Falling for a Duke (Timeless Regency Collection Book 8) Page 9

“Lord Swansea’s housekeeper says this celebrated guest is a nobleman who has been welcomed at the Prince Regent’s dinner table more than once and is famous for his valor at the Battle of Talavera.”

  Mrs. Finchley waited, allowing her captive audience to absorb the news.

  Her pause was not . . . unappreciated.

  Eliza’s heart beat faster in her chest. Surely Mrs. Finchley could not mean whom Eliza suspected. There were other titled heroes of the Battle of Talavera in Spain, correct?

  “Are we to guess at this mystery man’s identity, then?” Mrs. Young quipped.

  Miss Charity Winters giggled. “If it is the noble hero of Talavera himself, then guessing is not too hard now, is it?”

  Eliza closed her eyes, silently begging whatever saint might be listening to spare her this.

  Not him.

  Not now.

  But Mrs. Finchley fluttered her nervous hands and said it anyway, “Precisely, Charity. My poor nerves can scarcely stand the excitement. Lord Swansea will soon welcome the handsome, very eligible Duke of Chawton himself.”

  And that was the blow that stopped Eliza’s heart, shattering her hopes and dreams into brilliant shards.

  A death of sorts.

  Eliza’s lungs seized. She wrapped an arm around her stomach, attempting to hold herself together.

  No. Heavens, no!

  All the ladies cooed with delight.

  “Does his Grace bring a large party with him?”

  Please, no.

  “Imagine how beautiful the ladies will be!”

  I would rather not.

  “Will Lord Swansea hold a ball for the entire town, do you suppose?”

  Where has all the air gone?

  But . . .

  Some sense trickled into Eliza’s panicked thoughts. Surely he wasn’t coming for her. How would he have discovered her whereabouts? They had covered her tracks most carefully. Rothsbury on the coast of Dorset was a world away from home in the wilds of Yorkshire.

  And more to the point . . . why would he care? After all this time? Five years ago, perhaps, he might have run her to ground. But he hadn’t then. So why suddenly now?

  It must be an unfortunate coincidence.

  “Are you quite well, Mrs. Mail? You look as if you have seen a ghost.” That last bit was directed at Eliza herself as she sat frozen and unblinking.

  For the record, she felt quite ill, indeed. And she would cease being pale as soon as she could convince her heart and lungs to resume their proper functioning.

  “She is overcome.” Mrs. Finchley nodded, tone grave and somber.

  “Ah,” several voices said in unison.

  “It must be her nerves.”

  Eliza tightened her hold on her stomach, willing her body to stopthisrightnow. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the fireplace—face white, brown eyes panicked under chestnut hair pulled into a simple bun atop her head.

  “You forget,” Miss Winters said into the silence. “Sergeant Mail died at Talavera.”

  A quiet hush fell, as often happened when discussing Robert. The ladies, almost in synchronicity, tilted their heads to the side—a universal sign of “Oh, you poor thing.” Miss Winters placed a comforting hand on Eliza’s shoulder.

  “We know how you mourn Sergeant Mail, even nearly five years on.” Mrs. Young patted her knee. “I only wish we all could have known such an amazing man.”

  Eliza blinked rapidly, her throat too tight.

  Oh, Robert.

  How had it come to this? When would the pain of his loss ease?

  “Yes. The stories you tell of him are inspirational.” Mrs. Finchley smiled and then gave a gasp of excitement. “Oh! Perhaps the Duke of Chawton knew him in some way?”

  Knew him? Hah!

  That was funny.

  Eliza swallowed back hysterical laughter, still clutching a hand about her waist. Maybe Mrs. Finchley’s nerves were contagious.

  “There, there.” Miss Winters rubbed her back. “The loss of one’s true love must be ever present.”

  Truth.

  Not a day passed without the melancholy of Robert’s absence making itself felt. How she had loved him. How she still loved him.

  One breath. Two. In. Out.

  Eliza clenched her teeth. She simply must endure the duke’s coming.

  William Thomas Rutherford Trebor.

  He was just a man.

  Well . . . there were a few honorifics behind that name, she supposed.

  His Grace the Duke of Chawton.

