The Blue-Eyed Black-Hearted Duke

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The Blue-Eyed Black-Hearted Duke Page 13

by Sandra Masters


  “Tomorrow, we start our riding lessons. Shall we move to the stables so you can see the horses?”

  She sighed.

  “Are you tired? We can delay the tour.”

  Jaclyn fidgeted, her foot grated on the cement floor. “No, I’m in awe of you and your majesty. I don’t mean in the royal peer sense, but you have a regal demeanor. It makes me privileged to know you.”

  Her words were what he needed to hear. It meant she’d forgiven him for the moral lesson, and they could go on as before. Except his good intentions disappeared like leaves in a strong wind, and all he could think of was to hold her naked in his arms. He shooed away the thought of predestined myths.

  “You wouldn’t say so if you heard me bark orders to the soldiers under my command. In those days, I would have gladly exchanged places with those who died. I no longer feel that way.”

  “Why do you always speak of death when you have so much for which to live? You are loved by many.”

  The expression on her face rang true, and he guessed her concern, but was it only for him as her guardian?

  “Am I? I have no one but Camille and you, and no inclination for a wife and children.” He cast his glance into the distance for the lie uttered. He could envision a blue-eyed red-haired boy in play around the stables in a show of his prowess to a violet-eyed sister with the sun’s glow on raven-colored curls.

  “I have a lot of regrets, but it is natural for one such as me,” his voice trailed.

  But soon she’d have someone else to protect her and someone to love with whom to have children. Damn, why did the thought screech through his heart?

  He knew the answer and ignored it. Jaclyn was forever. He was just for a moment until she reunited with the man she loved. Those thoughts wrenched his gut more than any moment in battle. Could he change her mind? He had the ability to ignore other women’s flirtations, but all Jaclyn had to do was bat her eyelashes and curl a dimpled smile on her chin. Her unique mole was something he wanted to kiss…again. Oh, how he wanted to experience such sweet euphoria.

  The groom master hailed him with a warm voice. “Yer Grace, ’tis good to see ye. How long will ya stay in residence? Perhaps fer good?”

  He broke all convention and shook the man’s hand. Morgan had been in his regiment, and after the war when jobs were scarce. Wolferton employed any veteran who came to his door, so they worked here in the country where the air was healthy and the food in generous supply. He also knew he could trust them to be honest and true.

  He pointed to Jaclyn, who raised her hand to shield the glint of sun. “This lady is my ward, Miss Moreux. In fact, you would remember her father, Captain Henri Moreux? She’s his daughter.”

  “Miss Moreux, pleased to meet ye. Yer father was a grand person. To think yer his lass warms me heart.”

  Her attention captured, a transformation claimed her as she looked from the groom to the duke. She jumped up and down, her hands settling her skirts. Locking her gaze to his, her grin became broad and effervescent. To see her enjoyment touched him with such deep desire to please and grant her every wish.

  “Perhaps you will be able to tell me stories of you and my father? I know so little, although His Grace has written over the many years to extol his feats.” She turned to Wolferton. “You will allow him to spend some time from his duties, won’t you, duke? Please, I can’t believe how excited I feel. I miss him so.”

  “I don’t see a problem. Perhaps we can share a lunch with Morgan and others who served in our regiment. I’ll see to arrangements, but for the moment, I’d like to teach Miss Moreux how to ride a horse. Do you have a three-year-old filly that is on the safe side? Or perhaps it would be better to have an older horse well accustomed to riders? We’ll start out in the morning.”

  The groom master addressed Jaclyn, “Will eleven o’clock suit ye?”

  To see the animation on her adorable face pleasured Wolferton. It confirmed he’d made the right decision to come to the country. Also, Halifax wouldn’t dare show his presence here. The thought caused him to smile.

  Morgan walked them through the stables and pointed out a mare soon to give birth. Wolferton made it clear he wanted to attend no matter the time of day or night. The groom nodded.

  “I don’t know about you, Jaclyn, but I’m famished. Let’s find some food. As a lad of eight years, I always foraged in the kitchen. The staff there loved me because I was always hungry.” His robust laugh beamed toward her.

