The Dark Duke

It was the Reverend Canon Lyton Smeech, the vicar of the local church. He had held that living for several years at the discretion of the duchess, and apparently he still felt beholden enough to fawn over the woman.

Adrian heard another feminine voice murmur a greeting, and thought he recognized it as Hester Pimblett’s.

A rare smile crossed his face. A most surprising young woman, Hester. Outwardly so timid and demure, obedient and pliable. But only outwardly, for it took no small inner strength to ignore his stepmother, and no small courage to enter the Dark Duke’s bedchamber, even if he was ostensibly asleep, given his reputation as a lascivious libertine.

Well, perhaps not courage. Perhaps nothing more than feminine curiosity. Or a passionate nature beneath the self-effacing facade.

He rose slowly. He had met that type of woman before, the kind who used the trap of sweet modesty to get a jaded cad’s attention. Once he got her alone, she would say they were acting most improperly, all the while pressing her lithe, shapely body against his. It was hypocrisy at its finest, and he knew hypocrisy very well indeed.

Another voice responded, that of a younger man. He wasn’t aware of any visitors expected today, which was not surprising really, considering his hostile relationship with the duchess. Who could it be?

Maybe it was someone to be avoided, like the Reverend Canon Smeech. Or maybe it was a gentleman with some interest in the quiet Lady Hester. There was a fascinating course of speculation, and one worthy of further investigation, if for no other reason than to provide some necessary distraction.

Adrian smiled grimly as he limped into the house.

Chapter Three (#ulink_91145933-19a2-5fc4-9b20-96eb51dac0ce)

“A, um, most trying surprise for you, I’m sure, Your Grace, the Reverend Canon Sraeech intoned pityingly.

“Nobody knows how I suffer,” the duchess responded plaintively. “Hester,” she snapped in an aside to her companion, “I need my fan!”

Hester, seated in a small chair to the right and slightly behind the duchess’s sofa, reached forward with the necessary article. The canon strolled to the windows, and Hester smiled at the curate who had arrived with the august clergyman, Reverend Hamish McKenna, who was looking decidedly uncomfortable. Whether it was because he was overwhelmed by the magnificence of his surroundings or not sure how to respond to the robust duchess’s claims of illness, Hester wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, he managed to smile briefly in response.

“Yes, nobody knows how I suffer!” the duchess continued. “Another scandal! The name of Fitzwaiter—which my son also possesses!—dragged in the mud. What is a mother to do?”

“Perhaps if you spoke with the duke,” Reverend McKenna offered gently, his Scots accent giving his words a slight burr.

The duchess looked startled, and Reverend Canon Smeech gave his curate a censorious look.

“It was merely a suggestion,” the reverend said helplessly.

“An inappropriate one,” the canon replied. “The duchess has no wish or need to sully herself by contact with the duke.”

Hester couldn’t help feeling sorry for Reverend McKenna. It wouldn’t be easy working with Reverend Canon Smeech, who was the type of clergyman who clearly considered the few needs of the wealthy of his parish first and foremost, and left the bulk of the work to his assistant.

“Did I hear someone mention the duke?” the nobleman asked as he strolled into the room.

Reverend McKenna rose in greeting, the duchess frowned and the canon bowed. “Your Grace,” he said with a smile. “We were not expecting you.”

“So I gather,” the duke noted as he continued toward the sofa and seated himself beside his stepmother. “We meet again, Canon Smeech.”

The duchess inched away as if the duke had a disease, Hester noted.

She also noted that he looked quite rested, his leg apparently caused him no trouble, his hair was considerably more tidy than the last time she had seen him, his clothes fit to perfection, and he didn’t seem to notice she was there.

Which should not be surprising or cause for dismay.

“My -lord, allow me to present Reverend Hamish McKenna, my curate, “the older clergyman said with an obsequious bow, and Hester had to stifle a smile. Obviously the poor canon didn’t want to offend either the duke or the duchess. “Your stepmother was telling us of your, ah, wound.”

“Was she?” he asked lightly. “Must have been a short discourse, since I have told her so little about it. Please sit down, Smeech. You, too, Reverend McKenna.”

