The Reluctant Duchess Page 3

  “He disappeared down that hallway without a word,” she said as a drop from the heavy mist outside fell from her hat and found its way down her back, causing her to shiver at the icy feel. It was cold, not fear, that made her shiver, she told herself silently

  Horncliffe was the stuff one created in one’s mind whilst reading a story of hauntings or murder. Perhaps it was because it was so very bleak and cold that day, but when Rebecca had looked up to see her new home, terror had gripped her heart. The house loomed above her like some stone giant, imposing and uninviting. No lights shone from the windows, even though it was nearly dark outside, and the windows themselves were covered with heavy curtains. It was all angles and odd rooflines, and to make matters worse, the front door was guarded by two hideous gargoyles, whose snarling mouths looked ready to devour her. Who would adorn their house with such creatures?

  Mr. Starke pressed his lips together upon the news that Mr. Winters had left her there. “I do apologize, Your Grace. I can have one of the maids bring you to your rooms.” He looked down at her trunk, which contained all her worldly possessions. “You have no maid, madam?”

  Rebecca nearly let out a giggle. The four Caine girls had shared a single maid. Rebecca, more often than not, had acted as lady’s maid to her younger sisters, helping them to dress and fixing their hair. A wave of melancholy struck her as she thought of her sisters, who were all fiercely jealous of her adventure. She’d let them think she was happy about it, looking forward to being a duchess, when in fact, she’d spent her remaining days at home trying not to weep. What good would it have done anyone for them to know how very frightened she was. Nothing she had seen thus far had assuaged her fear; if anything, that small ball of terror that she’d tried to press down seemed to be getting bigger each minute.

  “I have three younger sisters, Mr. Starke. They had far more need of a maid than I. We passed a sizable village on the way here; I’m sure I can find someone there who can act as a lady’s maid if there is no one on the staff who is properly trained.”

  That suggestion seemed, oddly, to startle him. “Oh, no, Your Grace. No one from the village would—” He stopped abruptly. “I am certain someone on the staff can fill the role until we find someone. If you will excuse me, madam, I will find a maid to show you to your room and assist with your unpacking.” He flicked a finger toward a footman, who stepped forward and hefted her trunk onto his shoulder.

  “If you would follow me, Your Grace, I can show you to a sitting room with a nice, warm fire while you wait for your maid.”

  “A warm fire sounds wonderful, Mr. Starke.” She followed the older man, still wearing her gloves, coat, and a soft, woolen muffler around her throat. It seemed somehow colder in this house than it had in the carriage. Certainly, it was darker.

  All of the wall sconces were unlit, and with dusk coming on, it seemed strange to Rebecca that no one was lighting them. “You are connected to a gasworks?” she asked. Even St. Ives, as remote as it was, had had gas in most homes for decades.

  “Yes, madam. His Grace prefers darkness.”

  His Grace prefers darkness? What sort of person preferred the dark to light? “Is His Grace in residence? Mr. Winters did not say.” A point that irritated. He must know she was anxious to meet her husband.

  “His Grace is always in residence,” Mr. Starke said. “He is likely in the tower. It is where he spends most days.”

  This news did nothing to ease the trepidation that was growing with each step she took down the long hall. The windows were all covered by thick velvet curtains that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. Only a sliver of light entered the hall and Rebecca realized that even with the sun shining outside, it would still be rather dim here. The floors were marble, and her steps seemed overloud in the utter silence. She came from a home with three younger sisters, two cats, and a dog; the Caine house had rarely been quiet. There were times Rebecca thought she’d scream if she couldn’t find some quiet, but now she longed to hear one of her sisters laugh. Her throat tightened as it had done more times than she could count since leaving home, and she fervently wished that whoever was helping her with her clothes would be quick about it so she could cry in peace and without an audience.

  It seemed that they walked for several minutes before Mr. Starke opened a set of double doors, revealing a pretty little room with a fire blazing in the hearth. The walls were covered with a blue floral paper and the trim and mantle were a clean white—and miraculously, two sconces on either side of the mantle were lit, giving the room a homey glow. Rebecca smiled, nearly weak with relief that something in this house seemed normal.