  ****

  Jaclyn smiled at his impish remark. How sad to feel so unloved. She recognized Wolferton brought back to life his happiness as a young boy. Then it came to mind his kiss was more than a moral lesson for her, but one for him too. To walk away from what he desired showed great character. This man who had everything, in truth did not have the one material relationship he needed—a companion in love with him, a faithful wife, and children. From discussions with Camille, whatever changed was in his formative teenage years.

  Hand in hand, they walked along the path back to the kitchens. Jaclyn marveled how he put them at ease with his boyish grin. “Good late morning to you. Perchance, you have some cheese and bread for two weary travelers? Make it three if you fetch my sister.”

  He introduced Jaclyn and then sat at the harvest bench table, informally dressed, his legs spread apart in a magnificent display of firm muscled thighs, not to mention his white lawn shirt showed an expressive expanse of glinted red hair. Heaven, he took her breath away. She couldn’t help admire all his physical power in one marvelous body. He pointed to a seat next to him for her to sit.

  “Yer Grace, we did not expect ye. Give us a moment to find suitable food.”

  “Bessie, my sweet, is it you? You’ve grown into a full-blown female. Tell me, do you still make berry preserves? I haven’t tasted anything like yours in all my travels on the continent.”

  “Yer Grace…”

  “Make sure I get to taste the jam, and you can call me whatever you wish. Duke will be fine. I’m in a good mood today. By the way, I apologize for my lack of a jacket, but it was too warm for my city super-fine wool.”

  “Sir, stop yer joshing. You shouldna call me your sweet in front of the pretty lady the way you used to for an extra portion of dessert. You might make her jealous. You know yer the duke now.”

  Jaclyn replied with the loveliest smile she could display, “Miss Bessie, you have my word I won’t be jealous. I am the duke’s ward, Jaclyn Moreux. My talents could never compare with yours. Perhaps tomorrow I could spend time in the kitchen with you to learn to make biscuits? My late father always said ‘if love is an ingredient you can trust a woman to make fine biscuits.’”

  The glow from Bessie’s face could light the coals in the fireplace, and it delighted Jaclyn to bring a touch of joy to the elder lady.

  A servant came forth with freshly baked bread, sliced it, and placed it on three plates. The favored jam was served in a pottery bowl with a cover and spoon.

  “You’ve made a friend for life, Miss Jaclyn.” Wolferton smacked his lips together.

  Soon, a footman appeared with a plate of sliced beef, root vegetables, and gravy. The aroma would tempt the devil.

  His sister soon joined them, and at the sight of the vegetables, Jaclyn thought Camille would swoon. “Oh, my, what memories this brings back. Radolf, you already have streaks of jam on your cheek like when you were a boy. ”

  He repeated in emphasis, “Like when I was an innocent young boy.”

  “You’re no longer a boy. You’ve grown into a fine man. I have it on good authority.” Camille giggled, took a napkin, and wiped at his berried face.

  “And who is knowledgeable enough to make such a statement?” Her brother took the serviette from her and rubbed jam away but managed to squeeze her hand in the process.

  “Your sister, for one. I know you better than you know yourself,” Camille said in a jovial voice.

  The change from the unhappy, stern, disciplined duke to this handsome, playful man
astounded Jaclyn. She wished with all her heart they would never have to return to London and all the pain it represented for him. The urge to take him in her arms and whisper in his ear tempted. My arms will keep you safe from harm. Come into them, my darling man. My darling Radolf.

  Perhaps she and Camille could convince him to stay here for a few weeks. Or would he claim business responsibilities and any other excuse to return to the city to become his former self?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A Wishful Dream Destroyed

  Jaclyn accepted Wolferton’s hand as he rose from the table to usher her and Camille through the servants’ area to the drawing room. A spectacled Camille resumed her cross-stitch work while Jaclyn picked a classic poetry book to read, Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson. She was almost through the last stanza when Wolferton, unaware, caught her attention as he stood peering out the French doors. She closed the book and went toward him.

