unwanted suitors

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Spotlight on “Duke and Destiny” in Dukes in Spring

When Cassandra Richards, a lady’s companion of questionable birth, meets a man and his horse on a stormy afternoon, two love stories unfold. One will reveal her past and show her how to escape the attentions of a not-so-gentlemanly gentleman. The other… Well, let’s just say you’ll be hearing it from the horse’s mouth.

Excerpt from “Duke and Destiny”:

The rainstorm had arrived, unannounced. Duke was drenched. The sporadic clouds had been whipped together by a strong wind, which had also appeared with no warning. Rain poured from the heavens onto Duke’s back, running down in rivulets along the hairs of his legs. It was the same for his man, who sat huddled upon the wagon, his great coat shut tight against the weather, his hat drooping under the onslaught of so much water upon it.

But onward they must. They had promised a delivery to Chadwick Hall, and Master Reid took his role as farmer very seriously. Besides, it was barely a mile to go now. They were already soaked. It couldn’t get any worse.

As if the storm would say otherwise, a bolt of lightning tore through the darkened sky, splitting and arcing in two fierce spears, one cracking a branch free from a nearby tree, the other triggering a scream a short distance behind them.

Duke would perhaps have let out a cry in shock too, but the sight of a mare tearing past them at great speed startled him doubly, so that he came to a complete stop to gather himself in silence.

From out of the moody purple air came a call.

“Help!”

It wasn’t very loud. Certainly, it struggled to be heard against the backdrop of the thunder and downpour that dominated the scene.

“Help!” came the call again. A little closer this time.

Duke’s man jumped from his seat, crying, “Whoa!”, which Duke thought rather unnecessary, as he hadn’t moved a muscle since they had stopped.

The sound of Master Reid’s running feet splashing through muddy puddles was largely ignored by Duke. He merely waited patiently, despite the rain’s attempt to soak him beyond his already saturated state. Duke was a very steady sort of fellow. He worked hard. He ate well. He enjoyed the company of others. It was a simple life. Which was why he barely shifted his weight while Master Reid charged off back down the road.

It wasn’t long before his man returned with company. Duke did not even have to turn his head to know from the perfume that the new human person was of the mare persuasion. Yet even in the rain, he could smell another, more familiar scent. The huge muscles in his shoulders flexed as he bent his neck to the side, breathed more deeply, and concentrated.

Willow. The scent was unmistakable. It was imprinted upon him. He raised his chin and neighed into the distance, as if Willow—for it must have been she who had bolted past them a minute ago—could hear him.

“Steady on there,” said Master Reid kindly, misunderstanding his call. “We’ll get you to shelter soon.”

With the young, dark-haired woman now seated next to Duke’s man, they set off again, Master Reid talking in low, reassuring tones to her as he would to Duke if he had had a fright.

They had barely covered a hundred yards when a horse came racing down the road toward them with some fellow on his back. At the sight of the young woman on the wagon, the man pulled at the reins, the smell of relief rolling off him in dense waves.

“Miss Richards!” the man shouted over the noise of the storm. “You’re safe! When I saw your horse come back alone, I was so worried!”

“You’re the groom from Chadwick Hall, aren’t you?” asked Master Reid. When the man nodded, Master Reid did the same, adding, “I’ll bring Miss Richards to the house. Got a delivery to make there, anyway. Tell a maid to ready a warm blanket and a bowl of hot water for the young lady’s feet.”

“I’m sorry for the trouble, Shelton,” said the young woman. “Willow surprised me with her enthusiasm to be off. It was not my intention to leave you behind. I had barely gained control of her when the storm broke. Then she was just as eager to be home again. Unfortunately, a lightning strike deepened her enthusiasm to return, and I was promptly unseated. Only a bit of a bruise on my rump to show for it, though.”

Duke liked her voice. She did not fight against the elements by shouting as the groom had done. She spoke clearly and her words carried well enough to those who were right beside her. The worst of her misadventure behind her, she was calming already, her heartbeat slowing.

“Glad to hear it, miss,” said the groom. He hesitated. He looked at Master Reid and the young lady.

Humans were so complicated. They always worried that pairs of them would get up to natural activities if they were left alone. As if that were such a bad thing. Well, they weren’t alone. Duke was there, after all. Besides, it wasn’t as if Master Reid would have his way with the young woman in the storm. Even horses knew better than to risk being struck by lightning for a bit of play.

Meet Elizabeth Donne

Elizabeth Donne’s writing is a natural outpouring of a lifelong love affair with English literature. Although she has spent most of her life in Cape Town, South Africa, she now lives in the American Midwest, where she enthusiastically introduces her visitors to the joys of drinking rooibos tea. With a biscuit, of course.

