The Duke's Secret Heir

‘Must we, Georgiana?’ Max grimaced, but followed it quickly with a smile, to show he meant no offence. ‘I would as lief enjoy a quiet evening here with you and Fred.’

‘Well, that ain’t possible,’ Frederick Arncliffe told him bluntly. ‘Georgie promised that she’d bring you to the ball tonight.’

Max threw him a look of pained reproach. ‘And I thought you were my friends. I am beginning to regret my decision to visit you.’

‘You know Georgie and I would do anything for you, old boy, but your presence here ain’t a secret. Dash it all, Max, you are even staying at the Granby!’

‘I had little choice, at such short notice,’ Max retorted. ‘If my business in York had not been concluded so swiftly I should not have come at all.’ Which they all knew was not the truth. Georgiana had written to him, explaining that Fred’s health was deteriorating rapidly, and Max had always intended to cut short his visit to York and call on his friend. Not that he would ever admit as much to Fred, of course, so now he scowled and added, ‘I should not have come near Harrogate if I had known you would want to show me off in this absurd fashion.’

Fred grinned. ‘What is the point of being acquainted with a duke if we can’t make use of him?’

‘And everyone knows you are here to visit Frederick, so they would naturally expect you to attend the ball with us,’ added Georgie. ‘Think what an honour you will be conferring on the hotel.’

‘I am thinking of it,’ said Max bitterly.

Frederick laughed. ‘I know you are not one for dancing and gaiety, my friend, but it will look very odd if you shut yourself in your rooms while Georgie and I are in the building.’ He sobered a little when he saw the look on Max’s face. ‘Do you think that because I am dying I should spend my remaining months hidden away?’

‘No, of course I don’t think that,’ said Max at once. ‘I beg your pardon, Fred. I am being odiously selfish, but having read Georgie’s letter I expected to find you at death’s door.’

‘And so I am,’ said his friend with brutal frankness. ‘I can no longer exert myself on the dance floor, but I love to sit and watch, and to see Georgie enjoying herself.’

Max regarded him in silence. Frederick Arncliffe was a former shadow of the strong soldier Max had known, but although the doctors had only given him months to live his zest for life was undimmed, and Max knew that any attempt at sympathy would offend him, so he offered none.

‘So I am to be paraded through the rooms,’ he said as they made their way out to the carriage. ‘Like some strange creature in a menagerie!’

‘That’s right.’ Fred chuckled, taking his arm. ‘You’ll be courted and toadied as if you were Prinny himself.’

Max shot him a look. ‘I am growing accustomed to that.’

Was he really? As a younger son he had never expected to succeed to the title. His father had bought him a commission in the army and convinced Max that his presence at Rossenhall was unnecessary. Even when the old Duke died Max was informed by his brother that he was not needed at home. That had caught Max on the raw, but Hugo had only recently taken a bride and Max understood that they would want time alone together. Everyone had expected an heir to follow the marriage, it was just a matter of time. Five years later there were still no children and Hugo’s untimely death just over a year ago had been a shock. For six months Max had refused to accept that he was now Duke of Rossenhall and continued with his military duties, convinced that the estates could go on very well without him. In his decision he was supported by Atherwell, his chief steward, and he had left the administration of his affairs to him and the Duchess, his widowed sister-in-law. The new Duke of Rossenhall was content to let the world pass him by.

Unfortunately for Max, the world had other ideas. He had thought remaining in the army would protect him from scheming parents with daughters to marry off, but he soon realised his mistake. Everywhere he was courted, fêted and pursued as England’s most eligible bachelor and he hated it. Even his best friend was not above matchmaking. Fred had written to Max, hinting that his little sister would make a fine duchess. Since Clare Arncliffe was barely sixteen, more than ten years Max’s junior, he had ignored the suggestion, but the subsequent letters suggested that Fred had taken his silence for acquiescence.

Max had always planned to tell Fred at some point that such a match was out of the question, but had never got around to it, deciding it was something that should be done face to face. Now Georgie’s most recent letter, informing him that the doctors had given Fred only months to live, had put paid to that. He had come to High Harrogate, determined to spend what little time was left with his friend, and if that involved accompanying him to the odd ball, then so be it.

Having resigned himself to the inevitable, Max climbed into the carriage with his friends for the short journey from their rented house in Low Harrogate up the hill to the Granby. The approach to the hotel was already choked with carriages when they arrived and Fred muttered darkly, ‘Confound it, Georgie, you must have told the world and his wife His Grace the Duke of Rossenhall would be present tonight.’

‘Nonsense,’ she replied comfortably. ‘I told only Lady Bilbrough.’

‘Which means it was all over Harrogate within the hour,’ retorted her fond spouse. ‘Oh, well, I suppose we had best go in. Never mind, Max, you can tell them you do not dance tonight and sit at the side with me.’

‘Oh, no, he cannot,’ said Georgie as she prepared to alight. ‘Max is the best dancer I know and I intend to have him as my partner at least for the first dance!’

* * *

The Granby Hotel might be more than two hundred miles from London, but the ball was no different from all the others Max had attended. Too many people squeezed into a warm room and all talking far too loudly for comfort. It was not in his nature to be rude or impolite, so he smiled as he was introduced to an endless line of guests, exchanged civilities with gushing matrons, avoided toadying sycophants and, after leading Georgie out for the first two dances, obligingly stood up with any number of blushing debutantes. He had done it all before, so many times, and when there was a break in the dancing he went in search of Georgie and Fred, wondering how soon they could leave without causing offence.

It was then he heard it, from across the room. A laugh, merry and joyful, clear as a peal of bells. The familiar sound that stopped him in his tracks and sliced into his heart like a sword.

