The Duke's Last Hunt (13 page)

“I must tell your mother the glad tidings,” said Sir Arthur, clapping his hands together. He took Eliza’s hand in his and pressed it.

“Yes, do,” said the duchess, “and tell her I hope she will be recovered enough to join us this evening to celebrate.”

Sir Arthur bowed to his hostess and departed from the dining room.

“Come, Eliza,” said Adele, drawing her away from her brother. “We must discuss a whole new bridal wardrobe for you. And your wedding trip! You and Rufus
must
go to Italy.”

Eliza looked over at her intended and saw his brow furrow. He cleared his throat. “Italy is a little far, don’t you think, Adele, with things being so unsettled on the continent? And I would not wish to leave the estate. Better to stay close to home, I think.”

“Oh, how dull!” said Adele. “When I get married, I shall certainly wish to travel. And not just to Italy, but to Greece and Spain as well.”

Eliza could not help but look at Mr. Blount. He looked a little worried himself—Eliza wondered how well his finances could afford the extensive traveling that Adele had in mind.

She did not mind that Rufus did not wish to travel abroad, but perhaps they could take a wedding trip to the north of England or to Scotland. If she was to marry a man she barely knew, it would be nice to become acquainted with him when it was only the two of them—rather than in a large house full of servants with the duke’s family always waiting in the wings.

“…and you must have a veil of Chantilly lace,” Adele was saying. Eliza murmured something polite, but her mind was not really on the subject. Rufus, bored with the conversation, had drifted over to where his brother Robert stood. Eliza could not hear the gist of their exchange, but within moments, they had both headed for the door, looking as if they had some business to discuss—either that, or a particularly excellent glass of brandy was calling their names.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. While the other gentlemen made themselves scarce, Mr. Blount soldiered manfully through the nuptial planning well into the afternoon, offering helpful affirmations to queries about flowers and candles. A few times Eliza suspected that Adele was far more interested in Mr. Blount’s opinion than in hers, perhaps making mental notes about a different wedding that might one day come to pass.

It was not until dinnertime that the dreaded moment occurred—the moment when Eliza must see Henry Rowland again, after flouting—so blatantly—his well-meant advice that morning. Rufus met her outside the dining room and led her in for dinner. He attempted no more displays of affection, for which Eliza was grateful.

She half expected Lord Henry to ignore her or else to glower at her, but whatever annoyance he might be feeling, he was concealing it admirably. When Rufus seated her beside him, Lord Henry contrived to take the chair on her other side. Eliza swallowed hard and tried to maintain her composure.

“I hear you’ve had an eventful day,” Lord Henry murmured, holding out the platter of veal cakes.

Eliza’s hand shook as she laid her fork down on the side of her plate and took a small veal cake. “Yes, so it seems.”

Rufus, who had been resting against the cushioned back of his chair, lips pursed in thought, leaned forward at this. “Are you not going to congratulate me, Henry?” He took Eliza’s hand in his. It was hard and rough from handling the reins of his horses, and Eliza felt her own hand dwarfed by its size.

“Yes, I believe congratulations are in order,” said Lord Henry, clearly and confidently, “to one of the parties at least. Congratulations, Rufus.” He raised a glass to his brother and took a sip.

“Thank you,” said Rufus smugly. He left his hand atop Eliza’s, like an explorer’s flag on some newly claimed piece of territory. “I am excited that I will soon be able to install my wife as mistress of this place.” He looked around the table, and Eliza—if it was not her imagination—noticed that his gaze halted when it came to his mother.

“I am sure you will wish to make some changes as most brides do,” said the duchess, addressing Eliza in an even tone. “And I am sure that
I
shall not stand in your way.”

“Of course not, Mother,” said Rufus, “and I applaud your decision to move out to the Dower House following the wedding.”

There was a pause following that statement, until Adele broke in with a little cry of indignation. “The Dower House! Why should you wish to move into that moldy pile, Mother? I was told I must never go near it on account of it being in such poor repair.”

“Oh, is that the story going around about it?” said Lord Henry innocently. “I was not aware that the Dower House was dilapidated…or vacant.”

“It has been for three months or more,” Rufus snapped.

“How trying for you,” replied his younger brother.

