by Jane Goodger
“Hmm. A bit odd, yes. And I did tell you posing for those artists was unseemly. But a duke, Rebecca. Honestly, I’m so jealous I could scream. To think all my untitled friends have married titles, and my one high born friend married a commoner. What does that leave for me? A farmer? A fisherman?”
Rebecca giggled. “A prince of course. He rules a tiny county on the continent and will be shipwrecked in St. Ives and you, of course, will sound the alarm and save him and his men and he will fall madly in love with you. And then you shall be a princess.”
“Do you truly think that could happen?” Eliza asked dreamily.
Rebecca gave her friend a level look. “No. And neither do you.” When Eliza opened her mouth to protest, Rebecca firmly repeated, “Neither do you.”
Of the four of them, only Eliza had truly wanted to marry a title; the rest were content with an ordinary man. Rebecca had always thought Eliza perfectly adorable, with her bright blue eyes, curling brown hair, and smattering of freckles across her nose that no amount of cream could fade. It was a mystery to her why she had not yet attracted a husband, especially given her father was the son of a viscount. Yet none of her friends had ever dreamed of marrying quite so high above their station, particularly Rebecca. Of all her friends, her family was one of the lowest on the social ladder, which did make this match a bit miraculous.
“What if something is terribly wrong with him? Why have we heard nothing of him? And why does he need to resort to marrying a commoner whom he spied in a painting? That’s not in the least romantic.”
“At least we know he’s not blind,” Eliza said, then covered her head when Rebecca threatened to beat her with a pillow. “Did his man of business say anything about him?”
“He only answered direct questions.” Rebecca picked at a bit of loose thread on the comforter until Eliza slapped her hand away. “Sorry.” She laid her forehead on her arms and stared at the soft muslin, wishing she could stay in this soft, muted world. “It’s only that it’s a bit frightening, isn’t it,” she said, her voice slightly muffled.
She felt Eliza gently shake her shoulder. “Are you truly frightened? I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything.”
Rebecca lifted her head and smiled wistfully. “It’s so far away,” she said, and her throat closed up as tears threatened. “I always pictured myself marrying someone local, living here, and visiting my mum every day. I thought my children would grow up in St. Ives and play along the shore. It snows in Horncliffe. Even the name of the place.” She pulled a face. “Who would name a place horn cliff? Who?”
Eliza pressed her lips together in an attempt not to smile. “I believe it must be someone’s name.”
Turning around so that she was looking up at the bed’s canopy, Rebecca let out a frustrated groan. “Horn cliff. Sounds like the devil himself lives there.”
That was when Eliza let out a gasp.
“What’s wrong?”
“Wait here.” She ran to her writing desk and pulled open a drawer. “You know how I collect newspaper clippings that inspire my stories.”
“Of course.”
“I remember saving something about Horncliffe. It was years ago, so I might be wrong,” she said, rifling through her papers. “Aha!” She stood, her eyes scanning over the article quickly. “Oh, Rebecca.”
Rebecca sat up immediately, for Eliza sounded as if she had just discovered something terrible.
“The Ghost Duke. No one has seen him for years, but the locals blame him for all sorts of things, from sheep dying mysteriously to missing women and children. Oh, this is terrible.”
Rebecca laughed. “A duke who murders sheep?”
Eliza joined in her laughter. “I suppose it is silly. Still, if the locals are that superstitious about the duke, it is unfortunate.” She looked up from the clipping before going on. “And it says no one has seen him in years and ‘those who gaze upon his terrible visage instantly turn to stone.’ Why, I wonder? Did not his man say he was not deformed? Perhaps he is…”
“You are not easing my nerves, Eliza,” Rebecca said darkly.
“Sorry,” Eliza said, giving her friend a quick hug. “Still, it is odd, is it not? Ghost Duke.” She grinned. “Perhaps he is a ghost and that man is his living minion who must do as he says.”
“Stop,” Rebecca said, breaking into giggles before sobering and nearly giving in to the tears that had threatened since she’d realized she had no choice but to marry a stranger.
“Are you very angry with your father?”
Rebecca sighed. “It is difficult to remain angry with him, for he is genuinely sorry. Mum pretends to be vexed, but I do believe she is secretly thrilled that I am to be a duchess. I’m saving all my anger for the duke.”
“I should think your parents would demand to meet him before agreeing to this,” her friend said loyally.
“What good would that do? I will not allow my father to go to debtors’ prison or for the family to descend into poverty, no matter what he is like.”
“A sacrificial lamb,” Eliza said, but her tone was one of dreamy romance.
“Will you stop it?” Rebecca said, laughing. “There is positively nothing romantic about any of this.”
Eliza laughed with her; then her expression abruptly changed to a frown. “I understand how the duke would fall in love with your picture, but how is it that your father ended up indebted to him so desperately that he was forced to agree to the marriage?”
Raising one eyebrow, Rebecca gave her friend a look of disbelief. “My father was made a target. It would not take much investigation to learn of his penchant for gambling.”
“Do you mean to say this man manipulated your father into losing?”
“I can think of no other explanation.”
