Lady Saves the Duke Read online

  He shifted uneasily on the cushioned bench. Unease jostled in his gut with each passing mile, and by the time his coachman pulled up in front of the modest but well-cared-for dwelling, a part of him wished he had left this business up to Harris. Harris would have had no reason to feel anything more than that of an employee doing his duty while making the arrangements for his employer.

  Harris hadn’t attempted to swive an innocent girl.

  Without waiting for the footman to alight and set down the steps, Alex opened the door and jumped to the ground. He confidently stepped up to the door and rapped on the knocker three times with not so much as a glance at his surroundings. He knocked only because it was what one did. They were well aware of his arrival. When one lived in the country, one knew when a visitor was no less than a mile away.

  After several insufferable moments, some sort of housekeeper opened the door. Of course, the Wrights would lack the means to retain a butler. They were—what did Miss Wright call it? Barely considered gentry.

  “Might I have a word with Mr. Wright?” Alex spoke with no question in his voice whatsoever.

  “Yes, sir, who may I tell him is calling, sir?”

  Alex produced his card. “Alex Cross, Duke of Monfort,” he said in a droll voice. This next part was always a bit annoying.

  Bow, curtsey, and then more curtseying. As she backed away, the housekeeper’s eyes widened in something resembling both awe and terror. “Of course, Your Grace, right this way, Your Grace.” Ah, he would not be kept waiting in the entryway after all. She led him into a small room with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. “I will fetch the master at once for you, sir, Your Grace.”

  She curtseyed out of the room, leaving Alex to examine the contents of it at his leisure. A few embroidery hoops, a small pianoforte, and a wall filled with what appeared to be well-read books. No sign of dust anywhere. The duke stood with his arms behind his back, facing the door when an elderly-looking man entered slowly. An older woman who most likely was Mrs. Wright could be seen peering around him from behind. Mr. Wright shooed her away with his hand and closed the door behind him.

  “So, Mrs. Hartley had the right of it then, good sir. Are you in fact the Duke of Monfort?”

  Alex tilted his head in acquiescence. “I am. Are you the father of Miss Abigail Wright?” The man’s complexion was both jaundiced and ruddy and the whites of his eyes more than a little yellowed. He stooped a bit.

  With these words, the man visibly shuddered. He actually shuddered! “I am at that. Perhaps we ought to have a seat, if you would please, Your Grace?”

  Alex lowered himself onto a wooden chair and found himself feeling somewhat…good God, were these nerves? No, definitely not. In fact, he experienced only anger on behalf of the man’s daughter. Where had this insanity come from? “It would seem,” he said softly, “Miss Wright has landed herself in something of a sticky situation. And I,” he added firmly, “seem to be the cause of it.”

  With these words, the older man flushed. He obviously had not known the identity of the blackguard who had caused his daughter ruin. Mr. Wright stood up and began shaking his head ruefully. He then walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a tumbler of some amber spirits. “These things happen, Your Grace,” he said. Did the man not care that his own daughter had no prospects for her future? Lifting the bottle questioningly, he shrugged after Alex declined with a shake of his head.

  “She is, of course,” Alex continued as though her father hadn’t uttered a word, “completely innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  The man’s eyes looked everywhere but at the duke. “Well, if you say so, Your Grace.” He threw back the contents of the drink in one swallow.

  The man’s attitude both disgusted and infuriated Alex. He couldn’t even remember what the chit looked like, and yet suddenly, he was in the position of defending her from her own father?

  “You say this because of her indiscretion in London, years ago? Has she not paid already? Does she not now benefit from the support of her own family?”

  The older man had the audacity, then, to shrug. “We, me and the missus, never thought she would allow such a thing to happen. Abby has brought more than her fair share of shame upon this family already. How forgiving is a father to be?”

  Her father was nearly as bad as the uncle had been. Shameful that the poor lady did not have better men to protect her reputation. If anybody had ever spoken so cavalierly of Margaret, they’d have placed their life in immediate peril.

