The Duke of Ravens

by Monroe, Jennifer

  “I see my request has been completed,” the Duke said.

  Caroline went to stand, but the man’s hand rested on her shoulder to keep her on her knees.

  “Do not rise until I instruct you to do so.”

  The nod Caroline gave reminded Philip of a child being reprimanded, and in a way, that was the Duke’s intentions at the moment.

  “I hope the lesson you had today has taught you what I expect from you, although you do not seem to learn, for I must teach you daily.” He let out a sigh as if he was exasperated, and the woman beside him giggled as she brushed back her red hair.

  Philip hid his glare for the woman—Miss French if he had heard correctly. He knew little about clothing for women, but the dress she wore was expertly made and the jewels she wore around her neck were large. She repositioned the pendant that had moved on her bosom when she laughed, clearly wishing to bring attention to both herself and the necklace.

  “I apologize for my behavior, Your Grace,” Caroline replied meekly. “May I dine with you tonight?”

  The man snorted and looked her up and down. “No, I do not wish one of your class dining with me, especially in clothing such as what you wear currently. There is no time for you to ready yourself anyway. Why, by the time the servants heated water…”

  “And Oliver? Will he…?”

  Philip had been holding his breath. The woman had courage, he had to admit that! Not only to ask another question but to interrupt the Duke, as well? Hidden courage indeed.

  The Duke did not seem to take notice of the slight. “My son will be dining with Miss French and myself. I will have your meal brought out here. That will give the servants time to heat enough water for your bath.” He assessed her again, a grimace on his face. “I am afraid you will need twice as much water to wash off all the grime from your body.”

  Caroline clenched a fist, and Philip worried the woman had been driven to the brink. Would she unleash her fury and jeopardize everything? “But…”

  “Your Grace,” Philip said before the woman could say anything more—a little too loudly by the manner in which the Duke and Miss French jumped, “shall I continue my work here, or may I work elsewhere?”

  As he had hoped, the Duke redirected his anger from Caroline to Philip—and stopped Caroline from making her situation worse. “Of course, you bumbling fool. You must keep an eye on her.” He heaved his arms in the air. “What is it with people around here not listening to me? The sun is not yet set, and I have not dismissed you, so the task I have assigned you has yet to be completed. When she is finished for the night, you may retire. You should be thankful that I am not docking your pay for your stupidity.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Philip said with forced humility. “Thank you for your mercy.” He dipped his head further to add to the charade.

  The odious man snorted again, and Miss French laughed outright.

  Between the curtain of his hair, Philip watched as the two disappeared into the house. He unclenched his jaw and turned to cast his eyes on Caroline.

  The woman no longer adorned herself with the humble stance she had in the presence of the Duke. Now, she was angry. “You interrupted me!” she said. “What made you believe you could do such a thing? Especially with a woman of my…title.” The last word was choked.

  “Forgiveness, Your Grace,” Philip said with a diffident bow of his head. “I spoke out because I did not wish to see you hurt. At least, not anymore.” His voice was now just a whisper.

  It became quiet, and Philip remained standing with his hands behind his back. She might be treated as less than who she was by the Duke, but Philip had no intentions of doing so himself. He hoped she understood that he had been disrespectful only to ease her suffering.

  The butler emerged from the house with a tray that held much less than Philip expected it would have if Caroline had been served in the dining room.

  The Duchess turned to face Philip, the last light of the evening highlighting her beauty. “Thank you,” she whispered before the butler was close enough to hear. “Although, I doubt that anyone can stop my hurt.”

  Chapter Four

  Caroline used the week following her humiliation in the garden to redirect her anger and formulate a plan for her escape. The Duke had bestowed enough jewelry and other valuable gifts over the years—not as tokens of affection, of course, but as a means to demonstrate to the ton his vast wealth. She could easily sell it all and have adequate funds to sustain both herself and Oliver for several years. It would be her means to set up a new home and allow her time to obtain a position of some sort and build a new life for the two of them—one filled with happiness and love.

  For there was no love at Blackwood Estates, save the love she had for her son, and Caroline had given up hope that Reginald would ever love her. It was not that she had not reached this realization before, but she had taken her vow to remain loyal to her husband seriously even when he did not.

  Miss French had remained another evening after the garden incident and then had disappeared for the two days that followed. Now she had returned and was in the company of Reginald once again.

  “You are restricted to the sitting room and the gardens,” Reginald had informed her. “And your bedroom, of course. Miss French and I have…business to conduct and do not wish to be disturbed.” He put his arm around the woman’s waist and pulled her close to him, making her giggle.

  Any sting such actions would have brought on before no longer did so now. Caroline no longer cared enough to feel jealousy over the women with whom her husband shared his bed. No, even the fact that he flaunted the women in front of her no longer bothered her. However, he had begun to include Oliver in those flauntings, and that only fueled her anger.

  A blind fool could have seen that what Reginald exposed to his son would only twist the boy’s mind. That had been the deciding factor to make her escape. If Oliver was forced to grow up under these teachings, she feared that one day he would become as sinister as his father, and she would not allow that to happen.

