The Duke's Last Hunt Read online

  “You staying at the big house?” Ned gathered up a tray of dirty dishes from the counter. “Or will you be needing a room here?”

  Henry might have stiffened if any of the other villagers had asked that question, but Ned was too old a friend to take offense at—and besides, the whole village knew the Rowland brothers were on bad terms. “That’s yet to be determined. Do you have a room for me if I should need it?”

  Ned gave a laugh that shook his great brown beard. “That depends. You’s not the only one waiting on the duke’s pleasure.” He jerked his head toward the table by the window.

  Henry’s eyes followed Ned’s until he saw a dark-haired gentleman sitting alone—a slender man with a light-colored coat in the pink of fashion, eating his luncheon and squinting at the counter. “Hello, Hal!” he said abruptly once his presence had been discovered.

  “Robert!” said Henry in a tone of surprise that was not precisely good-natured. How many times had he told his half-brother to leave off calling him Hal? “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Here to visit Mother, of course.” The dark-haired man lifted his monocle and adjusted it to get a better look at Henry.

  “And to apply to Rufus for some money while you’re at it?”

  “Well, yes, there is that too.” The man let the monocle drop. “There’s this fellow in London with a locomotive machine….”

  Henry turned away. He did not care to hear about another of Robert’s foolish speculations. As the son of the duchess’ first marriage to an untitled landowner, Robert Curtis had always ranked below his brothers in consequence and—now that Rufus has come into his own—in fortune. Ten years Henry’s senior, Robert never ceased importuning Rufus for money, both to support his highbrow style of living and to finance a perpetual string of unwise investments.

  “Perhaps we can ride up to the house together,” Robert said brightly. He stood up, his willowy frame contrasting sharply with his brother’s sturdy physique. Then he put on his beaver and headed for the door of the tavern.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Henry, looking pointedly at his half-brother’s empty plate.

  “Oh….” Robert’s fingers fished around in his waistcoat pocket but came up empty. “Ned, might I trouble you to…?”

  “Put it on your account? Of course, Mr. Curtis.” Ned’s brown beard split into a half smile. One did not have to know him well to see that it was forced.

  “Thank you,” said Robert. He gave Henry a shrug and stepped out onto the porch. The door swung shut behind him.

  Henry’s dark eyebrows beetled into a frown. He picked up the empty dish from the table and carried it over to the counter. The innkeeper reached for it with a look of confusion on his face, probably able to count on one hand the times an aristocrat had cleared a table in the inn.

  “Ned,” said Henry firmly. “You’ve been tavern-keeping long enough to know that what I’m about to say is true. Always insist the customer pays before leaving. You’ll never get on in life if you keep letting fellows like that shoot the crow.” He pulled a guinea out of his own pocket and slapped it on the counter. “Hopefully this will settle whatever he has owing.”

  Ned took the coin and put it in the moneybox under the counter. “Funny thing, your lordship, but seems like someone might offer you the same advice. How are you supposed to get on in life? I shouldn’t think you’d be having guineas to spare for paying others’ reckonings, what with—”

  “Never mind that,” said Henry curtly. “I don’t want it talked of.”

  “What you want said and what the village wants to bandy words about ain’t exactly the same thing now, is it, Lord Henry?” Ned waggled his eyebrows as he spoke, and Henry could hardly keep from laughing in spite of himself.

  “’Tain’t right, Master Henry. ’Tain’t right.” Ned slid an arm over the counter to wipe off the crumbs. “And there ain’t a single one of my regular customers but would rather that you were still in charge up at the big house.”

  Henry snorted. “An unlikely eventuality. No, I’m simply here to visit Mother and then back to London. I’ll stop back in tonight for a room if I find I’m less than welcome. And now for that pint, if you please. You’ll find that I’m good for it.” He placed another coin on the rough wooden counter.

