by Millie Adams
And he did. Every plant. Every name. Latin and English. All the ways that they were taken care of. Trivia about how they were discovered. All of it was in his brain.
‘Which is your favourite?’
‘I do not have a favourite. They are all of equal fascination to me.’
‘You were brilliant.’
‘There is nothing useful about orchids.’
‘But you love them. That is why they are fascinating. It is the way that you see them that’s extraordinary.’
‘Beatrice...’
‘Philip, thank you for showing me this.’
‘I did not know how else to say... Except to say... I love you. I love you, and I am very sorry that I could not say it when you needed me to. Of the two of us, you are the stronger.’
Her chest burned. With joy. The satisfaction. With love.
‘It is my joy to be a warrior for you.’
‘I do not deserve you.’
‘If there’s one thing that I learned from being ill, it is that life is a gift. It is not about what you deserve or don’t deserve. Bad things happen. The glorious things too. And what if we had not stumbled into each other’s arms by the fire? That was a gift.’
‘We both fought very hard to become something we were not in the end.’
‘Did we?’
‘Yes. You to become James’s wife. Me to become Briggs. I think I will let the rest of the world continue to call me that. But as for you... I will be Philip. Only for you.’
‘And I am Beatrice. And it makes me happy.’
‘You are mine,’ he said. ‘And I care for what is mine.’
‘I know you do.’
‘I have some sweets for you.’
‘Why do I feel as if I’m being tempted?’
‘Because. You are. Now my darling wife... I feel that you should adequately show your love for me.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’ She looked up at him, and their eyes met. ‘Philip.’
Epilogue
There never was a man more frightened of his wife giving birth than the Duke of Brigham. Though perhaps her brother nearly matched him for anxiety. And when his daughter came into the world, with a healthy set of lungs, screaming, he could only give thanks that his wife’s lungs seemed just as healthy.
The pregnancy had gone well. And the doctor said the labour was one of the easier he had ever seen.
It was true each time his Duchess gave birth. One thing he marvelled at was how different his children were, one from the other. And yet, he did not love any of them less.
William, for his part, proved to be a good big brother, though he did sometimes resent his siblings getting into his things, most particularly his cards.
The last of their children came when William was seventeen.
‘I shall not like to be responsible for caring for this child when it cries,’ William said.
He had just graduated first from Oxford. A brilliant mind. He had never been the most popular at school, but the friends he did have were true indeed.
‘Do not worry, William. You will benefit from the practice,’ Beatrice said, patting him on the head. ‘After all, you will be a father one day.’
‘I shall need to travel more first,’ William said. ‘I have a plan to visit every country and territory.’
Beatrice smiled, if a bit sadly. ‘I have no doubt you will. But I will very much look forward to your return.’
‘You do not have to worry, Mother,’ William said. ‘I will always come back home.’
* * *
And such a home it was. Full. And never conventional. With orchids and cards filled with the places they dreamed of visiting. With toys all over the floor. And a riding crop in their bedchamber. His life might not be the life that his father thought the Duke of Brigham should have. And for that Briggs gave thanks every day.
Because he did not want to be the Duke of Brigham the way his father wished him to be. He only wished to be Philip. The man that Beatrice loved.
That was his greatest joy in all the world.
Beatrice had set out that day to be the architect of her own ruin. And instead, she had saved them both.
* * *
If you enjoyed this book, why not check out
this other great read by Millie Adams
Claimed for the Highlander’s Revenge
And look out for more stories from Millie Adams, coming soon!
Historical Note
There are a great many elements in Marriage Deal with the Devilish Duke that were not understood widely in the era the book is set, and that is intentional on my part. Had Beatrice’s childhood asthma been understood, and more easily treated, she would not have been weakened by the attempts to ‘cure’ her. If Briggs and his son’s mild Autism Spectrum Disorder had been diagnosed, if their differences had been given a place in society, rather than the forced assimilation that was required, they would have had very different lives—especially Briggs, who I believe, with Beatrice’s help, set about to make a better space in the world for William to be himself.
It is the same with Serena’s mental health and James’s sexuality, and Briggs’s sexuality as well. As a society we ostracized and feared what we did not understand. In our modern times, there are labels for all and everything, but it is not labels (however helpful!) that truly advance society. It is empathy and human connection. Without labels, Beatrice was able to accept people as they were because of her position slightly outside society. She was willing to take someone just as they were, applying the kindest lens to them, which created space even in an era before labels. That is my deepest hope for the future. That we might meet on common ground, rather than focusing on differences. That we might greet people with love, and an open heart, for that is where real progress lies.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Stranded with the Reclusive Earl by Eva Shepherd.
