The Lady And The Duke (Regency Romance) Read online

  The Lady and the Duke

  Hanna Hamilton

  Edited by

  Maggie Berry

  Copyright © 2017 by Hanna Hamilton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  Also by Hanna Hamilton

  Chapter 1

  Lydia Fernside studied herself in her dressing table mirror. She tilted her head from side to side and turned to look at herself from all angles. Very pretty face she decided. A slender non-obtrusive nose. A pleasing figure—her mother had told her so many times. Although, she also had much to say about Lydia’s poor posture. Lydia noticed her hair could use some attention, but her complexion was fair and she thought she had bright and intriguing eyes—but who was she to conclude that? Certainly one could not see oneself as others might.

  She let out a fulsome sigh as she realized that at twenty years of age she still lacked what she would describe as a suitable suitor. Oh yes, Henry Howell currently filled that position. But Henry? Really? She sighed once again and stifled a yawn as she contemplated a life with one so dull and uninteresting. He maintained a small accounting establishment and his conversation was laced with stories of sheep farmers and shop owners struggling with debts or taxes—stories he found eminently fascinating but which she could only feign the mildest of interest. More often than not, when in conversation with Henry, her eyes glazed over or she looked down at her embroidery and nodded into a slight slumber.

  But enough of this self-centered contemplation, she advised herself. It was time to rise from her dressing table and meet the morning full on. She grabbed the current novel she was reading and raced downstairs for breakfast.

  “Good morning, darling Mother—and dearest sister, Margaret,” she announced as she entered the dining room where breakfast was being served.

  “You are looking well this morning, Lydia,” her mother said, scarcely looking up.

  Lydia had pinched her cheeks to add a bit of color before she came downstairs.

  “And how is your barrister? Is he to call on you today?” Lydia asked Margaret, as she sat down at her place at the breakfast table and shook out her napkin, laying it across the lap of her charming lemon yellow morning dress.

  Margaret looked up from her kipper and squinted. She needed eyeglasses but vanity kept her in a fuzzy world of ill-defined shapes and colors. But it mattered not, as everyone could see her just fine, as she could see the admiring glances from those who appreciated her slender figure, dark curly hair, and fair creamy complexion.

  “Charles had a court date he’d forgotten about. I’m afraid he had to cancel. But perhaps you and I could go for a stroll later this morning? I believe the weather promises to be fine and Culum Daniels is installing a new stile at Brompton corner. If it’s complete we could enjoy a walk along the river path.”

  “I would like that,” Lydia answered.

  “But isn’t Henry coming by for a visit this morning?” Mother asked.

  “Not until tea,” Lydia responded. “He is visiting with a new client this morning."

  Mother seemed agitated. She adjusted her cap and fiddled with the tassels on her dress. “I really don’t know what the matter is with that young man. He has been calling on you for over a year and yet he never seems to have the nerve to ask.”

  “Ask what, Mother?”

  “Ask for your hand. I can’t possibly understand his hesitation. Your father had words with him but a fortnight ago, and still he dissembles.”

  “Perhaps he’s bored with me,” Lydia teased, knowing it would ruffle her mother’s feathers—which, indeed, it seemed to do.

  Mother dabbed at her constantly watery eyes with the edge of her napkin and proceeded to blow her nose with a hoot. And as she did so, a cloud of powder exploded from her over-powdered face and she waved her napkin in the air to disperse it.

  “Nonsense, you are a tribute to this family. You are well read, you practice the domestic arts and are accomplished in piano, reciting, watercolors, and you embroider the most charming cushions.”

  “Yes, Mother, but perhaps he desires a more buxom lady. I have a much more modest figure.”

  Mother brushed away the comment. “Oh, Lydia, how can you say such things, let alone think them?”

  “She reads too many novels, Mother dear,” Margaret added. “It’s not ladylike and I’m sure she puts off young Henry with her babbling on about heroes and heroines.”

  “I dare say, you have a point,” Mother replied, as she rang the silver bell to summon Lucy.

  “Yes, mum,” Lucy said, as she entered from the kitchen.

  “You may clear the table after Mistress Lydia has finished her breakfast.”

  “And Vicar Fernside? He’s not breakfasted yet, mum.” Lucy said.

  Mother looked up. “Oh, bother. Has he lost himself in his morning reveries again? Go see if he’s in his study. And if he is, tell him I require him to come to breakfast before the morning is entirely spent.”

  “Yes, mum.” And Lucy departed.

  “Honestly—how I am bothered. Not one moment of tranquility. Your father, I swear, will be the death of me. Fiddling with his little wooden carvings, or lost in his Sunday matters, and forgetting to pay the bills. Why, only the other morning, butcher Barns threatened to delay delivery of the lamb chops unless we made some payment on the account. I had to use my pocket money to satisfy him.”