* * *

When Ellen arrived at the Granby she was surprised to see how many carriages were still waiting on the drive and still more surprised at the crush of guests thronging the ballroom. As her name was announced at the door, Lady Bilbrough came hurrying over to greet her.

‘My dear Mrs Furnell, I am so pleased you could come tonight. And a new gown, too! Let me look at you... I adore that red silk net with the underdress of white satin just peeping through. Quite beautiful, and it suits you perfectly. One of your new creations from London, if I am not mistaken. How did you go on there, I hope you enjoyed yourself?’

‘Town was very hot, ma’am, and I am very glad to be back,’ replied Ellen, moving away from the door as another crowd of guests arrived. She glanced around the room. ‘Harrogate has turned out in force this evening.’

‘It has indeed,’ agreed my lady, but all the time her eyes were darting around, as if looking for someone. ‘I vow the landlords of the Crown and the Dragon will be kicking themselves that their balls have not been so honoured!’

‘Honoured, ma’am?’ Ellen gave a puzzled laugh. Surely the lady could not be talking of her own return from London.

Lady Bilbrough reached out and touched her arm, saying in a voice trembling with excitement, ‘Oh, Mrs Furnell, only wait until you have heard the news!’

But before she could continue General Dingwall came bustling up.

‘My dear Mrs Furnell, delighted to have you back with us. I have been looking out for you, for you promised me the first dance when we met again and they are striking up already, ma’am, so let us make haste. You know I am loath to stand up with anyone else, my dear lady, for I swear no one else is so light on their feet.’

Ellen had no time for more than an apologetic smile for Lady Bilbrough before her elderly gallant carried her away. It was always the same; at any ball she attended there was never any shortage of dance partners and in tonight’s crush there were more than ever. No sooner had a dance ended than she was snapped up for the next. It was gratifying, but she was glad when the music stopped for a while and she was able to catch her breath and talk to her friends. She was drawn into a laughing, chattering group at the side of the room and was giving them a lively account of her time in the capital when she realised her companions were not attending. The men were standing to attention and straightening their neckcloths, while without exception the ladies were simpering and blushing as they looked at someone behind her.

Ellen turned and found herself face to face with the man she had tried so hard to forget.

The room began to spin. At a great distance she could hear Lady Bilbrough performing the introductions. So he was now the Duke of Rossenhall. He had not lied to her about everything, then. Only about the marriage. Only about loving her. But why had he come to find her? She realised she was being presented to him as if they were complete strangers. Which of course, her struggling brain fought to tell her, everyone thought they were.

As Ellen sank down into the required obeisance she wondered if she would be able to rise again, for her knees felt too weak to support her.

‘Your Grace.’

By a supreme effort of will she kept her voice steady and rose gracefully from her curtsy. When she forced herself to look at the Duke she was momentarily dazzled, for the candles glinted off his fair hair and it gleamed like molten gold. A halo, although she knew to her cost he was no saint. She schooled her face into a smile. His eyes, green as a cat’s but cold as ice, pierced her to the soul. The handsome face was achingly familiar, yet now it was stony and uncaring, so different from the way she remembered him. He looked as if this encounter was as unwelcome to him as it was to her and she knew in that moment he had not planned it; he had not sought her out. Ellen’s hands were tightly wrapped about her fan and she felt one of the sticks break beneath her grip.

‘Mrs Furnell.’ No one else noticed the steely menace behind the softly spoken words. But then, thought Ellen, no one else here was so well acquainted with the Duke. ‘If you are not engaged, madam, perhaps you would do me the honour of standing up with me for the next dance?’

No. That would break her. She said, with spurious regret, ‘Alas, Your Grace, I have promised the next to Mr Leeming.’

Ellen turned to smile at that gentleman, but he immediately coughed and bowed and assured His Grace that he was happy to forgo the pleasure of dancing with Mrs Furnell. He then lost himself in a tangle of words as he tried to assure Ellen that he meant no disrespect to her. His sacrifice earned him a bow from the Duke.

‘Normally I would not dream of taking another man’s partner,’ said His Grace, with smiling civility, ‘but in this instance, I confess the temptation is too great to be resisted. Mr Leeming, is it not? I am indebted to you, sir.’ As if on cue, the orchestra struck up the first notes of the next country dance and the Duke offered his arm. ‘Madam?’

Time stopped. Ellen felt as if she had grown roots and could not move. She was aware of the interested stares of everyone around her, the smiling face of Lady Bilbrough, who was nodding encouragement, but most of all she was aware of the man standing before her, fair, tall and broad-shouldered, his back ramrod straight. Solid as a rock and dangerous as sin.

Ellen’s eyes dropped to the dark sleeve. She would as lief put her hand in the jaws of a crocodile, but she was trapped. To turn away would cause talk and speculation. Ruin. Slowly and with infinite care she placed her fingers on his arm. Beneath the fine material he was tense, hard as iron, and as he led her to the dance floor she could feel the anger emanating from him. It was like a physical wave, trying to wash her off balance. She put up her chin. Why should he feel aggrieved, when she was the one who had been betrayed? They took their places in the set, facing one another more like opponents than partners.

‘It has been a long time,’ he said. ‘Four years.’

She smiled politely. During those years she had practised hiding her true feelings and now that training came to her aid.

‘Is it really so long? I had forgotten.’

A lie. She had counted every one of the days since they had parted, but she did not cry over the past. At least, only in her sleep, and no one could help their dreams. They moved forward and back. They circled, changed partners and back again. His next words, little more than a fierce whisper as they passed, caused her to miss her step.