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Stranded with the Reclusive Earl
by Eva Shepherd
Chapter One
Cornwall 1890
Lady Iris Springfeld was an enigma. Everywhere she went, the whispers exchanged behind gloved hands and fans were always the same. Why wasn’t she married? After all, she possessed the necessary qualities a man looked for in a wife. She was beautiful, graceful, sweet-natured and was known to come with a sizeable marriage settlement.
During her first Season, when she turned down several proposals, no one thought anything was amiss, as an attractive daughter of an earl could have her pick. She must be waiting for a better offer, everyone assumed. By the end of her second Season, with still no marriage prospects, a few eyebrows were raised, a few questions were asked, but most expected a marriage announcement to happen some time soon. But now that she had reached the advanced age of twenty-three, in the middle of her fifth Season, and still no ring on her finger, Society ladies were avidly discussing the situation.
Something must be wrong with Iris Springfeld.
What the gossips didn’t know was that Iris harboured a closely guarded secret, one she had only shared with her two sisters, Daisy and Hazel. Unlike most members of the British aristocracy, Iris Springfeld was determined to marry for love. Until she met a man she truly loved, one she knew for certain loved her for who she really was, not her pretty face and not her social status, she would remain single.
And that man most certainly would not be Lord Pratley. Iris shuddered and pulled her jacket more tightly around her arms to try and protect herself from the inclement weather. Lord Pratley had been taking full advantage of Iris’s presence at Lady Walberton’s house party to pursue her relentlessly, so relentlessly he
had driven her to take the dramatic action of feigning a headache and telling her mother she needed an early night.
She didn’t like lying to her mother, but what choice did she have? It was the only sensible course of action she could take under the circumstances. She was sure if Lord Pratley had given her one more compliment she would have forgotten every lesson that had been drummed into her on correct etiquette and how a young lady must conduct herself in Society, and would have given him what for.
Iris wiped away the raindrop dripping from her nose. If Lord Pratley could see her now, she doubted if he would be complimenting her on her beauty. Not when that thick blonde hair, which he admired so much, was no longer piled on top of her head in a carefully structured coiffure but hanging in a bedraggled mess down her back. He most certainly would not be describing her now limp locks as like spun gold or silken sunlight. As for her eyes, the ones he had said were as blue as cornflowers, and designed to capture a man’s heart, they were now hardly visible as she squinted through the increasingly heavy rain.
And it would be stretching the truth to say she was graceful and elegant, certainly not in her present circumstances. With her fashionable blue hat flopping around her face like a damp rag, her pale blue skirt now splattered with mud and her boots full of water, she looked more like a tramp than a fashionable young lady. She giggled to herself, wishing he could see how she looked. On second thoughts, she was sure he would still be able to think of some fawning comment to make, even about this state of dishevelment.
Her giggle turned to a grimace as wet mud flowed over the top of her ankle boots. She looked down to discover she was standing in the middle of a puddle, and her once cream silk boots were now a dirty brown. Extracting herself from the sucking mud, she tried not to think about the damage she was doing. Her lady’s maid was not going to be happy when she finally returned home and all this bedraggled clothing had to be washed and mended.
Perhaps it wasn’t the most sensible thing to do—go for a muddy walk in clothing designed for spending a comfortable evening in a warm drawing room and light footwear that had never been expected to withstand the rigours of country paths.
Claiming to have a headache so she could retire to her room had seemed like a good idea at the time. As had her plan to quickly escape from the house so she could have a quiet walk. All she had wanted was to enjoy the sunset and a few moments’ peace away from Lord Pratley’s flattery. How was she supposed to know that the weather in Cornwall could change so quickly?
If Iris were superstitious, she would see this drenching as the price she had to pay for telling her mother a white lie. Could a small white lie really cause the gods to make the wind howl, the rain to pelt down and to turn what had previously been a cloudy but otherwise pleasant early evening into a raging tempest just to punish Iris for telling lies?
As if the gods were listening in on her thoughts, the rain fell harder. She pulled her sodden hat more tightly down onto her head. ‘All right, all right,’ she said to the all-powerful gods. ‘You’ve proved your point. I shouldn’t have lied to Mother.’
And to make matters worse, it appeared she was now completely lost. She paused in her trudging along the path to look around. All these fields looked exactly the same, so how was she expected to get her bearings? And she was sure she had passed that barn already. Or did all barns in the Cornish countryside look identical?
What was becoming increasingly obvious was she had no idea how to get home and she needed help. While getting a thorough drenching was perhaps preferrable to an evening in Lord Pratley’s company, it was starting to get dark, and even his company would be better than being stuck out in the countryside in the middle of the night during a storm.
She looked ahead, turned and looked behind, and pulled her jacket more tightly around her shoulders. Either direction could be the way back to the Walbertons’ estate, and either way could also take her further from her destination. There was only one thing for it. She hadn’t passed a single soul on the path since the rain started, so there was unlikely to be anyone from whom she could get directions. Apparently, the sensible people of Cornwall did not go out walking in storms, so she was going to have to seek help at the very next house she came to.