  “Mother, you know Father tends to be forgetful of such trivial domestic matters. His mind is on loftier ideals. His sermons soar to the heavens,” Lydia said, defending her father.

  “That’s all good and well on a Sunday, but come Monday and the butcher, the baker, and the candle maker all demand their just and due.”

  Mother sat straight upright, placing her hands righteously in her lap.

  Father burst into the dining room. “Oh, my. Have I been a bad little boy again?” he asked, plopping down at his place at the head of the table. “I get so carried away in my studies and I lose all track of time. I hope the kippers haven’t gone off.”

  Mother humphed, and rose from the table, training her glare at Vicar Fernside. “I have finished my breakfast so you must breakfast alone. Someone must run this household,” she said and swept out of the room.

  Lydia reached over and put her hand on her father’s. “I am still eating breakfast, Papa. I was late too. So we can have a nice chat.”

  Father looke
d over at Lydia and smiled. “Good morning, darling daughters,” he said, also turning to Margaret.

  “Father,” she acknowledged, but, having finished her breakfast, stood to leave. “Lydia, how is ten o’clock for us to have our stroll?”

  Lydia nodded. “That will be fine.”

  As Margaret left the dining room Lydia studied her father. The Vicar of Piddlehinton, Dorset was short of stature with a rosy round face, framed with small round glasses and a brush of white, wiry hair that surrounded his bald pate. Not what one would call attractive, she thought, but when he smiled, his eyes lit up and he radiated a loving warmth that surely others must observe besides herself.

  But she also noticed that his skin had a pale pallor and he looked tired.

  “Papa, are you getting enough rest? You were still up when I went to bed last evening, and I heard you in your study when I first awoke.”

  He smiled wanly and waved her concerns away with a wave of his hand.

  But he sighed, and said; “My darling Lydia, there is always so much that needs attending to. Old Miss Caruthers is doing poorly and, with no family of her own, she so looks forward to my daily visits. The bellows are giving out on the foot organ; there’s a persistent leak in the vestry roof; the pigeons continue to congregate in the steeple; and I find it increasingly difficult to come up with a fresh and lively sermon each week. I have needed to poach the occasional work from years gone by. But I am not sure anyone really notices.”

  “Your sermons are much beloved, and if a parishioner were to notice, I am sure it would be with fond remembrance.”

  Her father looked at her. “What a loving daughter you are, my dear. You are my little treasure. Not like your self-serving sisters who seem to care for nothing but their fine dresses, ribbons, and town gossip.”

  “Father, that is not fair. Emily is married and expecting. She will have much more to care about with a child arriving soon—and she has a fine, sound husband. And Margaret is to be married in but a month. Neither are what I would call self-serving.”

  The Vicar picked at his kipper but didn’t seem that interested in it.

  “You are quite right, as usual. But how about you? Has your young man still not declared himself?”

  Now it was Lydia’s turn to sigh. “No, Papa. And I have to say, I am not particularly anxious to hear such a declaration either.”

  Her father seemed surprised. “Lydia, my pet, how can this be? He has been attentive to you for over a year, and I thought you welcomed his intentions.”

  Lydia twisted her napkin. “Yes, he is a decent man, with a good living. That I can vouchsafe. But is that enough?”

  “You do not have feelings for him?”

  “There is a certain warmth between us, but hardly a flame.”

  “Oh, my dear… Believe me, you must have a firm foundation for your marriage. Your mother and I, despite our occasional differences, care a great deal for each other. You must have a sound basis of love to sustain a marriage over the many years. Without that, you might find yourself living a life of misery.”

  Lydia studied her father. She was so used to him as a parent she had never considered him as a man—a lover—a husband—a person with passions.

  “I shall give your thoughts consideration. But as of now, Henry has still not declared himself.”

  “But if you are not content with him as a husband, you must tell him so. It is not fair to him to let him think that you care when you do not.”

  Feeling chastened, she lowered her eyes and folded her napkin. “Thank you, father, for your wise counsel. I shall certainly give it my full consideration.”

  * * *

  The Vicar’s Anglican Church and rectory were at the western edge of the small, charming village of Piddlehinton—comprised mostly of whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs, and half-timbered shops. The countryside opened up along the road that passed the church. Hedgerows bordered the narrow road that eventually led to the river and crossed over to the estate of Lord Piddlehinton—after whom the village was named. His vast estate comprised a large wooded area by the river, where Lydia and her sister loved to walk; vast grazing fields for sheep and cattle; and the great house of Hollyoaks—a rambling seventeenth century manor that was in somewhat disrepair.