  2

  Eliza took some water from the wash basin and splashed it over her face. It had been warm in the carriage, and this room at Harrowhaven, with the sun beating down on the tall windows, was not much cooler. She could not unlace her traveling dress herself, so she waited patiently, fanning herself when the air grew too close, until Ollerton would be done with her mother and come attend her.

  The minutes ticked by. Eliza walked over to one of the three windows that overlooked the circular drive. Riding up the paved driveway was a thin man in a light-colored coat. Her breath caught a moment. Was it the duke? No, she chided herself, he was much too slender. Rufus Rowland’s shoulders would nearly double this fellow’s. The man rode up to the stables near the right side of the house and disappeared inside.

  She looked over to the door to her chamber. Ollerton still had not come. She wondered if she should try to dress her hair herself. It was not the first time Ollerton had forgotten her, and she did not want to be late for tea.

  She was about to move away from the window when she spotted another rider coming up the drive. This one rode straight up to the door, dismounting by the front steps and casting the reins of his horse to a footman with an imperious fling. Eliza began to breathe a little faster. The shoulders were right, the air was right—this must be him, the master of the house. She could not see his hair or his face—from this vantage point, his beaver concealed them both—but she knew it was Rufus.

  She looked at the door again. Her hand ran over her gray traveling dress; she could feel the dust, but the color concealed it. There was a small looking glass on the bureau. Her auburn curls were pinned more loosely than she liked, but they were not in complete disarray.

  A daring thought came to her. What if she were to go downstairs—by herself—and greet the duke as he came into the house? A tremor of trepidation almost extinguished the idea as soon as it had formed, but the spark refused to die.

  She would be brave. She would go downstairs. And perhaps the look in the duke’s eyes, when he saw her so unexpectedly, would tell her whether he truly had an interest in her…or whether this whole trip was a waste of time and expense.

  Eliza opened the bedroom door and peered down the hallway. The appearance of a footman carrying candlesticks or an encounter with a maid bearing linens would have halted her in her tracks. But no one was in the corridor, not a soul. She tiptoed down the floral rug until she came to the stairs. Her hand glided over the polished banister as she descended. She glanced up at the portrait wall over the landing to shore up her courage.

  As the staircase led into the saloon, she heard voices. She leaned breathlessly against a column close to a bright floral arrangement and listened to the conversation in the entrance hall.

  “Good afternoon, Hayward. If I might trouble you to place my card on the silver salver for my brother.”

  “Your…card, Lord Henry?” The butler sounded perplexed.

  “If you would be so kind.”

  There was a pause. Eliza’s heart fell. It was not the duke after all, but his brother. She could not see him from where she stood in the adjoining room, but she could imagine that dark, serious face from the portrait gallery conversing with the immaculate butler.

  “Lord Henry, I regret that I cannot—”

  “Oh, do be a good fellow, Hayward.”

  “No, Master Henry.”

  There was another pause. Eliza thought it very strange that a servant would speak so to a son of a house. But then, it was no stranger than a man wanting to leave his calling card for his own brother.

  “Very well then.
I’ll hand it to him myself. Is my mother at home?”

  “In the drawing room, sir, waiting for tea to be served.”

  Before Eliza had time to wonder where exactly the drawing room was located, the duke’s brother strode into the saloon. She froze like a deer trapped behind a thicket, staring at him intently with her green eyes.

  “And who might you be?” he demanded, looking Eliza up and down as if she were some sort of trespasser.

  Eliza’s face flushed as pink as a summer sunset. “Miss Elizabeth Malcolm,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance either, Mr.…?”

  He ignored her and continued on with his own line of questioning. “And what are you doing here?”

  Eliza lifted her chin and folded her hands in front of her to stop them from shaking. “My parents and I are guests of the duke.”

  “The duke!” His dark eyes narrowed. “Whatever for?”

  His rudeness was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Part of her wanted to slap him. Part of her wanted to run away and cry. She was certain that the latter outcome would occur if she were not rescued soon.

