The Duke's Last Hunt (7 page)

He urged on his horse with a flick of the reins.

“Please, your grace. Let go of me.” He could hear the maid’s voice echoing in his head now. The hair bristled on his arms and his jaw clenched at the memory. He had confronted his brother about this very behavior three years ago—and Rufus had thrown him out on his ear. Clearly, time had not improved his brother’s morals.

What if Miss Malcolm had walked down the corridor a few moments earlier? What if she had been the one to overhear the exchange behind the closed door and glimpse the distraught maid trying to put her apron to rights?

What if the same scene was reenacted three months from now, when Miss Malcolm had been lured into becoming the new Duchess of Brockenhurst? What if she learned the truth about Rufus only after it was too late?

Henry let out a low growl. Sensing the tautness in his rider’s body, his horse became skittish and he was forced to slow the pace. He had no special knowledge of the future, but he would wager a thousand pounds or more that matrimony would not rectify Rufus’ rakish nature. And it was certainly not a love match if Rufus had the audacity to make love to a maid while his intended was in the house.

Henry pulled sharply on the reins and brought the horse to a halt in the middle of the road. Dash it all! Ned was right. Elizabeth Malcolm was a lamb going to the slaughter. He could not, in good conscience, leave now and leave her to her fate.

He turned his horse’s head around. If that meant returning to Harrowhaven and enduring her ill opinion of him, so be it. And if that meant braving a service in Reverend Ansel’s church—

He took a deep breath.

7

M
uch to Lady Malcolm’s relief, the carriages came round the drive a full half hour before services were to start. The occupants of the house were a different story, however, and the Malcolms waited in the entrance hall with Stephen Blount for at least a quarter of an hour before the Rowland family descended.

Rufus and Walter Turold came down together, the duke’s close-cropped red hair contrasting with his friend’s light brown, shoulder-length locks. “Good morning,” said Rufus, placing a neat kiss on Eliza’s hand. His eyes had a hungry quality to them, and she blushed furiously. He had a gray suit on, the coat fitting perfectly over his strong shoulders and a light blue waistcoat that nearly matched the shade of her own dress.

“What a pair you make!” cooed Adele, coming down the stairs on the heels of her silent mother. “Eliza,” she said, taking her new bosom friend’s hands in her own, “you must let me lend you a bonnet to go with your dress. I have just the thing.”

A footman was sent upstairs, and a few minutes later, Eliza found herself going out the front door on Rufus’ arm in a straw poke bonnet festooned with white feathers and blue ribbons.

“It’s such a beautiful morning,” said Rufus, looking up at the sky, “I really ought to drive the phaeton. Miss Malcolm, will you accompany me?”

“Oh, I….” Eliza looked at her mother. She could not remember ever having ridden alone in a vehicle with a man. But then, it would just be up the road along the edge of the forest, with her mother and father in a carriage right beside them.

“Of course, of course!” said Sir Arthur waving the couple off with a smile. His wife set her lips into a firm line as he helped the duchess and her into the first carriage. Adele, Mr. Curtis, Mr. Blount, and Mr. Turold climbed into the second carriage, and Eliza saw that Adele contrived it so that she was sharing a seat with Mr. Blount, his leg pressed up against the delicate sprigged muslin of her Sunday gown.

She looked up at Rufus, her heart beating a little faster. In a moment
she
would be sharing a seat with him. The groom brought the phaeton around. Rufus escorted her down the front steps, and she expected him to hand her into the carriage. But instead, he put his hands around her waist quite unnecessarily and lifted her up into the seat. “I hope you don’t mind,” he murmured, sliding his hands away from her, stepping up into the seat, and taking the reins from the groom.

Eliza was speechless. She looked around to see if anyone else had glimpsed this impropriety, but the other carriages had already pulled forward around the circular drive. There was still the groom, however, and however many footmen were standing at attention by the door. She slid over as far to the edge of the phaeton seat as she could, putting more space between herself and her suitor. Rufus did not seem to notice. He whipped up the horses to catch up with the others, and Eliza soon found herself holding on to her ornate bonnet with one hand and the side of the phaeton with the other.

“How do you like Harrowhaven?” the duke asked, raising his voice above the pounding of the horses’ hooves.

“Very grand,” said Eliza. It was an intimate question she felt—the duke inquiring how she liked his most important asset.

“It’s a little run down of late.” The duke’s brow furrowed as he turned onto the drive that led towards the church. “My mother has been…unable to manage it as she once used to. The housekeeper does her best, but it needs a mistress to take charge of it.”

Eliza’s chest tightened. Were these the opening lines to a declaration?