Eliza began to feel that she had fallen headlong into some tangled family quarrel and could find neither head nor tail of the string.

“But who was living there?” demanded Adele.

“Caretakers,” said Rufus shortly. “They are gone now.”

“How many do we expect for the luncheon tomorrow?” asked the duchess, deftly deflecting the topic. As the details of the next day’s hunt filled the air, Eliza was able to retrieve her hand from underneath the duke’s large paw.

13

A
fter dinner, the ladies adjourned to the drawing room, and after a suitable interval, half the gentlemen made their appearance—the duke, Mr. Turold, and Lord Henry were absent. Eliza endured three quarters of an hour of hearing her father discuss business ventures with Mr. Curtis—acting for all the world as if he had money to scatter about—then pleaded a headache and deserted the drawing room. Did he really think Rufus would be so full of largesse to his newly acquired relations?

The summer sun was just beginning to dip behind the horizon, and instead of retiring to her rooms, Eliza sought solitude outside in the gardens. The roses were inviting at this time of day, the low sun bathing them in a gentle glow. Eliza admired the scent of a few of them before turning down the path that led past the garden maze. She would find her bench and sit and think.

But the solitude she craved was not to be found tonight. She had no sooner sat down and smoothed out her skirts than she heard men’s voices from the maze behind her.

“Why her?” asked a surly voice. “There could be so many others.”

“Why not?” replied his companion. She recognized the duke’s voice. “She’s beautiful, and in just the style I like. She’s unassuming. She’s vulnerable.”

“She’s a simpleton,” said the other man.

Eliza nearly gasped aloud but instead put a hand over her mouth.

“And what of it?” replied the duke.

Eliza did not think she would ever be able to forgive him for that. She knew that she was painfully shy, awkward even—but that he should think her a simpleton? An imbecile? Her hands balled into fists.

“A clever girl would not come along with me so easily. I suppose what I should do is thank you for the introduction, as it were. I would never have noticed her if it had not been for you.”

Eliza’s fingernails dug into her palms. What was it that her mother had remembered? That she had danced with Walter Turold at some assembly? It must have been he that set the duke on her scent. It must be he conversing with her betrothed behind the hedge.

A stir of movement from somewhere nearby caught her by surprise. Someone else was there outside the maze—a second eavesdropper.

She stood up quickly and felt a rush of dizziness and sent up a silent prayer that she would not faint. Her ankle turned slightly on the uneven grass, and in a moment Lord Henry was at her side, one hand supporting her arm, the other with finger pressed against his lips enjoining her to silence.

Time seemed broken as Lord Henry led her quietly down the path. Eliza felt hot tears running down her face. She could not look up. Which was more awful—that the man she was to marry thought thus of her, or that Lord Henry had overheard the shameful words?

They had half circumambulated the house now and put the building between themselves and the hedge maze. In another couple moments they would come round to the porch between the columns and the front door of the house. The yellow twilight was turning to purple and blue, and shadows were all around.

Lord Henry stopped, pulling Eliza to a halt as well. He turned to face her without loosening his grip on her elbow. A quick glance through her own wet eyelashes showed his dark eyes full of concern. “Eliza…”

She tried to pull away.

“What you heard—”

“Please! As you are a gentleman, I beg you not to speak of it.”

His lips parted in protest, but no argument came forth. She had disallowed him the office of friend, and he was too kind to force the intimacy upon her.

“May I escort you back to the house?” He had let go of her and was offering his arm properly now.

Eliza wiped the back of her hand over her tear-stained cheeks. “As long as you leave me at the door to enter on my own.” She did not want to be seen in his company—not while in such a state.

“As you wish.”

They rounded the corner of the house and climbed the steps. Eliza needed to be rid of him then, before the butler or the footmen took notice. “Good night, your lordship.”

“Henry,” he reiterated. “I believe the familiarity is justified now that you have agreed to become my sister.”

Is that what she had agreed to? At the thought of such a consequence, she began to sob uncontrollably. Pulling the door open, she ran into the house, through the saloon, and up the stairs to her room where she fell on her bed and wept until the summer’s night went black.

