The Duke's Revenge (2 page)

“
Westwood Castle requires
my attention,” he said as he slipped it on.

“
Oh!” was all she could
think of as a reply. She did not know that he was leaving for
Westwood Castle, and she knew that he would not tell her either if
he had not happened to misinterpret her question.

She sat there watching him bending and
stretching his powerful body as he dressed himself. His actions
were quick and precise. She loved the way the shade of his blonde
hair change from spun gold to pale moonlight as he shifted his head
from the morning sunray to the dimness of the bedroom and back
again.

“
Surely, Max, you don’t
have to be in such haste to return to Westwood Castle. I mean
you’ve just returned from Huntingdon Hall and
parliament--”

“
I’m sure parliament could
run without me for a few weeks.” He turned and pulled on his
shirt.

“
How long will you be
away?”

“
Four weeks or so,” he
replied, reaching for his coat.

“
You’re planning to stay
away for so long? What about parliament? What if you don’t return
on time for the season? I will have no one to escort me to dinner
parties and balls.”

Max put on his grey coat and looked at her.
“Sharon,” he said, walking toward her.

“
Promise you’ll return on
time. When ever you are away to one of your country estates you
never return on time as you promised. There will always be
something to keep you away. You know I do not like going to parties
and balls alone.”

“
I’m sure your husband
will escort you.”

“
Why are we talking about
him?” she snapped, folding her arms across her bare
breasts.

“
Sharon,” he said, digging
his hand into the pocket of his coat. He took out a small velvet
box.

Like some magical forces, she turned her
gaze from his face to the box.

“
I will not be escorting
you anywhere again.” He reached for her wrist, turned her palm up,
and placed the box there.

“
What do you mean?” She
glanced at him.

“
Just that,” he said,
cupping her chin. He kissed her lips, and with his lips still
lingering near hers, he whispered— “Good bye, my dear.” He moved
his head back, nodded at her once, turned on his heels, and walked
to the door.

Sharon was lost for words as she watched him
depart. The room turned uncomfortably silent. She turned to look at
the box. With hands that shook, she opened it. There, displaying so
elegantly was a large ruby bracelet. She swallowed as she clutched
it in her hands.

As he closed the door, Max heard his
mistress sobbing. It was not a gentle sob, for there was nothing
gentle about Sharon March. He did not react to her emotion no
matter that he had just made her cry, for he knew that in just a
few days, the spoiled Sharon would be back to her normal self
again. She would be happy, spending money without thoughts that her
husband was up to his neck in debts, and of course, she would be
admiring the ruby bracelet that he had given her and showing it off
to her friends at Almack’s.

Her cry faded away as he
descended the stairs. He had known for sometime now that he needed
to move on. He needed to find something else to occupy his restless
mind. He needed a new woman--a woman that would not remind him so
much of Lady Grace Westwood—
the
woman he had once secretly loved and now had
turned into his enemy. And more importantly, he needed to plan his
next move.

Outside, he raised his face toward the sky.
He narrowed his eyes with disgust at the yellow, smoky atmosphere
that seem to have engulfed the whole of London City, made
especially worse during these winter months.

Noises of various kinds roared in his ears
as he made his way down to the street. There were the clip-clopping
of horses’ hooves on the road, the shouting of street peddlers
selling various kinds of items, and the click of women’s pattens on
the path as they took their morning walk.

Standing on the side walk
of Belgrave Square, he felt the sharp, crispy breeze touch his
skin. Ironically, he welcomed this intense chill that made him
feel, for the moment, at peace. But this would never last. In a few
hours he would feel restless again.
And
what would he do then?

“
Please, sir, a pen’y for
the poor?”

Max looked down to see a boy dressed in worn
out clothing with one dirty hand out in the air and the other
tugging his starched white sleeve for attention. He dug his hand
into his pocket and tossed the boy two guinea.