“That’s not a very good way to start a marriage,” Eliza said, her fantasy of romance crumbling around her.
“No, it is not. But what choice do I have?”
Chapter 2
Rebecca was exhausted beyond bearing. For three days, she had been traveling, ever north, by train and coach, with Mr. Winters her constant, silent companion. She was a duchess, married to a man she had never met, a thought that frayed her nerves raw. It was still difficult for her to believe all that had happened in little more than a week.
Leaving St. Ives, her mother, her younger sisters, even her father, had been one of the most difficult things she had ever done. All her sisters had cried, Carol the most, and her mother couldn’t stop her own eyes from filling. Horncliffe was so very far from St. Ives, even with the new train rails. She might never see St. Ives again, never breathe in the soft sea air, never dip her toe into the impossibly blue water. She’d looked out the window for long minutes as the coach pulled away from their rambling house, until it was hidden by the trees, until St. Ives was no longer in sight. God, it hurt, more than anything in her life before had. Her throat ached so much, she could not have spoken a word even if Mr. Winters had asked her a question. It was all she could do not to sob or open the door and escape. But she didn’t. She stared out the window, her heart breaking, her eyes dry.
After days of travel, they sat in a jostling coach that probably needed new springs. It was cold, far colder than Rebecca had ever been. Her breath came out in small plumes, her hands and feet felt as if they were frozen, and her cheeks were numb. Dark, gray clouds hung low in the sky, and more than one person had looked up and commented that the clouds portended snow, even though it was only October. For miles now, Rebecca had done nothing but stare out the window at a landscape that was completely foreign to her. Great forests surrounded them as the coach climbed up one hill and down another, swaying back and forth on the uneven road. It had been hours since she had seen a village or any sign that another human was alive. Truly, she hadn’t known such a place existed in England.
And all the while, all these miles, Mr. Winters
looked at her. Even now, she could feel his dark eyes on her, emotionless, expressionless, as if she were nothing more than part of the very seat upon which her sore behind rested. It was quite maddening and, if she were perfectly honest, made her blood run cold. He’d done nothing untoward on this trip, had been exceedingly polite, in an exaggerated way, as if she wasn’t worthy of his good behavior. Rebecca sensed something beneath the surface, something, if not evil, then malevolent. Then again, it could simply be her frayed nerves and this untenable situation that were leaving her nerves raw. Finally, she could stand it no more.
“Why do you stare?” she asked, glaring at him. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if she amused him.
“Was I?”
“You were.”
“I suppose I was.”
“Why?” She didn’t want him to know how frightened she was and was glad that her voice sounded strong.
“I am trying to understand His Grace’s fascination with you. You are a commoner, something we knew when we saw that painting. No lady would pose for such a portrait. You are far beneath His Grace and I believe I hold you in the utmost contempt.” He said this nonchalantly and gave a small shrug, a bland smile. “To be frank, Miss Caine, your very existence repulses me. Is that the sort of information you were looking for?”
Rebecca swallowed and suppressed a shiver. “You may address me as Your Grace, Mr. Winters,” she managed to say, though her heart beat quickly. Now that she had said it aloud, it sounded silly to her. She was no more a duchess now than she had been before the proxy wedding.
He stared at her for a long moment before bursting into laughter. “I do apologize. Your Grace.” He chuckled a bit more, wiping his eyes as if her words had brought him to mirthful tears.
What a horrible man, Rebecca thought, feeling her situation settle around her even more. This man was obviously important to the duke and she could honestly say he was the most disagreeable person she had ever met. Her throat closed but she swallowed down the pain, refusing to allow him to see the tears that had been threatening since the moment she’d hugged her mother good-bye and climbed aboard the train that had brought her away from her beloved St. Ives.
And then a wonderful thought occurred to her. She was a duchess, whether she felt like one or not. He was…well, she wasn’t certain what he was, but he could be made to leave. Perhaps she could convince the duke that Mr. Winters had to go. Her mood brightened considerably.
“You are an employee of His Grace?” she asked, and for the first time saw his composure slip the tiniest bit.
“I am not.” His tone was cold and that malevolence Rebecca detected was nearly tangible. Sharp disappointment filled her. It would be far easier to get rid of the man if he was an employee rather than some trusted friend or worse, a relative. Rebecca gave a quick prayer that Mr. Winters was not the duke’s friend, for what sort of man would consider him such? People tended to forgive relatives’ behavior that would not be tolerated from an employee or even a friend. From the way he looked at her now, Rebecca feared she had made a miscalculation. Wouldn’t it be better to befriend the man rather than to create an enemy no matter how disagreeable he was? She had little experience dealing with animosity as it had rarely been directed at her.
“I apologize, Mr. Winters.” She forced a smile. “You never did explain your position or your relationship to my husband.” His eyes flickered when she called His Grace “my husband,” as if her referring to him thus caused him discomfort. The Caines, while not part of the aristocracy, were a respected family; her father was a squire and landowner and it was not entirely uncommon for her ilk to marry a title. Not a duke, perhaps, but in St. Ives, common girls seemed to be marrying titled gentlemen left and right.