  “I could not say, sir. As the duke’s guest, though, I suppose I have as much right to be here as you—”

  “More right, I should think,” said another voice coming in from the opposite door of the saloon.

  Eliza and the dark-haired man turned sharply to see Rufus Rowland, the Duke of Brockenhurst saunter into the room. He was in his shirtsleeves and vest, having divested himself of his jacket on this warm August day. His wavy red hair was wet from exertion, and his buckskins were caked with dust.

  “Enchanted to see you again, Miss Malcolm.” Rufus walked across the room, took Eliza’s hand in his, and lightly kissed it.

  He turned to his brother. “And you, dear Henry—not quite so enchanted.”

  “Likewise, my dear Rufus.” Lord Henry glanced from Eliza to Rufus and then back again.

  Eliza was struck by the contrast in manners between the two gentlemen. Her hand still tingled from the brush of Rufus’ lips. Her spirit still smarted from the incivility of Lord Henry’s words.

  “You’re not staying?” said Rufus. It was more of an assertion than a question.

  “Would you rather I didn’t?”

  Eliza felt the younger Rowland’s eyes dart toward her again.

  “Whatever you like, brother,” Rufus said dismissively. He turned his attention back to Eliza. “As you can see I’ve been shooting. I’m mortified to say that I had exceedingly poor luck. Only two braces of pheasants. But now that you’re here, perhaps my luck will improve.”

  He pressed another kiss on her hand. Eliza’s eyes grew big. He had never been this familiar when calling on them in Grosvenor Square. Perhaps he really did mean to court her.

  “I must change into something more presentable,” said the duke, mopping his hair away from his face with a large hand.

  Eliza looked down at her own dusty traveling dress, wondering, with a tinge of panic, how soon tea was.

  “But I imagine my mother is eager to see you, so let’s not keep her waiting. Henry,”—the duke’s eyes glittered—“you can make yourself useful and take Miss Malcolm to the drawing room.”

  Lord Henry made no answer, watching as his brother disappeared toward the staircase.

  Eliza took a deep breath and stared at the floor.

  “Well then, shall we?”

  She looked up. Lord Henry was offering her his arm. She took it and they walked back through the entrance hall toward the double doors that led into the drawing room, Lord Henry maintaining an aloof silence and Eliza summoning up the whole of her courage to face a room full of people she did not know on the arm of a man she did not much like.

  * * *

  Henry had escorted enough nervous debutantes to sense when one was about to dissolve into a puddle. He cast a curious glance at Miss Malcolm’s profile as they approached the drawing room. She was biting her lower lip and her face was still a half-shade of pink, but despite that, or perhaps because of it, she was rather pretty. He would almost think her beautiful, if it were not for the red in her hair which reminded him of his brother.

  Where had Rufus come across this girl? And why had he invited her here? Henry knew all too well that she was not the usual sort of woman that the Duke of Brockenhurst preferred. Her dress was plain and genteel, and she did not seem the least bit forward. She had said that her parents were here as well, which lent an unexpected air of propriety to the situation.

  He was already regretting his incivility to her in the saloon. It was not his habit to insult young women on first acquaintance—but then, previous encounters with ladies of Rufus’ acquaintance had left him ill-prepared to encounter someone modest and demure.

  Henry could feel Miss Malcolm’s grip tighten on the crook of his arm as his opposite hand pushed open the doors of the drawing room. She was terrified. But just as quickly, her hand relaxed—she was determined not to show it.

  The group of four seated around the tea table looked up as Henry and Miss Malcolm entered, and the two gentlemen rose to their feet in courtesy to Henry’s companion.

  “Henry! What on earth are you doing here?” demanded Adele with a shriek. She tapped the gentleman next to her with her fan. “Mr. Blount! Did you know my brother was coming down to the country?”

  Stephen smiled. “He told me he might, but I did not think it my place to tell you.”

  Henry and Stephen exchanged a nod of greeting.