  The ancient Lord Piddlehinton, now in his eighties, had no immediate heirs and there was much speculation as to what would happen to the estate when he passed away. There were rumors of nieces or nephews from London, but no one seemed to know for certain.

  Lydia loved the solitude of the rectory. It was stationed in the middle of a large parcel of land, and included a charming flower garden with roses and hollyhocks in front, and in back a kitchen garden, an orchard, and a yew studded meditation alley where Lydia had a bench tucked away in the shade of an apple tree at the edge of the orchard where she loved to read on a mild summer morning.

  As books were hard to come by, Lydia was reading a torrid novel she’d borrowed from her friend, Dorothea. It was far too gothic and lurid for her taste, and her mind kept wandering to the conversation about Henry with her father at breakfast. She laid the book open in her lap and lifted her face to feel the warmth of the sun filtering down through the leaves of the apple tree. She sat back against the bench and enjoyed a moment of peaceful serenity with her eyes closed.

  “My darling, Lydia.”

  She opened her eyes to see Margaret walking toward her.

  “Are you ready for our stroll?” Margaret asked. “I brought you a shawl in case the woods are too cool.”

  “How thoughtful,” Lydia said, as she stood up and placed the book on the bench.

  Margaret came over and took Lydia’s arm, leading her along the alley to the front garden and down the walkway to the road. They walked along in silence past the church and out into the open countryside.

  Finally, Lydia asked, “Why are you having the wedding at Pulford instead of in our church?”

  Margaret frowned. “Charles’ parents are insisting. And I don’t mind really. I would rather have Papa give me away than marry me. I would feel silly if he were the one to officiate.”

  “But will he not feel slighted?”

  “No, I have talked to him about it. And he understands that the Bolts have a much larger house that can accommodate the entire wedding party.”

  “Are you excited?” Lydia asked.

  Margaret glanced over with an apprehensive expression. “Oh, yes. But nervous too. Mamma has explained all about… you know. But I’m still not sure that I understand completely.”

  Lydia laughed. “Well, I’m afraid I cannot be of much help. I know the basics, of course, but I am certain there are aspects that one can only discover on the night. You should talk to Emily, she should certainly know all about it by now. And after all, she is about to have her first child.”

  Margaret leaned into Lydia and they both giggled and blushed.

  They came to the newly finished stile and crossed over, lifting their skirts and carefully watching their steps as they descended into the field. They walked through the tall grasses that had not yet been grazed and finally entered into Lord Piddlehinton’s woods on the near side of the river where the air was cool, smelled of loam, and sent a shiver through Lydia. She tightened the shawl around her shoulders. The path was strewn with leaves and pine needles and was soft underfoot. The leafy canopy was thick overhead and admitted little sunlight. It reminded Lydia of the novel she had been reading earlier, where the heroine was lost in an enchanted forest. She took hold of her sister’s arm again, and said, “I think I’d rather walk in the open. It’s very dark and close in here, don’t you think?”

  “My thoughts, exactly,” Margaret responded.

  They took a shortcut through the woods and came out in an open field filled with clover and small daisies. A flock of sheep was grazing nearby and gave them a curious stare as the sisters floated through the field, their dresses rustling against the bracken.

  “I am quite worried about Papa,”
Lydia said. “He does not look at all well to me. Have you noticed?”

  “Oh, I am certain he is just fine. He was working in the garden with Mother the other morning and they were chatting and laughing, and wielding their spades with great abandon.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  They had made a full circle and were back at the stile.

  “I think it must be near noon and dinnertime. Shall we head back?” Margaret asked.

  “If you like. I had a late breakfast so I am not all that hungry, but Mother will have a fit if we are late.”

  “I believe we are to have some of those very tasty lamb chops.”

  “The one's Mother made such a fuss about because the butcher was insisting on payment?”

  “The very ones.”

  They both laughed.

  Chapter 2

  Henry Howell walked down the alley toward where Lydia was, once again, attempting to get into her novel. At his approach, she looked up.

  This was her beau, she contemplated. Yes, he was handsome in a regular way, but he had a pinched face and a slightly pained expression that never seemed to relax. He had a full face and a stocky body. She could easily foresee him adding many additional pounds as he aged. And while portly husbands could be considered prosperous, as far as she was concerned, she tended to favor a leaner gentleman who did not need to have the waist of his trousers let out every six months.

  At three and thirty his hair was already thinning, and while he dressed conservatively, he did not tend to turn many of the lady’s heads as he paraded down the post road in the middle of Piddlehinton.