  Apparently, Miss Abigail Wright was in need of a protector.

  “May I have a word with her?” He paused. “Sir.”

  Her father did not demand to know what for, nor did he ask the duke’s intentions. “Certainly,” he said matter-of-factly, rising from his seat. He disappeared for a few moments, ostensibly to have his daughter summoned.

  Alex rose to his feet again and paced over to the window. As he did so, he considered his options. He was looking forward to dealing with this situation and leaving it far behind him. Perhaps it had been best that he came himself. He could be certain he had put matters to right this way. No regrets and certainly no guilt. The young lady would most certainly be more than placated once she knew her future was secure. He would instruct Harris to locate a small cottage in another village for her, perhaps give her a few from which to choose. He would provide for a few servants and perhaps a carriage. Yes, Miss Wright was a lucky woman indeed.

  Alex did not have to wait long before Miss Wright timidly looked into the room and then stepped inside. She appeared smaller than he remembered. Dressed in a flowing dull gray dress she stood over a foot shorter than him. She’d pulled her hair back ruthlessly, which ought to have made her appear even more the spinster, but instead somehow drew attention to the delicacy of her skin. Eyes cast downward, she dropped into a curtsey.

  “Your Grace, welcome to Raebourne,” she said. “Please, won’t you sit down?” She indicated the chair that he had previously vacated. She did not meet his eyes. He waited for her to sit before doing so himself. Regretfully, he realized he hadn’t stood when she had entered the library that night at Raven’s Park.

  He’d been an ass.

  “Miss Wright.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you have been well?”

  Finally she looked up. The smile she gave him was strained and brittle and her eyes, haunted. “I have been…yes, I have been well. I admit I am quite surprised that you have come to Raebourne for a visit. Were you traveling in the area, Your Grace? Oh, my, you have been on the road for some time. Let me order tea for you.” Without awaiting his response, she reached over to pull the bell pull.

  She did not seem nearly as vibrant as she had while at Raven’s Park. Had he beheld her as vibrant to him then? The thought struck him as odd. But when he remembered the spunk she had shown after her embarrassing situation on the lake, and then again when he’d talked with her in the library, he thought that, yes, she had been filled with an optimistic light. But now…now, she appeared to be on the verge of shattering, not physically, but emotionally. Her smile was forced, and she was hesitant to look him directly in the eyes.

  The same servant who had opened the door to him entered the room, and Miss Wright requested some tea and sandwiches. The woman hesitated a moment, curtseyed in his direction, and then removed herself as quickly as she’d arrived.

  “Miss Wright,” he began, “I have come because I owe you an apology.”

  Finally, he had her attention. She stared at him with those big brown eyes, shaking her head. “No, no, Your Grace. You owe me nothing. You were simply being a gentleman. You were merely concerned with my safety and well-being. I was foolish.” She stopped and swallowed. “I ought not to have left my room alone. I am the one at fault.”

  Her hand shook ever so slightly as she lifted it to brush a stray hair away from her eyes. Her dress hung loose upon her frame. She was a tiny little thing really.

  “Nonetheless, it was I who was observed leaving your
bedchamber. And it was my actions that night that have given rise to unseemly gossip. You and I both know that you have nothing to be ashamed of. I wish to put matters to rights somehow.”

  Dropping her shoulders, she averted her face from him, unable to stifle the sound of a choking sob. “I am sorry, Your Grace,” she said, wiping a tear from her eyes with the handkerchief she clutched inside her fist. “I suppose it is just that things have been rather…difficult lately. I don’t know what has come over me.” Unable to stop a flow of tears that had begun, she added, “I never cry.”