  “Well, that was very wrong of you,” said Adele, shaking her brown curls with a toss of her head. “I forbid you to keep secrets from me, Mr. Blount.”

  Henry groaned inwardly. It was ghastly watching one’s sister flirt with one’s friend.

  “So delightful to see you,” said his mother, with a little more decorum than her daughter. “The day is full of surprises—first your brother Robert arrives, then you.”

  “Hello, Hal!” said the slender man standing behind the duchess. He gave a smirk, as if their chance meeting at the village tavern was some sort of clandestine act that bound them together.

  “And who is this on your arm?” asked the duchess, gesturing graciously to Miss Malcolm.

  Henry started. He had assumed that Miss Malcolm would have met his mother before now, but apparently Rufus had sent this wilting flower into a room full of strangers. “I beg your pardon, Mother. May I present Miss Elizabeth Malcolm?”

  “How do you do?” said the girl a little faintly. She let go of his arm to bob a brief curtsey.

  The duchess murmured something polite while Adele displayed another of her irrepressible outbursts. “Miss Malcolm? But I thought you were visiting Rufus? How is it that you come in with Henry?”

  Miss Malcolm colored from the edges of her ears to the tip of her nose. Adele certainly knew how to infuse a situation with awkwardness. Henry felt sorry for the young lady. But not sorry enough to dismiss the mischievous thought that came to him. Hayward had thwarted his plans to vex Rufus with his new calling card—but circumstances had provided another opportunity with which to vex him. He would still be able to put some pebbles in Rufus’ boots today.

  “Miss Malcolm is a great friend of mine from London,” said Henry, spilling forth this fabrication with enthusiasm. “I heard that Rufus had invited her to Harrowhaven, so naturally, I decided to pay a visit to you, Mother, at the same time.”

  Miss Malcolm stared at him, her lips slightly parted. She was tall for a woman, and he was only of average height for a man, making their eyes nearly on a level. He wondered if she would have the courage to contradict him. But no—she kept silent and her opportunity was lost.

  “I see,” said his mother, her eyebrows crinkling together in foreboding. It was not the first time Rufus and Henry had been rivals.

  “How interesting!” trilled A
dele, spreading her fan in front of her face to hide a grin. Henry gave her a wink—he might have known that Adele would appreciate the situation as much as he did. He could see his sister cast an appraising glance at Miss Malcolm’s plain gown and pretty features. “Please, sit down, my dear,” she said to their guest, gesturing to the empty sofa. Henry deposited his charge and stepped back, giving her an encouraging smile.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce the rest of us?” asked Robert, perching himself primly on the edge of his chair so as not to wrinkle his coattails. He lifted his monocle to examine the fair intruder.

  “It would be my pleasure,” said Henry. “Miss Malcolm, allow me to present my half-brother, Robert Curtis. My sister Adele needs no introduction, I suppose. And this is Mr. Stephen Blount, a longtime friend of mine—although something tells me that he is not here to visit me.”

  Adele giggled at this last part, and Stephen cleared his throat in annoyance.

  “Do you paint, Miss Malcolm?” Adele asked, leaning in confidentially. Henry sat down on the other side of the sofa, a little closer than he normally might to a lady not his relative. He watched as Miss Malcolm’s right hand, which was trailing absently over the upholstery, moved suddenly into her lap.

  “Yes,” said Miss Malcolm, fixing her attention completely on Adele.

  “And play the pianoforte?”

  “A little.”

  “And sing?”

  “Not at all.”

  “That is no matter. I don’t think Rufus much cares for music. Although Henry might.” Adele smiled archly.

  “Miss Malcolm,” said the duchess, no doubt determined to intervene before her daughter humiliated their guest entirely, “I suppose we have the honor of your parents visiting as well?”

  Henry frowned. Had Rufus not informed his mother which guests they would be receiving? He knew all too well the autocratic control that Rufus exercised over the estate since their father’s death, but he had assumed that his mother was still mistress of the family home.