a duke, no less!” Her mother seemed to accept Minerva’s requirements for a husband, which – so far – she had found rather unnerving.
“Mama, he has not proposed to me,” Minerva replied, “... and he will not, because he has asked the Duke of Evesham for his daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“Oh, I am sure that he will present the question of all questions to you very soon,” Lady Beaufort said, as she joined them at the table. “Good morning to you, Mrs Honeyfield, Miss Honeyfield.”
A servant appeared at her side and filled her cup with steaming hot tea. In the bright daylight the woman had not lost any of the beauty that Minerva had noticed the evening before. Lady Beaufort had already passed the peak of her youth, and she was closer to forty years of age than thirty, but she took her place in the bright light of day without any reserve. Her hair had almost the same colour as her husband, a warm tone of brown with a slightly reddish shimmer, but on her it looked elegant. Neither her figure, nor her attitude followed the current fashion. With her voluptuous curves, deep voice, and unusually outspoken and direct manner of address, she was more than just a particularly fascinating personality.
Minerva found her extremely likeable, and she was pleased when Lady Beaufort asked her to accompany her on a short walk in the park after breakfast.
“Of course you may go,” her mother agreed, when Minerva looked at her with pleading eyes. “I still have to speak to the duke’s administrator about some details regarding his servants. The duke’s servants, not the administrator’s, of course.” She laughed nervously when she realised that with the arrival of Lady Beaufort, who was a female relative of the duke, her interventions were no longer necessary.
Minerva noticed how she was trying to find escape, not to have to face “the question of all questions”, as Lady Beaufort had called it, as the future mother-in-law of the Duke of Scuffold.
The lady laughed loudly when she realised the unfortunate situation into which Minerva’s mother had manoeuvred herself. It was a cheerful laugh, without malice. “Please do not worry, Mrs Honeyfield. I am more than grateful to you for relieving me of this rather tedious chore.” Minerva noticed that she had not eaten anything but only taken a few sips of her tea.
“Ah, here is my husband,” Lady Beaufort said and held out her hand for him to kiss. Minerva saw his eyes light up and felt a slight sting of envy. These two had such a strong connection, and it was based on more than just “rational” or even economically beneficial considerations.
The way he held her hand, how his eyes searched for her face and how she half closed hers – all this told of a marriage of love. “I shall kidnap your daughter and take her into the park, if you will allow me, and I shall leave you in the company of my husband. Please, do not bore Mrs Honeyfield with your stories from the club, Thomas,” she advised her husband facetiously and rose from her seat.
“Oh, there can be no question of it,” Minerva’s mother objected. “I like listening to a gentleman telling stories about his experiences. It widens a woman’s horizon, wouldn’t you agree, Lady Beaufort?”
“I do believe that it all depends on the stories. The ones my husband likes to tell,” she gazed at him with a penetrating look, “... are most often unsuitable for a woman’s tender ears.”
At that moment, the duke entered the room, which meant that her mother did not have to answer, and Minerva forgot everything she had wanted to ask Lady Beaufort.
The kiss had changed her perception of him completely, maybe even the way she viewed the world. Her heart beat longingly at the sight of him, and she had the feeling that even the sun was shining brighter than it had earlier.
Today, he wore his comfortable clothing again, which she had secretly called “his gamekeeper outfit”. Soft breeches, the tweed jacket she was already familiar with, and some old, but still immaculate leather boots. Although his necktie was correctly tied, it still had something unexplainably casual about it.
He looked wonderfully vibrant – the way he entered the room with long, far-reaching strides, his eyes passing over the assembled guests, only to stop and linger on her. Minerva swallowed hard. Why did she realise only now how intriguing she found him, after she had learned that he was promised to another? At the next available opportunity, she would have to demand that he clarify the situation. His brother and his wife, as well as her mother, all assumed that he, in his own strange way, was courting Minerva. The longer this game went on, the more disappointed her mother would be, not to mention the fact that he – and for as long as she played along, she too – were deceiving his relatives.
Silently, she decided to give him two more days, before she would announce the truth to the world, which was the fact that he had only invited her as entertainment for his future wife.