  “Mother,” Oliver said, “do you like it?”

  Caroline blinked to clear away the cobwebs from her mind. She had come outside to sit on a bench in order to get some air and remove any opportunity for Miss French to wander into the sitting room with one pretense or another. Caroline recognized the woman’s propensity to brew up trouble, and trouble was one thing of which Caroline did not need. She now had her plans on which to focus, and any distraction would be detrimental to those plans. She turned to the boy before her, a stem of lilacs in his hand and an expectant look on his face.

  “Oh, Oliver, they are beautiful! Are they for me?”

  “Yes,” the boy replied. “My mother deserves all the best flowers in the world.” He thrust the stem toward her, and her heart warmed.

  She put the flowers to her nose and breathed deeply. “Oh, they are quite lovely,” she said. “What a nice thing to do for me.”

  The boy gave her a proud grin. “I like to do nice things for you.” Then he glanced around, lowered his voice, and cupped his hand beside his mouth. “Father wants me to be nice to Miss French, but I don’t like her much. I think she’s mean.”

  “How so?”

  “She calls me a nuisance. Why doesn’t Father tell her off as he does you?”

  It was difficult to maintain her smile, for her heart was caught in her throat. She could never tell the boy, at least not at such a young age, that his father was not a good person. It would not be until he was much older, and by then he more than likely would see that for himself. Now, however, she wished to ease the boy’s worry.

  “Your Father cares.” The words attempted to choke her as she said them, but she pressed forward. “He has just been busy as of late.”

  She feared that Oliver would reject her excuse, but to her delight, the boy nodded.

  Oliver turned and smiled, and Caroline followed his gaze to see what had brought on such a reaction.

  Philip stood clipping a
hedge not far from where she sat. The man had been kind to her that day the previous week, but he had not overstepped his bounds in any way since. He had a gift for gardening, and he completed his work admirably. She was glad he kept his distance; she liked the man—he had been kind to her—and she did not want to see him lose his position if the Duke found them speaking to one another when he was in one of his moods.

  “I like him,” Oliver stated. “He is always nice to me. Can he be my father instead of Father?

  “Oliver Hayward!” Caroline gasped. “Do not say such things ever again. You have a father.”

  The boy lowered his head. “I’m sorry.”

  She ruffled his hair and smiled. “Run along and play. Dinner will be soon.”

  The boy nodded and then turned and walked over to Philip. The two talked, and then Philip patted Oliver on his back.

  He will make a good father one day, she thought. Letting out a sigh, she wished that one day she could find a man. A man who made those around him feel welcome with just his smile—that is, what she could see of his face. She imagined it was a handsome face, although she had yet to see it outright, and she wondered why he allowed his hair to nearly conceal it.

  Rising from the bench, she walked over to the gardener as he turned his attention to a large oak tree.

  As she approached, Philip stopped and bowed. “Your Grace.”

  “Did I not request you call me Caroline?” she asked. “At least in private?”

  “You did,” he replied with a nod. “May I do something for you?”

  “You may. I wish to see your face, for it is always concealed behind your hair.”

  He laughed. “I do not wish to argue with you, but may I ask why?”

  “You may ask, but I do not have to reply. Regardless you must do as I say anyway.” She tried to hide her mirth but failed miserably.

  It was quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he was going to defy her. This, of course, only increased her curiosity. Was he hiding something behind his hair? She had not seen any sign of deformity, nor had any of the servants gossiped about it—not in her presence, that is.

  Finally, he brought his hand up and pulled back the dark hair. Her breath caught in her throat, for he had to be one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. He had a defined jawline, a slightly upturned nose, and eyes the color of a stormy sky, and she felt a strange heat in the pit of her stomach she had never felt before.

  “Thank you, Mr. Butler.”

  He gave her an amused smile and allowed his hair to fall back over his face, which she found disappointing. Not only was he handsome, but he also had a kindness about him, and for a moment, she considered telling him of her plans to escape. Perhaps she could even enlist his aid. Not as a love interest, of course, but as someone to help look after her and Oliver.

  However, the notion was foolish. She did not know him. Furthermore, she was a married woman, at least she was in writing. Even having thoughts of spending intimate time with another man without the express consent of her husband would be wrong in the eyes of the law, and her own. She was not a trollop like Miss French, willing to give herself to any man who offered himself to her.

  She laughed to herself. What a silly woman she was. The man had not even offered her a cup of tea let alone himself! Yet, he had offered her water…

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Philip said. “That is why the branches grow so strong. The art of pruning is a tedious, but necessary, task.”

  Caroline scrunched her brow, wondering what the man meant, but then a voice behind her gave her understanding.

  “Do not bore the help with your silly questions,” the Duke snapped. Then a fit of coughing doubled him over for several moments, a sick, rattling sound. When it subsided, he cleared his throat and added, “Come, dinner will be served soon, and I do not wish to wait.” He spoke as if breathing had become difficult, and Caroline felt a pang of concern rush through her. How strange that she should be worried for his health after all he had done. Yet, she was not an uncaring person; even those who did not deserve her concern received it.