“My mother was His Grace’s father’s great aunt’s daughter.”
Rebecca tried to determine what that made Mr. Winters, but she quickly gave up. “A distant relative, then.”
Mr. Winters remained silent.
Clearing her throat, Rebecca said, “And you are His Grace’s…”
“Keeper.”
A chill ran down Rebecca’s spine at that word. What did that mean? Another forced smile and she turned back to the window, trying to stop the urge to flee the carriage. But she couldn’t help thinking: What sort of man required a keeper?
Oliver eyed the tiny Chippendale chair he held in his hands critically, turning it slowly beneath his magnifier, trying to find a flaw. He frowned at the cushion, its corners unrefined; sewing was not his forte. The delicate sweep of the arms, the well-proportioned ball and claw feet, everything was as it should be. But the cushion… It would have to do. He placed the chair in the second floor sitting room with its twin, rubbing his tired eyes. This sort of work, as passionate as he was about it, was exhausting and often led to a headache. The chairs faced one another, a table set for two between them, and he smiled at the result.
The room looked like any room one might find in England, only waiting for its owners to come inside and have a bit of tea. At least it looked like pictures he’d seen in illustrated periodicals. Every detail, from the finely honed parquet floor to the intricately carved mantel above the hearth, was perfection. It was, though Oliver would never characterize it as such, a work of art. And it was only one room in a dozen he had constructed in his miniature house, most of which were still awaiting decoration.
One of his creations, his highly ambitious Buckingham Palace, was displayed at the Royal Academy. He’d never been to see it, but Mr. Winters had a photograph taken showing it tucked in one corner. He had a letter from Queen Victoria herself thanking him. It was his least favorite project.
Oliver instead preferred smaller projects, homey buildings where he imagined families lived, bustling about noisily, gathering together at the end of a day for a hearty meal. He’d read about such families; the concept seemed a bit strange to him, having no siblings, no memory of his mother, and only vague recollections of his father. He remembered reading Oliver Twist as a boy; the name of the book attracted him initially, but it was the fictional Oliver’s longing for his mother, for a home, that struck a chord with him. Even as a boy, however, he knew he would not have a happy ending as the orphan in the book had. No one would rescue him. No one could change how he’d been born.
A noise outside drew his attention and he stilled. His bride was expected home that day.
Since the day Mr. Winters had left two months ago on his mission to bring the girl in the painting home to him, his mood had gone from excitement to utter horror at what he had done. What sort of man would bring a girl from her home to this Godforsaken place to be the bride of an aberration? She would loathe him and when she got a look at him…
It didn’t bear thinking about; it truly didn’t. But it was there, his realization that he couldn’t hide from his wife forever, that at some point, she would see him. He only prayed that he could delay such a meeting until at least she didn’t loathe him. That thought was terrible enough to cause his stomach to clench. In his wildest dreams, he imagined making his wife love him, so that by the time she saw him, she would overlook his appearance. He wanted a wife, children, something, anything, to assuage the heavy loneliness that sometimes made him feel as if he might go mad. Those women Winters had brought to him, who smelled of cheap perfume, whose breaths were sour and whose voices were tinged with fear, did nothing to stop the ache. Of course, when he was inside them, when he found his release, none of that mattered—at least for a few moments. As soon as he was done, they scurried out of bed, grabbed their clothes, and hastily dressed. He never saw the same woman twice, and they never saw him, for he kept the room in pitch blackness except for one, ill-conceived slip. Even now, years later, his gut clenched at the thought of the girl’s reaction when she saw him.
Footsteps sounded on the tower stairs and he rose from his seat and stepped in front of his work table.
A knock, then through the
door, “Your Grace, Mr. Winters has arrived with Her Grace.” It was Mr. Starke, his butler, staring at the floor. Satan, his black cat, followed the butler in and hopped onto his customary place atop a cushioned chair in the corner. Normally, the presence of the feline calmed him but not this day.
“Yes, Mr. Starke. Thank you.” Once his butler turned to leave, he clenched his fists, trying to stop the mad beating of his heart. “I’ll be down momentarily.” After the butler’s footsteps faded away, Oliver let out a curse. Weeks he’d had to prepare for this day, and he still didn’t know what he should do. She would be frightened or curious. Should he speak to her? Should he explain why he would not allow her to see him? Certainly, she would expect after such a long journey to meet her husband. Oliver swallowed hard, his breath coming in gasps, realizing he was not ready to meet his bride. Not yet. And so, he did nothing.
Chapter 3
“I am not to meet His Grace?” Rebecca stood in the center of Horncliffe’s grand foyer looking around the dimly lit area in dismay.
Without answering her, Mr. Winters disappeared the moment they arrived, walking down a long, dark hall without a backward glance, leaving her alone and unsure what to do. Finally, an older man arrived and introduced himself as Mr. Starke, the butler. He seemed surprised to find her still standing at the entrance.
“Your Grace, welcome to Horncliffe,” he said, with a small bow. He was a wiry fellow, with a ring of hair around his otherwise bald pate, and spectacles perched on his nose. “Where is Mr. Winters?”