* * *

Henry paused by the door,
his brow knit in consternation. A wretched business, this. What exactly had Eliza overheard? She must have heard enough to know that Rufus—on the very day he was proposing marriage to her—was pursuing another woman.

Whatever she had heard, it had cut her to the core. Her face was absolutely stricken, her body trembling with shock. Henry was torn by conflicting emotions of rage and pity. He wanted to strike Rufus across the face and call him out with a brace of pistols. He wanted to fold Eliza Malcolm in his arms and still her shaking until she felt safe again.

But first there were other affairs that must be handled. He stopped staring at the door behind which Eliza had disappeared and returned to the maze. The voices behind the maze were silent now. Rufus was nowhere to be seen, and Walter was pacing beside the entrance. He looked up at the sound of Henry’s footfalls, his long hair falling around his face in lank curls. “Well, did you hear it?”

“Not all of it,” answered Henry. “I was…interrupted.”

“He threw it in my face at first, said it was my fault he had even noticed her, but when he came to see that I was in earnest, he changed his tune. Said he’d stay away from her and not so much as lay a finger on her—an especial favor to me.”

“And you believed him?”

“Like I believe the devil! He’ll search her out again at his first opportunity.”

“Did you part quarreling?”

Walter snorted and kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. “No, I let him
think
he’d convinced me. Thanked him for his grand gesture.” He spat on the ground. “But what now? How do I stop him?”

Henry felt a peculiar rush of pleasure at the question—could it be that Walter respected his opinion?—but also a poignant sense of loss. Ten years gone of nothing but silence between them. Ten years of friendship wasted, or even worse, ceded to Rufus, for after that awful event, Walter had turned to his older brother for companionship. Perhaps Walter still respected his opinion on this matter, but it was as certain as rain in spring that he no longer respected
him
.

“You should warn the Reverend,” said Henry. It was the only reasonable course of action.

Walter scowled and did not respond.

“Is there any reason not to?”

“He has a…weak heart.”

“Truly?” Henry remembered the Reverend’s sturdy physique. “He does not look it.”

“It’s true though,” growled Walter, “and it’ll startle him badly to hear of this. She’s the apple of his eye. His only jewel.”

“I do not doubt you,” said Henry placatingly. “Well then, have you a better idea?”

“I must watch Rufus. All the time. Never let him out of my sight till we’re back in London.”

“Is that…possible?”

Walter shrugged. “It will have to be.”

* * *

Eliza’s eyes blinked open. They
felt puffy and dry after her tears last night, and her body craved another hour of sleep. But a noise in her room had awakened her. She saw a blond woman in a dark dress hovering over the small couch at the foot of the bed.

It was certainly not Ollerton.

“Excuse me, what are you doing?” asked Eliza, sitting up abruptly as her sleepy eyes focused on the intruder’s white cap and apron.

“Beg your pardon, miss,” said the maid, bobbing a curtsey. She turned to leave the room. It was the same blond maid that Eliza had seen “conversing” with Henry—no,
Lord
Henry—in the hallway three days ago. Eliza could not help feeling an instant dislike towards her, coupled with the knowledge that such a dislike was unworthy of her.

“Wait,” said Eliza, throwing back the bedclothes and sliding out of the bed. “What is this?” Clad only in her chemise, she walked over to the Roman couch where a green dress—somewhere between the green of the grass and the green of the forest—lay spread out with care. Eliza stroked the fabric and found it soft as lambskin.

“If you please, miss,” said the maid with another curtsey, “it is a riding habit.”

“But there must be some mistake. It is not mine.”

The maid gestured to a little white card posted like a placard on the green landscape of fabric. Eliza picked it up and turned it over.

To Miss Malcolm, with my warmest regards

There was no signature. But even so, Eliza was almost certain who had written those words. Did the maid know as well?

“Could you please tell me who sent this?”

“Oh….” The maid’s eyes turned wary. “I couldn’t say, miss.”

“I’m sure you must know who gave it to you.”

There was no reply.

In normal circumstances, a newly-engaged lady might expect an anonymous gift to come from her betrothed. Eliza steeled herself to pretend that all was normal. “It must be from the duke,” she remarked innocently.

