Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1)

ELEANOR AND THE DUKE ~ By Margo Maguire This is a work of fiction. References to historical events, real people, or real locales are entirely fictional. Names, characters, places and incidents in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Mad About Ivy: © 2014 by Margo Maguire

Berkshire. Late July, 1817

The honorable Miss Eleanor Easton was so furious she could have spit. But ladies did not spit, either in public or in private, no matter how despicable their fathers might be. Even their deceased fathers.

“I do not understand your rush, Eleanor,” said Minerva Easton, quietly posing her question after Eleanor’s maid had fallen asleep. “My brother is not yet cold in his grave and here we are, in a hired carriage, flying off to Berks—”

“’Tis two weeks since Father passed away, Aunt Minerva. And after what he’s done . . .”

Eleanor tamped down the grief that threatened to overwhelm her and allowed her anger to surface. She refused to grieve for her irresponsible, unfaithful sire who’d written his will so that she would be forced to beg for funds from the one man to whom she had not spoken in over a year, and refused to speak to now.

Her father, Viscount Derington, had lived his life frivolously, squandering his wealth so that he was in possession of very little beyond his entailment at his death. The meager annuity he’d left his only child would be enough to keep her and Aunt Minerva from the streets, but it was an unforgiveable insult that he had not put her in charge of it.

He’d left the funds under the control of Andrew Howard, the Duke of Beckworth!

Eleanor ground her teeth in frustration at the thought of dealing with her former fiancé.

“I do not understand why you are so upset,” Minerva said.

Eleanor looked squarely at her aunt and tried to be patient. The woman was her father’s elder sister, but never the sharpest needle in the basket. Of course she was still grieving the loss of her younger brother, her only sibling. Eleanor was sympathetic. To a point.

“You remember the April before last,” Eleanor said, “when I – well, when Father and I – accepted Beckworth’s marriage offer?”

Minerva’s brows came together. “You seemed so very pleased at first. I thought it such a perfect match, and yet you left London so suddenly before your nuptials. You upset your father . . .”

Yes, she had.

But his upset was naught compared to her own. Eleanor had been enthralled by the Duke of Beckworth – Beck, as he was known to his closest friends. She’d fancied herself in love with him – the handsomest, most charming gentleman who’d ever requested a dance. He’d left his cadre of stylish followers to court her, an inconsequential viscount’s daughter from Berkshire.

He had courted her diligently, as though she were the most desirable young lady in Town. He’d sent her numerous bouquets of flowers and even a pretty locket on a golden chain. He’d declared his love and admiration, and Eleanor was certain he would soon propose.

He’d taken her onto his yacht that night, and they’d cruised down the Thames – with Aunt Minerva conveniently ensconced inside a luxurious stateroom with a favorite book and a decanter of sherry. Though Eleanor knew her aunt would fall asleep after only a few pages, Minerva’s presence on board the yacht had fulfilled her role as chaperone exactly as Eleanor preferred. Present, but elsewhere.

Eleanor had worn a buttery yellow evening gown of satin and silk with a décolletage she’d known her handsome suitor would appreciate. Rather, she’d known it would drive him mad.

His admiration during supper had been blatant, and his appreciative regard had warmed Eleanor’s blood considerably. Desire and longing had rushed through her veins while she’d tried to eat, and she’d been able to think of little besides the brush of his lips on her hand, and the heft of his muscles when he put her hand in the crook of his elbow.

With his powerful horseman’s build, Eleanor could easily imagine him as a fierce knight of antiquity, dressed in armor, protecting his lady fair against any who would do her harm. And yet a lock of his hair had a tendency to droop over his forehead, and his smile was so boyishly charming that Eleanor found it impossible to resist him.

She remembered that special evening on the yacht as though it had just happened. She had felt positively naked under Beck’s heated gaze, and he would only have had to say the word and she’d have disrobed right there in the dining chamber, presenting herself as his main course.

But he’d taken her hand and led her away from the table, seating her at a delicately embroidered Queen Anne chair. Then he’d gone down on one knee before her and taken her hands in his.

He’d asked her to become his wife.

How could Eleanor’s heart do anything but melt with love for this man? He was all she could ever want in a husband – handsome and self-possessed without being arrogant or vain. He had an innate kindness that endeared him to her more than any other quality. He was the exact opposite of her father.

She had agreed to marry him, of course. As soon as she’d said the word, he’d stood and pulled her up, into his arms. His first kiss had been a light brushing of his lips over hers. And then he’d kissed her as though his very life had depended upon her answer.

“Oh, Beck . . .” she whispered.

“It’s Andrew, my darling. Andrew to you, always.”

Eleanor shivered at the intimacy of his given name, and should have felt shock when his tongue had first touched hers, but that sensual caress had melted her bones. And when he’d lifted her into his arms and carried her into his private chamber, she had not resisted his seduction. She’d reveled in it.

Andrew had awakened the wanton in her, though he’d made love to her with a care and tenderness that had touched her so deeply, she’d wanted to hurry their nuptials so she never had to spend another night without him.

He’d already spoken to her father and received his consent to their marriage, so as they lay together in his richly appointed quarters, they’d set the date for the ceremony – an agonizing four weeks hence.

The month had been interminable. Eleanor and Andrew had only managed to steal away once again to satisfy their longings, and that fiery episode had only whetted her appetite for more.

But then Eleanor had learned the unthinkable. All through the weeks of their courtship and engagement, while Andrew had been professing his love for her, he’d been visiting his mistress with some regularity.

He was as bad as her father.

Even now, Eleanor’s blood boiled at the thought of Beckworth’s disingenuous attentions. What a rake. What a rogue. What an absolute scoundrel!

Obviously, he’d decided to wed her – a naïve country mouse – believing she was so unsophisticated she would never notice that he’d kept his fancy woman. Or women. Perhaps he thought that if she happened to take note, she could be cowed into accepting the situation.

Eleanor would never wed such a man – a mirror image of her philandering father - and yet it was Beckworth who now managed her trust, the annuity that was to be Eleanor’s livelihood. She would not be able to maintain Primrose Manor – her house in Berkshire, near Reading – without asking the duke for funds. It was unthinkable, and absolutely untenable. Eleanor intended to challenge her father’s will in court. She did not care how long it took, she would wrest control from the deceitful duke and live on her own terms.

“Yes, I refused to marry Beckworth. But Father has seen to it that I must go to the duke . . .” her former lover, and the man who had crushed her heart, “and beg for my livelihood.” As though her father believed that might cause her to soften toward the man. If anything, it hardened her heart even more.

“Your father and Beckworth’s had strong ties. And he is a duke, besides. You could not have done better—”