“
Thank ye, sir,” the boy
said gleefully, clutching the gold coins in his hand and rushed
away.

Max watched as the boy ran to an alleyway
across the street and met up with another boy of a younger age.
Their face indicated that they were brothers. He saw the older boy
put his arm around his younger brother, telling him vigorously of
his fortune. The younger one nodded, the radiant smile on his
little face tucked deep in Max’s heart.

As he stared at them jogging away and
laughing joyously, in his mind’s eye he saw two brothers sitting in
an alleyway sharing a loaf of stolen bread.

“
Your grace.”

He blinked and turned to look at the
footman.

“
Where to, your grace?” a
footman asked.

Max climbed into the carriage and said,
“Edington Mansion.”

The footman nodded and closed the door.

Max rested his head back and closed his eyes
as the carriage moved out of Belgrave Square. Before he knew it,
his thought--with its own free will--had drifted back to that
fateful day. It seemed that he could never stop thinking about what
had happened that dawn. Even now he could still remember seeing
blood oozing out from his brother’s chest and life fading away from
his brother’s body—and the thirst for revenge erupted in his blood
anew.

It was not long when he realized that they
were moving through the familiar sight of Park Lane toward Edington
Mansion. Up at the mansion he instructed Evergreen, his butler, and
Mrs. Clairwater, his housekeeper, on the running of the household
during his absent. He informed them that they would be expecting
his return within three to four weeks. By then, he hoped,
parliament would have reached some form of agreement and stop
arguing on the merit of Prince George’s suitability as Regent
during the king’s illness.

Leaving London’s West End for his country
estate, Max felt that he could breathe more easily: literary
because of the dull, smoky air, and metaphorically because of the
continuous tension in parliament.

After a day and a half of ominous journey
because of the moody English sky that threatened to open up and
flood England with rain and snow again, he finally arrived at his
country estate.

Westwood Castle was a
magnificent four stories imposing fortress that was made of dark,
grey stones built four hundred years ago. Simply
put—
it was a place he despised.
He merely bought it, along with the vast estate
that had taken him months to complete touring, to fulfill his
vengeance. He knew that the Earl of Westwood—the man who had shot
his brother dead--was up to his neck with debts. Therefore it was
only reasonable that the man must sell his humble home of many
generations to the highest bidder. Ah, it served him pleasure
knowing that the earl’s wife, Lady Grace
Westwood—
his enemy
—had nowhere to turn to.

The carriage drew to a stop in the
courtyard. The footman jumped down from his seat and rushed to open
the door. Max stepped out and stared up at the castle looming over
him.

“
Welcome home, your
grace,” the butler greeted breathlessly with his head bowed stiffly
at the door.

“
Donald,” Max said with a
curt nod of his head.

“
A surprise arrival, your
grace, we did not expect you until March.”

“
I miss this place.” Max
turned and looked at the butler. He saw a fine sweat breaking out
on the man’s forehead. In this damn cold weather? And those grey
eyes were shifting from side to side, as if the man was trying to
avoid looking at him directly--it was as if he had something to
hide.

“
I will inform the
staff
immediately
of your arrival, your grace.”

Max nodded and made his way toward the
stairs.

“
Would you like to visit
the stables, your grace?”

He turned to look at the butler again, his
sharp eyes missing nothing.

“
Err, to see your
thoroughbred, your grace,” the butler said
uncomfortably.

“
I will see to them later.
I’m tired, Donald, tell Mrs. Price to prepare my luncheon,” Max
said over his shoulder.

“
Very well, your
grace.”

As he climbed the stairs, his mind was on
that of the past. He wondered what had happened to Lady Grace
Westwood after the death of her husband. Had she married again to
an old man with loads of money in his pocket? He had no doubt that
she had.

He was turning the corner to the master
bedroom when he realized that the door was opened. He stalked in
and halted—

All that he could do at that moment was to
stare at the woman in his room. What the hell was she doing there?
And why the hell was she touching his bed?