Reverend Canon Smeech blushed at the duke’s lack of courtesy, and so did Hamish McKenna, from the roots of his red hair to the bottom of his freckled chin, as he sat on a chair opposite Hester, who gave him a warm and understanding smile. The duke’s overpowering presence was enough to cast a pall over the most mundane of conversations, a fact brought forcefully home when he glanced at her. He made her feel as if she had suddenly been put on display at the Crystal. Palace.

Adrian looked from Lady Hester, wearing the plainest of blue gowns and seated like some quiet little serving maid beside his stepmother, to the blushing young clergyman. Were they ordaining children these days? Surely this fellow was far too young to be in orders, Adrian thought, until Reverend McKenna smiled at Hester. Not so very young, after all. And what was he to make of her, so cool and composed? “I trust you slept well, Lady Hester?” Adrian asked.

“Quite well,” she replied with equanimity. “Did you?”

“Yes,” he replied, somewhat nonplussed. He began to wonder if he had imagined last night, when he thought she had come into his bedroom. Or maybe he had been dreaming, and he had pulled the bell rope to summon James, who had been dispatched to fetch his master a drink to soothe his restless sleep.

They all sat in awkward silence for several minutes, and Adrian did nothing to lessen the tension. He was well aware his stepmother was bursting to speak and complain about him. If his presence stopped her, he would sit here for the rest of the day, and they could all be silent. As for the others, including the confusing Lady Hester, he didn’t care if they were uncomfortable or not.

Then Lady Hester addressed Canon Smeech. “I understand the harvest was particularly good this year.”

“Ah, indeed, um, yes. Very fine, very fine.”

The canon rambled on for some time about the crops and livestock of the village of Barroughby, needing no further prompting to indulge in the sound of his own deep, sonorous tones, and Adrian realized something had gone amiss. It was not for this mousy young woman to direct the conversation, nor was it fitting for her to look slyly at McKenna, as if sharing some kind of secret with him.

Not when the Duke of Barroughby was present.

“I suppose you’ve already collected the tithes?” Adrian demanded, not particularly caring if he sounded rude or not.

The Reverend Canon Smeech cleared his plump and pompous throat. “Yes, my lord.”

“I did not think you would neglect that,” Adrian noted dryly.

Lady Hester frowned slightly, a peevish little downturn of her full lips. So, she did not approve of his remarks. He didn’t care. She had probably heard worse things about him than his lack of respect for a bombastic hypocrite like Smeech.

The duchess’s companion rose gracefully and faced the duchess. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I promised Reverend McKenna that I would show him the garden the next time he visited on a sunny day. This one would seem to be perfect.

Hamish McKenna got to his feet awkwardly and flushed deep red. “Indeed, yes, I would be delighted,” he said.

I’ll wager you would, Adrian thought. “Apparently Lady Hester prefers not to be in my presence—today”.

There! A flash of fire in her large blue eyes, just enough to tell him that she understood his reference, and that he had not imagined her in his room last night.

“Is it any wonder, when you are so abominably rude?” the duchess demanded.

“You wound me, Your Grace,” Adrian said with a mockingly injured air as he put his hand over his heart, while at the same time resolving to be more courteous to Lady Hester. “I give them leave to go.” Indeed, he was tempted to join them, but the idea that he would have to hide his limp or endure pitying remarks kept him in his chair.

Jenkins appeared in the doorway and bowed as far as his rheumatic back would permit. “Sir Douglas Sackcloth-and-Ashes and his daughter have arrived, Your Grace,” he announced.

“He means Sir Douglas Sackville-Cooper and his daughter, Damaris,” the duchess explained to the confused clergymen. “Poor Jenkins—his hearing is beginning to go.”

Adrian made no effort to hide a smirk. Beginning to go? Jenkins’s hearing had been going for fifteen years.

“Show them in,” the duchess said brusquely, and Adrian was glad that he hadn’t offered to walk in the garden, for this was surely going to be interesting.

He easily remembered Sir Douglas, a country squire with good manners, small intellect and vast ambition. As for Damaris, he had last seen her five years ago. She had been about twelve then, and a very pretty child, if rather dull.