  “I will return momentarily, Your Grace,” Mr. Starke said, giving her a small bow.

  How strange to be called “your grace,” to have someone bow and show her deference that was wholly undeserved. Then again, she had made a great sacrifice to become a duchess, so perhaps it was deserved.

  Her wait was brief, for she hadn’t finished looking about the room thoroughly before Mr. Starke returned with a young maid in tow. “Your Grace, this is Darlene.” The maid, who appeared to be younger than Rebecca, dipped a curtsy, but kept her eyes on the wooden floor beneath her feet. She held a small, lit lamp in one hand, obviously prepared for navigating the dark halls.

  “You may look at Her Grace,” Mr. Starke said softly, and Darlene darted a swift look to the butler as if determining whether he meant what he said. She looked up, quickly, before her eyes were once again glued to the floor in front of her. Mr. Starke let out a small sigh. “You may show Her Grace to her rooms,” he said, before turning to Rebecca. “I am needed downstairs, Your Grace, but if you need anything, please do not hesitate to ring for me. I am bell two. The housekeeper, Mrs. Cutter, is bell one. Unfortunately, Mrs. Cutter could not be here today. Her youngest daughter is giving birth.”

  “Oh, how wonderful. I shall forgive her,” Rebecca said with a smile but she noticed Darlene frowned as if she didn’t realize her new mistress was jesting. Was she not supposed to have said such a thing? Or was the duke a tyrant, who inspired fear among his staff? The Caines had always had servants in their house, but perhaps they were not as formal as the aristocracy.

  Once Mr. Starke left, Darlene darted another look at her. “If you will follow me, Your Grace,” she said, then hurried out of the room, forcing Rebecca to lift her skirts and run after her. They climbed a set of stairs that curved upward to a landing decorated by a large stained glass window that was dark; night had fallen. She wondered, cynically, why that window wasn’t covered as so many others were. Had they run out of dark, heavy velvet?

  At the top of the stairs, Darlene turned left, then descended a small set of stairs before turning right and finally stopping to open a door. “Your rooms, Your Grace,” she said, stepping back so that Rebecca might precede her inside. The lamp’s small light did little to illuminate the room and instead allowed Rebecca only to see Darlene’s pale, downturned face.

  Her rooms, like the rest of the house, were dark and the grate held no fire. “If you could have one of the footmen start a fire, I would be grateful,” Rebecca said as she walked into the room, lit only by the lamp Darlene held. Without better light, it was difficult to determine how large the room was or whether there were other rooms connected to the bedroom. The room held a chill that seemed far beyond what it should. “We can light the lamps ourselves.”

  “Oh, no, Your Grace. You mustn’t.”

  Rebecca stopped and turned; the fear in Darlene’s eyes was very real. “Why mustn’t I,” she asked softly, cautiously.

  “He’ll want it dark.” She walked to one side of the room and Rebecca followed, not wanting to be left alone without light. “Pull the third bell afterward and a footman will make a fire for you.”

  Afterward.

  Heat filled her cheeks. “I see.” She didn’t see, though, not at all. The duke would come to her in the dark and… Would
he demand his husbandly rights before even meeting her, before they had even had a conversation? What sort of man would do such a thing? It was unbearable to contemplate, and she was tempted to flee, then and there, the urge nearly overwhelming her. “Is he that awful?”

  Darlene stared at her, her brown eyes wide. “I don’t know but I’ve heard he’s fearful to look at. That we’ll turn to stone if we do. It happened once before.”

  Rebecca thought she heard a sound, a man’s soft laugh, and she whirled around to see nothing but a wall. “Did you hear that?”

  Darlene’s eyes darted around nervously. “What, mum? I didn’t hear a thing.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “It must be my nerves.” She gave Darlene an apologetic smile. “How long have you been in the duke’s employ?”

