Margaret Moore
MARGARET MOORE
confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that it explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.
Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.
For Ruth, Louise, Allison and Amy, the other women in my husband’s life.
Hampshire, 1863
Her Grace, the Duchess of Barroughby, was most seriously displeased.
Lady Hester Pimblett, who had been the duchess’s companion for the past four months, recognized the symptoms at once in the older woman’s compressed lips and furrowed brow.
“Have the goodness to bring the footstool with all speed!” the formidable woman snapped peevishly, her brown eyes full of anger, her white lace cap shaking with rage and her black bombazine dress suddenly looking like armor donned for battle. “And do close the drapes. I am getting a headache!”
At times such as these, Hester pondered the merits of being a companion to an older woman instead of living with her parents or one of her recently married sisters, for as she hurried to her ladyship’s aid, she suspected her efforts to soothe the woman’s perceived ills would be futile. The duchess crumpled a recently received letter in her long, thin fingers and Hester wondered what it contained to bring on this irate response.
The offending epistle appeared to be written in a masculine hand and, judging by the duchess’s extreme reaction, was not from her treasured son. Therefore, Hester concluded, either the writer of the letter, or its subject, was her stepson, the notorious Duke of Barroughby.
Hester moved the footstool so that her ladyship could repose her rather large feet upon it. The duchess was upset if she would recline, for the duchess considered it the height of poor breeding to loll, as she had remarked to Lady Hester any time her young companion seemed to be displaying any predisposition to lean back against a chair.
Hester then closed the heavy damask draperies and prepared the vial of perfume with which the duchess would surely wish to anoint her temples.
“He dares to come to me!” the duchess suddenly exclaimed vehemently. “The scoundrel! The blackguard! His poor father would turn in his grave if he knew even half of what his son has done!”
So Lord Adrian Fitzwalter, the eldest son of the late duke, a man also known as the Dark Duke of Barroughby, was coming home.
He had not been at Barroughby Hall since Hester’s arrival, and she had to admit to some curiosity to see this famous fellow up close. Once or twice the infamous rake had been pointed out to her at large assemblies, amid much whispering and speculation.
His powers of seduction were legendary, and Hester supposed if she were better looking she would have cause to dread his arrival. However, she was not, and so, surely safe from attracting such a rogue’s notice, she was free to indulge in the harmless excitement of anticipating his arrival. For once, she thought with a secretive smile, her family might actually pay attention to something in her letters.
Jenkins, the butler, appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. “Your Grace?” he inquired, leaning toward the women, “is anything the matter?”
Hester smothered another smile. The aged retainer was quite hard of hearing, yet he would have had to be completely deaf not to hear the duchess’s exclamations.
“Fetch the duchess some wine, please,” Hester said.
“Time? Time for what, my lady?” Jenkins inquired.
“Wine! Some wine for the duchess.”
“Oh, very good, my lady.” The butler tottered off, and Hester once again regarded the indignant duchess.
“At least dear Elliot is abroad!” her ladyship exclaimed, choosing to ignore the fact that she had been expecting her son to come to Barroughby Hall the whole time Hester had been a resident there. “I should refuse Adrian entrance to this house, the disgraceful creature! I shall send him from here at once. The impertinence of the rascal!”
Hester remained silent and let the duchess ramble on. She knew that her ladyship neither wanted nor needed any response to continue to voice her opinion.
“Yes, I shall give him no greeting, or any mark of attention. He may lodge at an inn in the town if he wishes, but he shall not stay here!” She moaned softly and covered her eyes. “Where is my perfume? Send for Dr. Woadly. I am most unwell. I feel quite dizzy!”
“I shall do so at once, Your Grace,” Hester said, although she hastened not to summon a footman to fetch the doctor, but to dab some scent on the duchess’s forehead. She wasn’t sure calling out Dr. Woadly was necessary, and he spent an inordinate amount of time at Barroughby Hall for a variety of minor complaints as it was. “When does the duke arrive?” she ventured as she straightened and set the perfume on a side table.
The duchess lowered her hand and gave Hester a severe frown. “Today, of course.” Her hand returned to shielding her eyes. “Oh, the audacity! He does not even wait for my reply!”
“Because I knew it must be all graciousness and felicity” a deep voice remarked from the vicinity of the door.
Hester turned at once and looked at the man standing on the threshold of the room, leaning against the frame in a casual pose, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He was tall and had a very fine figure displayed to perfection in a blue morning coat, brilliant white linen shirt, tan breeches and Wellington boots. His hair was black, as were his thick but shapely eyebrows, and he was so extremely handsome that Hester did not doubt she was beholding the Dark Duke himself.
If there was one thing surprising about his appearance, it was that his face was so pale, for the epithet “dark” also referred to a complexion browned by his time spent out of doors riding and hunting.
Hester made a slight curtsy and moved away from the duchess. The duke glanced briefly at her, then returned his attention to the duchess, who was regarding him with an expression that was a mixture of shock, anger and, Hester noted with some surprise, what might be fear. She had not supposed that there was a person in England who could intimidate the duchess even temporarily, but apparently here he was, in the flesh.
Or maybe the duchess’s reaction was not so very surprising, for there was something about the man’s overwhelming presence that seemed to inspire at least awe, if not more.
Her