  She made no comment, however. “Come. It is time for dinner,” she called out to Oliver, who was throwing blades of grass in the air and watching them float to the ground.

  “Yes, Mother,” the boy replied and came running up to her. He placed his hand in hers as they followed Reginald into the house.

  Caroline felt relief wash over her. If the Duke had caught her in simple conversation with Philip, his anger would have been great. However, the kind gardener had saved her once again. And somehow, she found his protection of her endearing, even if the idea of them becoming friends was out of the question.

  ***

  The cough with which the Duke suffered continued through that night. Each day after, the hacking increased until the man had to be confined to his bed. He had spoken no words in the past two days, for it only brought on another bout of coughing that took his breath away.

  Caroline waited on a chair outside his room while the doctor performed his examination. She wrung her hands as she awaited his findings, unsure if she should be worried or delighted with the fact the man was ill.

  No, that was wrong. She was not the type of woman to revel in the sufferings of others, even one such as her husband.

  The door opened and Caroline stood.

  “Your Grace,” the doctor said, his hands clutching his medical bag in front of him, “I’m afraid the prognosis is bleak.”

  Caroline tilted her head. “Please, tell me plainly.”

  The man sighed, and for the first time she noticed his reddened eyes and heavy lids. The poor man had been called from his bed in the middle of the night to help with a difficult birth and had only returned home when he was called to Blackwood Estates.

  “I am afraid his condition has only worsened. I do not believe he will survive the week. If he is lucky, he will make it two, but certainly no longer. I’m sorry.”

  Caroline allowed the words to ring in her mind. Although she had every reason to hate her husband, she still felt pity for the man. Even with her recent planning, she did not want to see him suffer, at least not in a physical manner.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said. “I hope you do not think me rude, but if you would see yourself out, I will go to my husband.”

  He gave her a kind smile. “Of course. And I am sorry to bring you such grave news. If there is anything I can do, please do not hesitate to send for me. I have done all I can to make him as comfortable as possible. If you will excuse me.”

  “Yes. And thank you again.”

  He gave her a bow and walked away.

  Caroline steeled herself and entered her husband’s room. The Duke lay in the bed, his face pale and his breathing shallow.

  As she neared the bed, a light tap on the door had her turn. Miss French entered without invitation—a symbol of her time at Blackwood Estates—and she carried a large carpet bag, which she had to carry with both hands. She had come with nothing as far as Caroline knew, but the bag appeared quite heavy upon her leaving.

  “I have come to say goodbye to Reginald,” she said with a sneer.

  Caroline narrowed her eyes at the woman. “How dare you…”

  “I have every right,” Miss French said. “You will have him all to yourself when he dies, so at least allow me to say goodbye.”

  What Caroline wished was to throw the woman out of the house. However, if the woman was leaving anyway, what harm could it do?

  “Very well, you have two minutes and then you must leave.”

  Miss French pursed her lips but said nothing as she pushed past Caroline and made her way to the bed. Caroline could not stand to watch, so she walked over to the window, her hands balled into fists at her side. What was wrong with her? How could she allow this woman to bully her? Yet, she still said nothing.

  Exactly two minutes later, Miss French stood, and Caroline followed her into the hallway.

  “So, I see you have gotten your gre
edy hands on the gifts my husband bought for you.”

  The woman gave her a derisive sniff. “I have. I loved him and he loved me.” The woman curled her lip. “But what do you care? You care only for yourself.”

  Caroline understood the game the woman played. “You know your way to the door; see to it that you never enter it again.”

  With a shake to her head, Miss French turned and headed down the hallway, her slippered steps hushed by the carpeted stairs as she made her way down them. The slamming of the front door was the only indication that the woman had left.

  With a sigh, Caroline returned to the bedroom. The frail figure of the Duke in his bed was highlighted by the main candles that lit his room. He never liked the darkness, had always insisted on having as many lights lit as he could whenever nighttime came. It was daytime now, the sky covered in dark clouds, though the room was nowhere near dark. Perhaps it was his fear of that eternal darkness that awaited him that had him asking for candles to be lit.

  Moving to the wash basin, Caroline rinsed the cloth and returned to the bed. Her husband had fallen back into a fitful sleep and had no reaction to the cold compress she placed on his forehead. The man deserved no mercy nor her care, but enough suffering had been endured in this house and she would allow no more.

  As she sat beside him, she wondered at how this man could be so angry with her. His first wife had died young, leaving him with no children, and she suspected that it was because of his loss that he acted as he did. Replacing a love was perhaps too much of a task, something the Duke may not have realized until he had married Caroline.

  Glancing down, she saw movement. He opened his hand, the first time he had made any physical movement in two days outside of his fits of coughing. She reached down and clasped his hand as his breathing came in short gasps.

  “Might you finally find the peace you need,” she whispered.

  The Duke gave her hand a weak squeeze, inhaled, and then his chest stopped moving, never to move again.