It was unacceptable behaviour for a young lady to approach an unknown house, uninvited and alone, but what choice did she have? Staying out in this weather all night long was the only other option, and that was no option at all. Surely the rules of etiquette could be abandoned under these conditions.
She took another look behind her, flicked up her jacket collar and made a decision. There was no point retracing her steps. It was better to just keep walking and stop at the very next house she came to, and if no houses appeared before it got dark, she would shelter in one of those identical barns.
At least it was an adventure, she tried to console herself as she walked, or, more accurately, squelched along the muddy track, but it was an adventure she would like to come to an end, sooner rather than later.
She turned the corner, looked in every direction but still saw no houses.
‘All right,’ she called out to anyone who might be listening, including the weather gods. ‘I’ve been suitably punished for lying to my mother.’ She placed her hand on her heart. ‘I solemnly swear that I will never lie to my mother again. If you return me safely to Lady Walberton’s house, I will never, ever misbehave again. I will conduct myself in an exemplary manner throughout the rest of the house party. I will smile politely, laugh at the men’s jokes, listen to the women’s gossip and even join in with my own titbits of information. And I will never tell a lie, never, ever again.’
She waited for the rain to stop falling, the wind to settle down, and a sign to appear pointing her in the direction of the Walbertons’. None of these things happened, so she continued trudging along the path, muttering her annoyance at herself.
Just as she was starting to think that Cornwall was an uninhabited part of the British Isles a large house appeared in the distance. Looking up at it, while holding her hat on her head so it wouldn’t be whipped away by the wind, she said a silent thank-you.
Trying to avoid the worst of the mud, she walked towards the house, then stopped at the start of the long driveway.
‘Please be home, and please be kind,’ she muttered under her breath as she took in the rough stone exterior. Crenellated battlements ran along the top edge of the building and round turrets stood proud and tall at the four corners, showing that it had once been a castle before being converted to a manor house. It was a somewhat forbidding exterior, one originally designed to repel intruders.
But this was not the Middle Ages, she reminded herself as she traipsed up the driveway. It was the eighteen-nineties, not the fourteen-nineties. It was a time of steam trains, electric streetlights, even underground railways—certainly not the Dark Ages, when a man’s home really had been his castle and he had defended it with all the might at his disposal. She paused in her walking and looked up at the building. No, this was not the Middle Ages, a time when young maidens could be held captive in turrets.
She gulped down her trepidation. Now was not the time to get fanciful and be intimidated by the look of a house. On a sunny day it probably looked welcoming and friendly. It was surely just the storm that was making it look like something from one of those gothic novels she so loved to read.
And what choice did she have? She could hardly wait until a friendly cottage appeared with roses round the door and a welcoming mat at the doorstep. No, this intimidating castle would have to suffice.
She approached the house and scanned the windows for lights but found none. Did that mean no one was home? Hopefully, that was not the case. The rain was now falling even more heavily, and the wind was getting stronger. The storm was giving no impression of being about to settle down at all soon and the last thing she wanted was to continue wandering aimlessly around the countryside.
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At least the doorway was covered. Finally, she could shelter from the rain. She took off her rather useless blue hat and wrung out the water. The hat was the height of fashion, with its ostrich feathers, lace and bows, but it had been useless at protecting her from the elements and now looked rather sad and pathetic. She brushed down her skirt, trying to remove some of the mud from the bottom, and did her best to straighten her hair.
If her mother could see her now, she would be horrified. Not only was Iris doing something almost unforgivable in approaching a stranger’s door unaccompanied, but she was doing it while looking like a complete fright. Escaping from the party really had been a mistake. One that must never be repeated, she reminded herself. She raised her eyes skyward, hoping the gods were still listening to her remorseful thoughts and would take further pity on this poor, drenched creature and ensure that the owners of the house gave her a warm welcome.
She took hold of the brass ring in the mouth of a rather stern-looking lion, and pounded on the solid black wooden door, praying it would be heard above the sound of the storm.
Then she waited. And waited.
Please, please, someone be at home.
She pounded again, harder, with more desperation. Was she going to have to spend the night sheltered in this doorway like a beggar?
Bolts scraped open. Locks clanked as keys were turned. Iris was tempted to run from the ominous sound, then covered her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle. What was she expecting? That the Frankenstein monster was living in Cornwall and was about to attack her? That a ghostly apparition was going to appear before her?
She really did have to stop reading those gothic novels.
The door opened and a rather pleasant-looking, smartly dressed butler peered around the half-open door, the stub of a candle flickering in his pewter candle holder.