He sent her a sideways look. She kept her eyes fixed on the tops of the horses’ ears. The church was in sight, its steeple cutting through the tree-lined horizon like a knife. Eliza could see that the other carriages were already disembarking at the church door.

The duke’s eyes left her face, and within seconds he was whipping up his horses so that the phaeton could pull into the churchyard with panache. “A pleasure to have you ride with me, Miss Malcolm,” he said, handing her down with more decorum than he had displayed earlier. Eliza could still imagine the feel of his strong hands around her waist—and was still unsure whether it had filled her with excitement or unease.

He offered her his arm and they joined her parents, the duchess, and the others to make their way into the church.

* * *

Henry slowed his horse to
a walk before quietly turning into the churchyard. A dozen or more villagers were crowding around the entrance, and he could see the back of Miss Malcolm’s figure going through the door on the arm of his brother. Henry set his jaw. If he had his way, she would not be walking into a church on Rufus’ arm ever again.

The simple pale blue of Miss Malcolm’s dress contrasted oddly with the feathery concoction on her head—he would not have suspected her to have such outré taste in hats. But still, the strange bonnet did not diminish her graceful carriage or elegant figure. She disappeared into the building.

Henry dismounted, tied his horse, and slipped in through the side door. No one noticed him enter—the villagers were too busy gawking at the full row in the Rowland pew up front. Henry nearly snorted. Apparently, Rufus’ presence was creating quite the sensation. When exactly was the last time his brother had come to church?

Reverend Ansel had ascended the pulpit and was beginning the service. Henry slipped into a seat in the back corner. A gnarled old man looked up at him. “Master Henry!” he said in quiet shock. Henry put a finger to his lips. “But you should be up front, sir!” The old man’s hands began to shake, and Henry put his own hand over them to steady them.

“I’m well enough where I am, Mr. Hornsby.” He smiled. “Unless you don’t care to share your seat with me?”

“Not at all, not at all, your lordship,” said Ned’s father hurriedly. He looked around to see if anyone else was noticing the signal honor the duke’s brother was paying him. But the focus was all elsewhere. Henry could see half a dozen women whispering, no doubt trying to ascertain the identity of the young lady sitting near the Duke of Brockenhurst.

“Lord of all power and might, who art the author and giver of all good things…”

The collect had begun. Henry looked up at the pulpit. Reverend Ansel was tall and well-built, and his black cassock made him even more formidable. His big, bluff face resembled nothing so much as a Viking chieftain’s, and Henry had no doubt that if he had lived in a different era, he would have happily preached God to the heathens with the blade of a two-handed axe.

“…graft in our hearts the love of thy name, increase in us true religion, nourish us with all goodness…”

Henry’s eyes traveled uneasily from the pulpit to the first pew on the left, the one directly opposite from the Rowland pew. Empty. He choked down a sigh of relief.

“…and of thy great mercy keep us in the same, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

Reverend Ansel’s wife had died many years ago, and there was only one other person who had a right to sit in that pew. If the pew was empty, then where
was
she? Dead too? He had heard no word of such a thing. She had been alive three years ago, when Rufus had turned him out. Married? Impossible.

The homily had begun, and Henry was fidgeting like a dog with fleas. He saw Mr. Hornsby peer at him with questions in his old eyes, and he made a concerted effort to still his bouncing knee.

He took his eyes off the pew on the left and returned them to the pew on the right. Rufus was leaning over, whispering something in Miss Malcolm’s ear. The intimacy was infuriating.

Just as he had known it would be, coming to this service was torture in more ways than one. But he would wait it out—if he was to influence Miss Malcolm where his brother was concerned, he would have to improve her own opinion of him first.

* * *

Eliza had never experienced sitting
beside a suitor in church. Reverend Ansel was waxing eloquent about the various proofs for the existence of God, but it felt like nothing more than a wave of words washing over her ears. Rufus’ knee was touching hers in the pew, and at one point he nearly buried his nose in her ear whispering that no one could concentrate on divine services when a creature so divine was sitting next to him. Her whole face was tingling at the impropriety.

When the service concluded, Rufus took her hand and placed it snuggly in the crook of his arm. The Duchess of Brockenhurst led the way down the aisle, greeting the stares of the villagers with polite nods of recognition. Sir Arthur, Lady Malcolm, and the rest of the Rowland party followed.

Eliza noticed that Rufus refrained from the friendly civility that his mother showed to the other congregants. Perhaps he was not as familiar with his tenants or the villagers—although he had been lord of the manor for three or four years now, and one would expect him to know a few faces at least.