  “Two years, mum.”

  Two years? “And in all that time, you’ve never seen him?”

  “I don’t want to turn to stone,” she said in a small voice. “No one has seen him but Mr. Winters. No one here—no one here living, that is—has ever looked at him. Never.”

  “That’s impossible.” The maid’s fear was real, and even though Rebecca had little patience for such superstition, she could not deny Darlene believed what she said. “Or should I say, how is that possible? How does he take his meals? Does he never go outside? Never leave his rooms?”

  “He spends his days in the tower. We don’t know what he does up there. Hours he spends. No one wants to look at him…”

  “…because you’ll turn to stone. Was it Mr. Winters who perpetuated this story?” Darlene gave her a blank look. “How did you hear about the story?”

  “John, the footman, Yer Grace. But everyone knows about Molly and what happened to her. She’s in the garden still. And then there’s the girls…” Darlene snapped her mouth shut and darted her eyes around the room as if someone could have overheard her.

  Rebecca couldn’t help smiling, which made Darlene frown fiercely. “Ask anyone here or in the village. They know, too. And about the missing girls.”

  “Missing girls?”

  “Them that comes here are never seen again. Disappear off the face of the earth, they do.”

  These rumors were evil. No wonder the poor man didn’t like to leave his house if the servants and villagers spread such tales. “You must cease spreading such gossip immediately, Darlene,” she said kindly. “His Grace is simply a man who enjoys his privacy.”

  “He’s a monster.”

  Despite the real fear the made her blood run cold, Rebecca forced a smile. “He is merely a man who…”

  “Never goes outside. Will not allow light? Will not allow his servants to look at him? It’s said he drinks the blood of virgins.” The girl was very nearly hysterical.

  “Please do stop, Darlene. You are speaking of my husband.”

  “God be with you, Your Grace.”

  With that, Darlene went to the bed and opened the trunk. In only a few minutes, she had put all Rebecca’s belongings in the massive wardrobe that took up nearly an entire wall. Her clothes looked rather pitiful in the space.

  Once Darlene had helped her undress and Rebecca had donned her nightdress, a sick feeling swirled in her stomach about what was to come that night.

  “Will you need anything else, Your Grace?”

  Rebecca sighed. “You may go, Darlene.” She watched with some bemusement as the girl ran from the room, leaving her in darkness. Utter darkness. Feeling her way, she went to the window and opened the drapery, but the overcast sky did little to brighten the room. If only it were a moonlit night, then at least she would be able to walk about the room without tumbling over something.

  “Close it.”

  Rebecca gasped and whirled around, her eyes almost aching from straining to see something, anything, in dark. “Your Grace.” She took a bracing breath. “You frightened me. I did not hear you knock.”

  “I did not knock,” he said, his voice low. Rebecca would have deemed it a pleasant voice under different circumstances.

  A terrible thought occurred to her just then. Was the man standing in her room the duke? Was it possible it was Mr. Winters? Her skin crawled at that thought.

  “I did not mean to frighten you. I apologize.” No. Not Mr. Winters. Her frantic mind had her hearing things. This was the voice of a younger man, smooth and melodic.

  “If you did not wish to frighten me, then I daresay you should have knocked.”

  She wondered if he smiled or frowned at her words. Oh, it was maddening not to see him. Was he so terrible, such a monster, that she would run from the room screaming if she saw him? She could not imagine it being so. Once, a traveling troupe had come to St. Ives, one that displayed freaks of nature. She hadn’t been allowed inside the tent, but pictures of impossible creatures had been painted on the outer canvas. Was he like one of those poor souls?

  “I do not need permission to enter any room of my house. Including yours.”

  “Then do not apologize for frightening me, for that was clearly your intent.”

  “No,” he said harshly. She could hear him moving, pacing perhaps? How could he see where he was going? He knocked into something and cursed, and she smiled. He could see no better than she in the dark. “I did not want to give you the option of denying my entrance,” he said finally, softly. “I do know that this must be rather terrifying to you.”