Again, there was no reply, although Eliza detected a sneer rippling across the pretty maid’s nose. She contemplated sending for the housekeeper and questioning the maid in front of her—that would get some answers—but then again, it might also have negative repercussions for the maid. As much as she disliked the maid, Eliza did not wish the girl to be let go on
her
account.

“Thank you. You may go.”

The maid disappeared within seconds.

Eliza could see the hem of her golden gown peeking out from the door of the wardrobe. The maid must have returned that dress as well.

She looked at the little white card again. “With my warmest regards.” No, it was not from the duke. Never mind the fact that it was too thoughtful of a present for him to give—it had probably never occurred to him whether she owned a riding habit or not—it was also too ambiguous a note. She could not imagine him giving a gift without claiming ownership of it. Rather than favoring an anonymous card, he would have had his name embroidered on the dress itself.

But if not from the duke, then from whom?

Eliza’s mind danced around the obvious possibility. Who was the one person who knew the outdated style of her old riding habit? Who was the one person on cordial enough terms with that blond maid to enjoin her to silence?

She took a deep breath, unsure how she felt about such a gift from…him.

Picking up the green habit, she held it out full length. The elegant lines of the bodice were a marked contrast to the boxy shape of her old brown habit. How had he been able to order such an exquisite garment to be made on such short notice? A longing fluttered inside of her to put on her mysterious present, to feel the bodice fitting tightly over her breasts and the skirt cascading smoothly over her hips.

Even alone in her chamber, her cheeks began to redden. She dropped the garment guiltily. A knock sounded on the door, and without waiting for a response Lady Malcolm stepped into the room. “Good morning, daughter,” she said crisply, walking over to give her daughter a kiss on the cheek.

Eliza was surprised at the unusual display of affection.

“Your father told me about yesterday’s events. I must confess, I had hoped you would visit me in my rooms to tell me yourself, even though I was indisposed.” Lady Malcolm sniffed the sniff of undeserved persecution.

“I am terribly sorry, Mama,” said Eliza in dismay. In truth, it had been most remiss of her—she ought to have been able to overcome her own distress enough to do the duty of a daughter. But then, it was doing her duty that had occasioned the distress in the first place.

“It is no matter now,” said Lady Malcolm, magnanimously setting aside her own wounded feelings as a mother should. “Your father tells me you are not as happy about the match as some young ladies might be.”

“No.” Eliza stared at the floor.

“I am sorry, my dear. Marriage of any sort is a trial that a woman must bear up under. The Apostle Paul himself recommended that it were better to remain unwed since the unwed virgin cares more for the things of the Lord. But in this current world and with your father’s financial affairs being what they are….” Lady Malcolm sighed and then continued. “I suppose the brevity of the acquaintance must give you pause. However, the duke seems eager to tie up the matter quickly, and your father does as well. One must hope that love will come later for you, or if not, then at least felicity and companionship.”

“Yes, Mama.” Eliza bit her lip. Felicity…that was what her parents had—or if not always felicity, then at least companionship. Perhaps it was foolish to hope for anything more. Perhaps it was enough to have a husband who admired his wife’s appearance…while deploring her intellect. Eliza shuddered.

“What is this?” Lady Malcolm picked up the green riding habit and held it out with a puzzled stare.

Eliza handed her mother the unsigned card.

“Ah, from the duke,” Lady Malcolm surmised. It was clear that her mother had scant knowledge of the character of her future son-in-law. Lady Malcolm handed the card back to Eliza. “A romantic gesture, surely”—Eliza’s lack of enthusiasm must have registered on her face—“but perhaps it is not in your temperament to appreciate such things.”

“Oh, certainly it is!” said Eliza, losing some of her restraint.

Lady Malcolm frowned. “I am not sure I entirely approve of such a gift, but I suppose it will do little harm to have you wear it.” She opened the door where Ollerton was waiting for the conclusion of the conference between mother and daughter, and together they helped fit the new riding habit onto Eliza.

When they had finished, they stood back and looked at her. Neither said a word.

“Well?” asked Eliza, a little apprehensively, taking hold of the train to allow herself greater ease in walking.

“You are beautiful, Miss Eliza,” said Ollerton, her old eyes shining. Eliza’s mother nodded a silent but unqualified approval.