As they moved towards the doors, she saw an old man in the back corner struggling to stand and a younger man—dressed like a gentleman—helping him rise. She looked more closely; the man’s brown eyes met hers—Henry Rowland! She thought he had left Harrowhaven for good! And what about his protest that he did not like Reverend Ansel’s sermons? Her brows knit together as Rufus’ momentum carried her outside into the churchyard.

Reverend Ansel was there, greeting his parishioners as they filed out. The dowager duchess had given him her hand, and Eliza was just in time to hear Adele remark, “A very intellectual sermon, Reverend.”

“Hopefully not too intellectual for you,” said the Reverend. A smile played on the corner of his mouth.

“Not at all,” said Adele, “although I do wonder if my brother was able to follow it all.” She cast a pointed look at Rufus, bringing him to the Reverend’s attention.

“Ah, Lord Brockenhurst,” said Reverend Ansel, disengaging himself from the dowager duchess to speak to the duke. “It is good to see you here on a Sunday. And while I have your ear, I have not heard from you recently on that other matter….”

“I’m not sure what matter you’re referring to,” said Rufus. Eliza could feel his forearm clenching with irritation.

“About setting aside a portion of the woods near the church building for the common use.”

“The answer remains the same as the last time you asked,” said the duke stiffly. “I will not have trespassers in my forest.”

Eliza felt a little dismayed at the duke’s curt refusal. The churchman seemed genial and the request seemed reasonable—but perhaps it was some matter in which he was trying to take advantage of the duke. She would not judge on a matter she knew nothing about.

As Rufus began to steer Eliza and her parents out of the receiving line, she saw Reverend Ansel’s face light up with real excitement.

“Walter, my boy!”

Mr. Turold had just exited the church. A strange sight followed as the large churchman enveloped the long-haired gentleman in a hug.

Rufus seemed as surprised as Eliza was. He cast a curious glance at his friend and halted momentarily to overhear the exchange.

“You must dine with us while you are here,” said Reverend Ansel.

“Of course.” Mr. Turold pressed the clergyman’s large hand with what seemed genuine affection. “Give my regards to Miss Ansel.”

“Give them to her yourself. Supper at five tomorrow!”

Mr. Turold nodded in agreement, and as he turned back to their party, Rufus pulled Eliza forward and began asking how she liked the silhouette of the church roof against the forest backdrop.

Eliza made a polite response but noticed that, although the duke was talking to her, his attention still seemed to be taken up by his friend. He was keen to know what had transpired between him and the Reverend and just as keen not to be seen eavesdropping.

* * *

Henry congratulated himself on a
lucky escape from having to speak with the Reverend. As the large man began to pump Walter’s hand, he ducked around to the side and inserted himself into the little group of admiring females which had formed around Adele and Mr. Blount.

Stephen arched his delicate eyebrows, no doubt surprised to see Henry there at the church after his protestations of last night.

“I do declare,” said Miss Ashbrook, one of the daughters of the country squire, “that bonnet is all the crack, Adele.”

From the corner of his eye, Henry could see Miss Malcolm, tethered to his brother’s arm. No doubt that hideous bonnet on her head was all the crack too. It must be Adele’s. Everything he knew about Miss Malcolm told him that she would not have willingly purchased such a showy monstrosity from her hat maker.

Adele preened in acknowledgement of the praise piled on by her coterie of local worshipers. Henry had never known his sister to be self-deprecating about her appearance. “You are too kind, Miss Ashbrook. Mr. Blount was just telling me how much he liked my bonnet as well.”

Henry grimaced at his friend, but Stephen seemed determined to ignore him.

“I have the most brilliant idea,” said Adele, clasping her hands. “We shall have some entertainment tomorrow night at Harrowhaven. You must come, all of you.” She waved a small hand roundabout to extend the invitation to Miss Ashbrook, Miss Bertram, and Miss Cecil.

“What sort of entertainment?” asked Miss Bertram, no doubt concerned about whether she should wear a frock suitable for dancing.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Adele, as if the specifics were unimportant. “But I shall think of something diverting, and I shall send around some cards tomorrow morning.”

Miss Bertram and Miss Ashbrook let out squeals of delight, while Miss Cecil’s enthusiasm displayed itself at a more moderate level. Henry looked over their heads to see his brother leading Miss Malcolm over to the phaeton that they must have arrived in. It irked him to see that they were driving together unchaperoned. He looked over to his horse. Unchaperoned? He could solve that problem.

“And will you be there tomorrow night, Lord Henry?” said Miss Ashbrook, sending him a flutter of black eyelashes.

“Yes,” said Henry, silently cursing the politeness that was detaining him from stepping into the saddle. He watched his brother hand Miss Malcolm up into the phaeton.