  Yes, a cheerful cottage of her own would set matters to right. She had obviously been living under the strain of her parents’ disapproval for longer than just the past few weeks. He supposed they threw her previous indiscretions in her face at every turn. She would find a great deal of relief to be away from them. Perhaps he could send her to Scotland, or Wales. Somewhere far enough away that her reputation would not follow her. She could take on a different name. Yes, a new life completely. He allowed his gaze to drift around the room. She could keep herself busy decorating her new home. He would give her an additional sum for such things.

  She looked back up at him with a sincere, but somewhat watery smile. “I had forgotten how difficult it could be when all the people I believed to be my friends turned away from me. Shopkeepers who have always welcomed me with a smile barely acknowledge me now. The local seamstress, who has always been happy to let me sit and work with her, will not allow me to enter her shop. And that had been one of the great joys in my life, sewing, creating new designs, adding beauty to a frock with ribbon and lace.”

  Perhaps he ought to offer her the position of his mistress after all. He could take her to London and set her up there. Amongst certain circles, she would be received quite well. Being mistress to the Duke of Monfort was something of an honor in itself. He could dress her in the finest fashion had to offer. She could have a lady’s maid to do her hair and keep her company. He could take her about town and she could visit places she would otherwise never see. Being his mistress would be quite a step up for her, he imagined.

  It would benefit his own needs as well.

  “Families I had visited with charity baskets, even, will not open their doors to me.” Brushing away her tears with an irritated hand, she continued, “I don’t know why I am telling you all of this. It is just that once again, everyone in the world thinks the very worst of me, and now, here you are, telling me that you know I have not been a lady of easy virtue.”

  “But of course,” was all he could think to say. There was nothing more tedious to a man than watching a woman cry.

  “Over the past several years, I have filled my time by singing in the choir and assisting the vicar’s wife in her duties. And now, I find myself banished from church! From church, can you imagine?” And then, as though she had used up all of her energy in the last few minutes, she fell silent. She dabbed at her eyes a few times and shook her head sadly. “I am so sorry, Your Grace, for making such a ninny of myself. I do not want for you to feel badly for…for what you did, nor for having escorted me to my chamber at Raven’s Park. I am truly sorry that you went to such trouble to come all of this way. It is I who have been the cause of this situation. I am sorrier than I can possibly say. Somehow, I cannot seem to avoid scandal. It is I who must beg your forgiveness.”

  With those words, the room, again, fell silent. The ticking of the large clock perched on the mantel above the fireplace echoed off the walls. The sound was somewhat hypnotizing.

  “Miss Wright, will you marry me?”

  The words bounced off those same walls and shattered all of his plans.

  He was not certain who was more surprised by them, Miss Wright or himself. In fact, he had an urge to look around the room to make certain that someone else had not, in truth, uttered them.

  Miss Wright did, in fact, peer anxiously around the room.

  He, Alex Cross, the Duke of Monfort, had proposed. No one but himself had asked the blasted question.

  There was no way he could set her up in some lonely cottage in the middle of nowhere. Miss Wright was a social bird of a woman and would pine away in loneliness. Furthermore, he realized, he could not set her up as his mistress. She was apparently something of a God-fearing woman. Even if she did accept such an offer, he was certain guilt would eat away at her.

  In that moment, in truth, he could fathom only one solution to the problem of Miss Abigail Wright. He would realize the new problems this offer created sometime later. After he’d had a drink or two.

  “Miss Wright, you are in a difficult, nay, more of an impossible situation. Your parents and friends have turned their backs upon you. You have no opportunities or possibilities of employment, and you have no means to support yourself independently. My solution, of course, is the best possible course of action. I feel certain, if you consider the matter seriously, you will agree with me.”

  “But—” She hesitated only a moment. “But…You are a duke!”

  “Yes.”

  Abigail could hardly believe she had heard him correctly. He sat there, in his fine ducal attire, with those piercing silver eyes, as calmly as though he had just told her that the sun was shining.

  “And I…”

  “Yes, Miss Wright, you have told me before. You are barely gentry.” His voice sounded almost bored.