  “Are you deep in thought, Wolferton? I don’t see anything on the lawn, yet you seem preoccupied,” Jaclyn asked.

  If any a man could patent a smile, his would be the one none could imitate. She frowned at the gossip Halifax had perpetrated, and if that was indeed the truth, Jaclyn believed with all her heart, Wolferton had a good reason. He was still her knight in armor, and she would have to see undeniable proof before she would find him guilty. If she did find him guilty, she would not hesitate to forgive him. It became obvious as a lad, he’d suffered emotional deprivation.

  “I’m the victim of wool-gathering,” he answered.

  “Share with us, and we can meander with you. Memories are sometimes good for the soul, Wolferton.”

  “Do you believe that comment, Miss Jaclyn? I know differently. We never get to change our memories. I’ve now chosen to remember the best and relegate the others to hell.”

  He glanced across the lawn again. “However, let me tell you my plans for tonight. I would like to invite my two favorite ladies to a dance recital in the parlor. I’ve asked three musicians from the village to play for our enjoyment. However, I desire to dance. It’s complicated because of my inability to duplicate myself to dance with both of you.”

  Camille tilted her head from her embroidery hoop, her spectacles askew. “True, but either one of us can accompany on the pianoforte. I don’t believe you’ve heard Jaclyn play, brother. She’s rather accomplished.”

  Jaclyn took full note of his mysterious smile which did not display his thoughts.

  “Nothing would surprise me about her attributes.” He went to his ward, bent his head low, and kissed her hand. “I wonder why I’ve never asked Miss Jaclyn about such achievements.”

  “Brother, you always have so much on your mind, but Jaclyn speaks two languages, English and French. She is familiar with the classic novels and has a good knowledge of many songs. Her education in manners and etiquette are exemplary. If she has a fault, her embroidery stitches are too big.”

  They laughed riotously as Jaclyn braved the humor like a good sport.

  Wolferton summoned Halbert.

  “Your Grace, you rang?”

  “Yes, I did. I seem to find myself one man short for the dance recital I arranged without thought to partners. Is Major Anderson still in my employ? I thought I saw him in the corrals.”

  “Yes, sir. He is.”

  “Good, he’s a fine sort of man with impeccable manners. Kindly invite the major to dine formally with us this evening.”

  The expression on Halbert’s face changed noticeably.

  “Out with it man, what is the problem?” asked Wolferton.

  “He does not have formal clothes with him. I had occasion to view his sparse quarters. The major’s clothing selection is limited. However, he does have his regimental uniform,” he said with a toothy smile.

  “Good. I’ll wear mine also. I hear ladies do like men in uniform.” He looked to Jaclyn and Camille until he coaxed smiles. “Advise Cook Bessie there’ll be another for dinner. By the way, inform the major the invitation is not a request, but a directive. Halbert, instruct my valet to make sure my dress uniform is clean and available for use.”

  Halbert left the room.

  “How old is the major?” asked Camille.

  “A few years older than I if I remember correctly.” He turned his gaze from his sister.

  “Do not think to matchmaker, brother,” she cautioned.

  “It will take more than a few dances to affect such an event. Why don’t we enjoy the evening? By the way, Jaclyn, there’s a package on your bed for you. Camille has been promised to secrecy so do not think to inquire.”

  Jaclyn admired the devilish grin on his rugged face. His dark disposition gone to wherever bad thoughts reside, she swallowed hard. This man before her was the stuff of heroes who encouraged romantic notions and dreams. While not an experienced woman in the ways of men, she believed he’d never hurt her. But what about all the other women Halifax continued to mention to denigrate Wolferton?

  If she played her cards right, her fantasy about him now had a sense of reality. What would Delilah or Salome of the Bible do? Such silly thoughts, for they were wanton women. She would have to be her agreeable self—but not too agreeable.

  “Miss Jaclyn,” Wolferton called. “You were wool-gathering too, it seems.”

  His wicked-as-sin smile was a definite temptation. “Yes.” She sighed. “I will retire to my room until dinner. I am anxious to see what your package contains.”