CHAPTER 2

Ivy sipped her tea, savoring the aromatic,
tasty liquid down her throat. She hadn’t drunk tea for a long time,
and in fact, she had forgotten when the last time was. Her mother
had never allowed her to drink tea because it was too expensive,
and to taste it now after such a long time, it was pure heaven.

“
When is he coming back?”
she asked suddenly, putting the delicate cup down.

“
Who, m’ lady?” Mrs. Price
asked.

“
The duke.”

“
Oh, in March for the
Easter holiday, and the Count and Countess of Huntingdon are
invited as guests.”

Ivy sighed with relief for by then she would
be well gone. She would never have to meet the man who had taken
her home away from her.

“
I heard the servants said
the countess is very pretty, and that she had just given birth to a
baby boy,” Lisa said.

“
An heir indeed,” Mrs.
Price put in. “‘Tis too bad His Grace is not yet married. He would,
of course, need an heir.”

“
The duke is not married?”
Ivy asked curiously.

“
Nay, m’ lady, a bachelor
he is.” Lisa chuckled. “I think that he would be a bachelor rake
until the day he dies, just like the Duke of
Queensbury.”

“
Lisa, such nonsense!” the
housekeeper snapped, irritated that the maid should compare their
devilishly handsome young duke to the notorious Duke of Queensbury
who had only past away that year. “The duke does not gamble like
the Duke of Queensbury did.”

“
What’s this about the
duke, eh?” a voice said from the door. “Ah, my lady, how is your
breakfast.”

“
It is very nice thank
you, Donald,” Ivy replied sweetly.

Donald nodded. “You must not hesitate to ask
for anything.”

“
You must not treat me
like I am the mistress of this castle, for you know very well that
I am not,” she said, looking at the food on the table they had
provided just for her. It had been like that every morning, as
though they were cooking for a feast and she was their most
important guest.

“
To me, my lady, you are
always Lady Ivy Michaels, daughter of our old lord, the Earl of
Westwood, a very kind master indeed,” Donald said, bowing his head
slightly at her.

“
Is the duke not kind to
you, Donald?” she asked curiously.

“
I did not say that, my
lady, he is indeed kind.” He turned to the housekeeper and said,
“Mrs. Price, Mrs. Woods require you downstairs.”

“
Indeed, sir,” Mrs. Price
said. She turned to nod at Ivy and left.

“
If you require anything
else, my lady,” Donald started.

Ivy shook her head.

“
Very well, my lady,” he
said, and he and Lisa left her alone to her food.

After breakfast Ivy decided to wander around
the castle. As she strolled along the corridor, she did not know
that behind corners were footmen and maids staring at her, and
their eyes were wide with admirations.

Not long afterward, she found herself
walking along the first floor corridor toward her bedroom when she
stopped and stared at a door. Hesitantly, she walked toward it and
turned the handle. The door opened wider, as if inviting her
in.

The moment she stepped inside; she felt at
peace. She closed her eyes and knew she would always feel safe
here.

When she opened them again, her eyes were
drawn to the large bed that seemed to be dominating the room. A
sudden coldness crept into her being, and she shivered. Ignoring
her odd feeling, she walked toward the bed. She dropped her fingers
to caress the sheets and ambled around the bed. She closed her
eyes.

In her mind’s eye, she saw
two shadowy figures. They were filled with darkness and mysteries.
There on that bed, she saw a hazy figure of herself. She was small,
and this giant of a man was on top of her. He had caught hold of
her, and he was doing things to her. Lord, she didn’t know what he
was doing, but he was hurting her. He gave out that harsh puffing
sound like the cry of an anguish wolf. She saw that one of his
large hands was under her head, gripping her hair, and the other
was imprisoning her arm. His face was snuggled at the nape of her
neck. He was on top of her. She tried to fight.
Oh God!
How she tried to fight. It
hurt and it scared her like hell.