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 2

The garden of Creydon House, 1777

Lady Eleanor Creydon traced the words in the water that puddled on the stone rim of the fountain. “Lady James Winderfield.” Her lips curved in a tremulous smile. The man she loved was asking her father for her hand, and would soon come to ask her.

“I have made an appointment to meet your father tomorrow,” he had whispered in her ear last night as they promenaded down the centre of the double line of dancers. Then, as they passed one another, a few moments later, “You know what I want to ask him, my darling.”

She circled the girl at the head of the ladies’ line, barely aware of the other people in the room, conscious only of James and the words that set her heart thumping. Only years of practice kept her moving gracefully back around to meet James again, her arm stretched high, her hand ready for his brief clasp and her ears for another burst of whispered words.

“It is what you want?”

Looking up, she nodded, and the anxiety cleared from his eyes as they met hers. How could he be unsure of her? She had no further opportunity to reassure him. They had to part and dance down the outside of their respective lines, and the music drew to a close before they could speak again.

Her mother had been waiting, and hurried her away. The Earl of Farnmouth, her father, had decided it was time to leave the ball.

Eleanor had lain awake in the night, thinking that tomorrow would never come, but at last the sun had come up, and the interminable morning had passed.

James was with her father now, shut in the earl’s study. Soon, surely, the earl would send him out into the garden. The answer would be yes, of course. As the daughter of an earl, she knew her worth, but James was third son of a duke; a duke, furthermore who was a friend of her father.

Eleanor cast a glance at the house and frowned slightly. Her father would say yes. Of course, he would. Only last week, he had interrupted her dinner with her mother to announce that he expected a very eligible offer for Eleanor’s hand. “I am pleased with your daughter, countess,” he had told her mother. “Betrothed only two months after her debut. You are to be congratulated, madam.”

He had not spoken to Eleanor, but he seldom did, nor had he given a name. Who could it be but James? James was her most ardent suitor. Indeed, since the rapscallion son of the Duke of Winshire had made her the object of his devotion, the rest of her court had fallen away. They had been callow boys, in any case, standing up with her because of childhood friendship or because she had become fashionable.

James was a man, not a boy — twenty-four years to her seventeen. He was unbelievably handsome, charming, clever, funny, and dearer to her than anyone she had ever known, even her older sister. And he had chosen her! She clapped her hands and spun in a circle, unable to contain her delight.

Soon he would come. She composed herself on the stone bench opposite the path by which he would enter the garden. How would he propose? On one knee? Sitting beside her? The thought had her up on her feet again, too excited to stay still, peering down the path.

“Eleanor!” It was a hiss just a hairsbreadth above a whisper.

She spun around. James had come from the other direction. Well, no matter. She hurried towards him; her hands outstretched. He scowled, his eyes blazing in a white face. “James? What is the matter?”

He clasped her hands and pulled her after him into the shadows of the yew walk, where he wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her hair. “Eleanor, I love you. I love you more than life itself. You believe me, do you not?”

Eleanor pulled away, but only enough to peer into his eyes. “James? What did my father say?”

James groaned.

“James, you are frightening me. Did he say we must wait?”

“Eleanor, he says that he has given your hand to the Duke of Haverford,” James blurted.

Eleanor’s breath stopped, and the blood surged in her ears as her heart pounded. Her sight grew dark at the edges, and the enormous yew hedges swayed towards her as if to batter her into the ground. By force of will, she fought off her faintness. “But… but he is old,” she stammered, “and a wicked libertine, and cold as ice.” She stamped her foot. “I don’t want him, James. I love you. I love you, James.”

“Shush, my love,” James begged. “We must be quiet. Farnmouth told me I could not see you again, but I had to, Eleanor. I’ll find a way. I promise. You love me, and I love you. I will ask my father to help. He is friends with yours. Surely Winshire can persuade the earl.”

“Yes!” Eleanor’s heart gave another enormous thump, this time with relief. “We will be together?” she asked.

“We will marry,” James promised. He bent his head and his lips touched hers. It was a gentle, reverent salute, but Eleanor pressed closer and the kiss changed, James’s lips still soft, but questing, moving, devouring. His tongue pressed the seam of her mouth and swept inside when she gasped. Again, the darkness hovered, but this time it was a welcoming warmth, a giving and taking of sensation, a merging of selves so that Eleanor no longer knew who sighed and who moaned, or how long they stayed intertwined.

The whistling of a gardener brought them back to themselves. “I must go,” James told her. “Stay strong, my love. We are meant to be together, and I will find a way.”

“We are meant to be together,” she agreed.