In the meantime, she had to find out why he had kissed her last night. Because today his face showed no signs of the intimacy they had shared yesterday. How could he keep himself under control like that? Her knees were buckling beneath her, her heart hammered painfully against her chest and corset, and her breath was shallow and taken in short agitated intervals.
“Good morning,” he said, greeting everyone after a seemingly endless pause. He only noticed now that Minerva and his sister-in-law had gotten up from their seats. “May I ask, what are your plans?”
“Miss Honeyfield and I will take a stroll through the park, which will give us an opportunity to get to know each other a little better,” Lady Beaufort replied, before Minerva had the chance to utter a word. The hazelnut-golden eyes turned towards his sister-in-law’s lovely face.
“I advise against it,” he grunted. “There are clouds mounting, and it will start to rain soon.” This was utter nonsense. Through the terrace doors Minerva saw bright sunshine. His ill humour seemed to disintegrate with every minute that passed without an answer. Was she the reason behind his distant behaviour? No, Minerva could not and did not want to believe that. After all, he had been the one who had initiated the touching of their lips. She had not provoked him in any way.
“We will not stray too far from the house,” she said and realised how breathless she sounded. Her gaze was glued to his face, desperately searching for a sign of recognition. Robert had kissed her, but the man that stood before her now, was the Duke of Scuffold again. A dangerous man, as her aunt had never grown tired of reminding her.
Maybe Aunt Catherine had been right all this time.
Only a man of dubious morality would kiss a lady at night and act as if nothing had happened the next morning.
Another thought came to her. If Aunt Catherine had been right in her poor regard of the man, maybe her suspicion that the duke had murdered his wife was not far from the truth. Suddenly, and despite the warm sunshine, Minerva felt ice-cold, and she wanted to get away from this man, who had the ability to confuse her more and more with every hour she spent in his company.
“I do have a parasol with me, which will shield us from the worst weather conditions.” Lady Beaufort went to push past the duke, who had no other choice but to let her and Minerva pass, if he did not want to appear disrespectfully impolite.
Long after the two ladies had left his view, Minerva felt his eyes burning on the back of her head.
“Please tell me dear... how did you make the acquaintance of the duke?” Lady Beaufort enquired. She had linked arms with Minerva and taken the lead. Even though she was half a head taller than Minerva and walked with a forceful step, she did not give her the impression that she was an unwelcoming afterthought.
Should she speak openly to a woman she had just met and who stood so far above her in
rank? Minerva had never really cared much about titles, and in the safety of her wealthy parents’ house, she had always looked upon them rather carelessly – that was until she had met the Duke of Scuffold.
“It was an accidental encounter,” she said evasively.
Lady Beaufort’s head turned away from the beautiful surroundings and towards her. Her piercing green eyes sparkled when she spoke. “How old are you, Miss Honeyfield?”
“I am twenty years old.”
“So young,” her companion sighed as she slowed down her steps. “Please allow me to speak openly to you.” This was not a request, but merely a statement. Minerva looked at the woman beside her, curiously, and she wondered what kind of warning and what kind of advice she might hear now.
“I am six-and-thirty years old,” the woman announced. There was unmistakeable pride in her voice. The short pause would have given Minerva the opportunity to assure Lady Beaufort that nobody would ever consider her that age and that she looked radiant still, but she let the moment pass in silence. “I met my husband in Budapest.” Her eyelids lowered as she recalled a memory too precious to share with others. “I was standing on stage, playing the role of Cupid, after the original cast member had fallen ill. It was the first and last time that I was in a leading role on the stage. That same evening, Lord Beaufort gained access to my dressing room and asked me to become his wife.” Proudly, and yet slightly sadly, she lifted her head and stared out into the lush green landscape. “As you can see, I gave in to his courtship. It truly was a whirlwind romance, and to this day, I do not regret a single moment – with one exception.” It seemed fitting, Minerva thought, that this woman had once stood on a stage. She wondered if her mother knew anything about Lady Beaufort’s colourful past and if she generously ignored it, now that her daughter had the opportunity to become a duchess. “I was a good singer – a very good one, actually – and I could have gone a long way. I do not have a life of my own, if you will, besides being the wife of my husband. I have not received any children, which could have made me something else but Lady Beaufort, the wife of Lord Beaufort.”
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