  Wolferton went to the window where the pine tree at the topmost of the butte was a constant reminder of Isabella. These past thoughts were still a wound to his heart. He remembered the times when he and Isabella climbed to the crest and beyond, out of sight of the manor house. He would lay his jacket on the fertile ground, and they’d look at the wonder of verdant fields while puffy white clouds filtered the sunshine and the glory of the day. Isabella hugged her knees and spoke about how fortunate Wolferton was to have such a place as this to relax and enjoy nature. He would smile and hold her hand. She filled his heart with her beauty. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and her bright cheeks beckoned him, but as a lad he was not content to feel the simple peace by her side. Wolferton wanted so much more. He would talk to her about his need to leave for Eton soon and how he would miss her.

  “I’ll miss you. Promise you won’t forget me,” she said in a soft whisper.

  He embraced her and kissed her forehead. “I will never forget you, Isabella. You are special. I’ll write you if you promise to write me back.” She nodded and took his hand to her cheek.

  When the time came to say goodbye, he was all thumbs with words. The last rendezvous near their tree was awkward. As a young man, he wanted so much to kiss her on the lips, but she wasn’t that sort of girl. So he kissed her hand and bowed.

  At Eton, he did write her many times. In one such letter he wrote that he loved her and would return in two years to marry. They would live far away from his father. He asked her to wait for him.

  Three weeks later, he received word from his mother advising that Isabella was now part of his father’s personal staff.

  Son of a bitch! The bloody whoreson had sent him a powerful message. Somehow the old man intercepted his letters to Isabella. It was a grievous mistake to write her. His traitorous father knew how much he cared and wanted to thwart all of Radolf’s plans.

  In the evening after classes, unsupervised older students of which he was one, went out to the local brothel. He drank until he couldn’t perform any longer. He cried in a whore’s arms when he couldn’t spill his seed because of the visions of Isabella and his father.

  “’Tis a sad story, my boy. Sleep in my arms. I’ll watch over you like a guardian angel.”

  He gazed at her young face and winced at the thought of what he’d done. How had he acquired a whore as a guardian angel?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  What Price Love?

  Wolferton savored the contentment of his Hertfordshire estate with all those he loved. In the kitchen,
there were good memories as a young boy with a staff who spoiled a sad child bereft of love and attention. His mother attempted to influence him, but with the old duke in residence, affection did not find its way to his youthful heart.

  When his father went on his many trips, much to the joy of family and staff, a different atmosphere permeated the country house. Upon his father’s return, terror reigned supreme.

  But today, it was so welcome after years and years of absence with only a few brief visits. It amazed him some things didn’t change. A thought crossed his mind. What a pity to live a life with nobody to cherish and mourn your death, and his father deserved nothing else. The old clichés haunted, but you reaped what you sowed—an old but appropriate proverb. He went back into the kitchen to speak with the cook.

  “Cook Bessie, I’ve asked Halbert to arrange a picnic lunch outside tomorrow, if the weather permits, for all the servants and groomsmen. I crave something roasted on the giant spit. Can you arrange this repast? Any leftovers will go to the men for their families. I am in more than a generous mood to be among those”—he looked away and held his glazed stare in check—“I cherish.”

  He accepted the responsibility and found, here and now, the burden did not seem too great. It was true everyone relied on him for the simple process of life—day to day—but the nights were the worst. Dreams turned into nightmares and smothered his peace.

  Now, he not only had Camille but Jaclyn to restore him. For one night, I’d like to be master of all I survey. I know I now have a good heart, but it is not a happy one.

  Wolferton turned away from the kitchen staff before he made a fool of himself and allowed a tear to escape. He wanted moments—new ones, to replace the horrors of his life.

  Back in his study, he worked on the ledger accounts and marked those items he wished to question with his overseer. Expenses seemed high against income. The dog, Kort rested alongside him in a gentle growl, and Wolferton laughed at the sounds of the contented animal. Did he snore? He’d have to ask Halbert. Except for wartime when they shared tents, he always slept alone.

 

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