  Abigail pushed a tendril of hair back that had escaped her bun and tried to wrap her brain around his proposal. Could he actually be serious? “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “Miss Wright, this is not something I would joke about.” His lips clamped, as though he were holding something back. She studied him for a moment. The only aspect of his person that was not quite impeccable was the growth of beard that shadowed his face. It was late in the day and tiny whiskers peppered his chin and above his lip. His jaw was straight and firm, his cheekbones high. He was lean and yet gave no indication of any form of weakness.

  And then Abigail forced herself to consider his offer. It came as something of a miracle and a nightmare all rolled into one. Living with her parents had become more and more intolerable. Their sharing in the ramifications of her disgrace had seemingly diminished any affection they still felt for her.

  She did not think her aunt and uncle would help her either. They would separate themselves even more so than her parents. Even Penelope had been unable to alter their convictions.

  Abigail had exactly four pounds to her name.

  She had no hopes for employment.

  She had no one to turn to.

  She covered her face with both hands and closed her eyes, lest she begin to cry again. Contemplating her situation did nothing to stem her previously uncontrollable tears. Oh, God. What had her life come to?

  Was he, in fact, her miracle?

  “Your Grace.” She kept her hands over her eyes, lest she jump upon the man and wrap her arms about him. “I must give you leave to rescind your kind offer and forget you ever met me. I cannot hold you to such generosity. Soon enough, upon further reflection, you will thank your lucky stars that you left Biddeford Corners a free and single man.” She continued to hold her hands in front of her eyes but peeked through slightly.

  He had not moved.

  “For you see, Your Grace, the longer you sit there, the greater the likelihood that I will accept your offer…

  “You are not moving, Your Grace.”

  He reclined and shuffled to cross one leg over the other.

  “Your Grace,” Abigail persisted, “I would not be a good duchess. People would always remember me from my come-out. Your family will not be pleased at all. I am not beautiful. I have no connections. I have nothing to offer you. I am going to count to three, very slowly. You must take your leave while you have the chance, Your Grace, for if you are still here by the time I have finished counting, I warn you that I shall accept your proposal and you will leave here an engaged man. I only have so much self-discipline, you see, and part of me sees you as q
uite the answer to all of my problems.

  “I am warning you…

  “One…

  “Two…

  “Two and a half…” Oh, lord, he still had not moved.

  Abigail dropped her hands. “Three,” she said.

  He was watching her with something that looked like it might be amusement. He lifted one ducal eyebrow. Before either of them could say anything, Betty entered, carrying a tray with both tea and a plate of sandwiches upon it. She set it down carefully on the table beside Abigail.

  “Thank you, Betty,” Abigail somehow managed. Both she and the duke sat quietly until Betty once again had disappeared. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace? Sugar? Milk?”

  “Neither, thank you.” He sounded bored again. His eyes were slightly hooded as he watched her stand up and pour. With hands that Abigail did her best to keep from shaking, she poured the hot liquid and handed it to him carefully. She then selected a few small sandwiches, placed them on a plate, and presented them to the duke as well. He set his tea down on the table beside him and accepted the small plate from her.

  “Now that that is settled, I suppose we ought to consider how best to go about it.”

  “It, Your Grace?”

  He had taken a bite and was chewing it thoughtfully. He did not answer until he had finished. “The wedding.” A perplexed frown marred his smooth forehead. “I imagine I could procure a special license. I am uncertain as to the rest of it. I have several distant relatives who will wish to be in attendance. I am aware that you have some family as well. Would it be best to marry quickly and quietly or ought we to include family and friends?”

  “I-I have no idea, Your Grace. What do you prefer?” Taking a sip of her tea, she glanced surreptitiously up to gauge his expression. What she saw could only be described as veiled disgust.

  “It is not a matter of what I prefer, Miss Wright, rather what will be the best for handling and eliminating the gossip. My preference, as I am sure you might guess, would be to get the damn thing over with as quickly as possible.”