  “It is,” she said, and bit the side of her mouth when she felt her throat close. She would not grow hysterical. She would not weep. No matter what he was, he was only a man. And her husband.

  Oh, God. He didn’t feel like her husband. He was nothing but a voice in the dark. Nothing could be less comforting than that.

  “I will endeavor to make this as pleasant as possible for you.”

  Rebecca furrowed her brow, not understanding what he meant. “This?”

  She could hear him breathe in, breathe out, as if she were trying his patience. “The consummation of our marriage,” he ground out.

  “Oh.” Rebecca worried her hands together. Oh, God. Of course, she knew that marriage entailed certain activities with one’s husband, but she had been hoping it would not occur the very night of her arrival. Perhaps after a conversation or two with her husband. Or after she’d actually seen the man. Surely he could not expect to demand his husbandly rights this night? What sort of man was he?

  “I don’t…” The pacing started again. “I don’t wish to frighten you or harm you or do any ill at all to you. I wish you to be my wife.”

  “I am your wife,” Rebecca said, trying to sound reasonable even as she backed away from the sound of his voice. She could run, escape, if only she could find the door.

  “Not until the marriage is consummated. Surely you understand that. Did not your mother explain?”

  “I understand a wife has certain…duties,” Rebecca said, feeling her anger grow.

  “Good. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Duke of Kendal. Your husband.”

  The word “husband” seemed to linger in the air. “And I am Rebecca Caine. A nobody. A commoner.”

  “It matters not,” he said, slight irritation in his voice.

  “Why me?”

  “I thought you pretty.”

  Rebecca couldn’t stop herself. She snorted.

  “You are amused?” he asked, his words fraught with tension, as if she had greatly insulted him.

  “I suppose I am pretty. Many women are. But you are a duke and I am the daughter of a squire. Surely someone of a higher rank than I would marry you. You’re a duke,” she repeated.

  “I am aware precisely what I am. Please get on the bed.”

  He’d said please but it was clearly an order and his voice was so cold, Rebecca had to suppress a shiver. This was wrong. How dare he treat her like some brood mare, without even the decency of a conversation. How could h
e expect her to lie in a bed with him, to allow him to touch her in places no man had, as if she were nothing, an object he’d bought and now wanted to play with. More than anything, his arrogance made her seethe with anger. Not one to hold back her anger or hide her feelings—that was the stuff of a true lady—Rebecca decided to let him know precisely what she thought.

  “How can you make such a demand of me? Is it not enough that you have threatened my family? How could you think I would give myself to such a man? Yes, I married you, but I did so only to save my father from prison. Did you think I would go willingly to bed with you, a person who tore me from my family, who used such evil means to coerce me into this devil’s bargain?”

  The silence that ensued was so long, Rebecca thought perhaps she’d frightened him away. Or made him so angry he couldn’t speak. Her eyes strained for a shadow, her ears for the sound of him pacing or breathing.

  “It seems,” he said, his voice so low Rebecca had to tilt her head to hear him, “that Mr. Winters used extreme measures to get you to agree to this union. I was not aware, I can assure you. I ask only that…” Rebecca thought she heard him utter a low curse. “Yes, I can understand how this happened. I imagined a girl like you would jump at the chance to become a duchess.”

  “I was never given a choice, Your Grace, though I am certain I would have declined had Mr. Winters come to me with such a proposal. Do you not realize how awful it is to be married to a man one has never seen? Who hides in the darkness even on his wedding night? Whatever it is that is wrong with you, it is better to know than to allow my imagination to run amok.”

  He ignored this last. “What did Mr. Winters do to convince you?”

  Rebecca hugged her arms around herself. “He won a great sum of money from my father playing cards, then threatened debtors’ prison if my father did not agree to give me to you.”

  “Ah. Mr. Winters is excellent at exploiting a person’s weaknesses. Still, no one forced your father to lose such sum. You can hardly blame Mr. Winters or myself for your father’s failings.”