  The Most Honorable the Marquess of Strathclyde.

  The Right Honorable the Earl of Flushings.

  The Right Honorable Lord Laither.

  So . . . perhaps not exactly just a man.

  She would simply avoid him—which, truthfully, would pose no challenge whatsoever.

  Lofty dukes did not typically mingle with genteel widows.

  Yes, William Trebor, Duke of Chawton, et al. would have no reason to seek out genteel Elizabeth Mail, widow of Robert Mail, sergeant in His Majesty’s army, killed in action at Talavera.

  Yes. He would come and go, and she would not see nor speak with him.

  She had survived the events of five years ago.

  She would overcome this, too.

  How long before he would see her—a day at most? Perhaps two?

  Well, the length of time did not matter, Liam supposed. He would stay for years, if necessary, to accomplish his goal: find Eliza Carter and settle what needed settling.

  This confrontation had been five long years in the making.

  William Trebor, Duke of Chawton, tapped a foot, staring unseeing out the soaring diamond-paned Tudor window. His gaze scanned the manicured parterre garden with its geometric, sculpted box hedges, clouds racing overhead.

  Three months.

  Once he had decided on this course, it had taken him three entire months to track her down. Granted, he hadn’t needed to find Eliza himself. He could have hired a Bow Street Runner to locate her. But as a former captain and cavalry officer in His Majesty’s army, Liam took pride in doing the deed himself.

  Some things could not—should not—be delegated.

  Locating Eliza was definitely one of them.

  He would see her, and she would explain at long last why she had done what she did and he would—

  “I trust you find your accommodations amiable enough, Chawton?” Lord Swansea’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  Liam turned back to the room. Lined with dark wood paneling and dotted with heavy furniture, the drawing room clearly hadn’t changed much in the last two hundred years. Lord Swansea regarded him expectantly from his seat before the cavernous fireplace.

  “Of course,” Liam replied with a nod of his head. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

  Lord Swansea grunted, motioning with his cane for a hovering manservant to adjust the blanket on his lap, obviously wanting more warmth despite the roaring fire. His lordship’s white hair caught the light, a wispy halo ring encircling the edges of an otherwise bare head.

  A small part of Liam felt guilty for imposing on the elderly gentleman. He was frail, hard of hearing, and only mildly interested in the grandson of his old friend, Liam’s grandfather, the so-called Lion Duke of Chawton. Though what Lord Swansea lacked in physical strength, he made up in peevish opinion.

  The other two men in the room, Edward Forsythe and Nicholas Carter, glanced over at Lord Swansea.

  Lord Swansea’s nephew and heir, Mr. Edward Forsyth, was all practiced boredom. His attitude contrasted strongly with the riot of expression of his clothing: an orange and pink striped waistcoat under a sky-blue tail coat, not to mention the drama of his high, starched shirt points which rose past his ears and limited his ability to turn his head. Mr. Forsythe had to sit up from his seat and twist his entire body to look at his uncle.

  Mr. Nicholas Carter also kept emotion off his face, but then, he was in on Liam’s intentions. As Eliza’s cousin, Nicholas had been i
nstrumental in helping Liam track her to Rothsbury, pressuring his father—Eliza’s uncle and former guardian—into helping them.

  Liam and Nicholas had known each other as children but had only recently rekindled their friendship after an encounter at a gentleman’s club in London. Nicholas was less wild than the boy Liam remembered, though he did still keep the company of men like Edward Forsythe.

  “You are too kind, Chawton.” Mr. Forsythe twisted back to face Liam, waving a careless hand as he crossed his legs and settled back into the settee. “Ambrose Park can barely be called tolerable. Once it is mine, I shall set about making modernizing improvements—”

  “Silence, you young coxcomb.” Lord Swansea pounded the floor with his cane. “I am hardly in my dotage, and you will cease this caterwauling about my estate. I fully intend to live another thirty years simply to spite you.”

  Forsythe picked at some imagined fluff on his gold breeches, shrugging off his great-uncle’s rebuke. Proving, once again, that those who were most in need of a good scold were least likely to take it to heart.

  “The others shall certainly find the house lacking once they arrive,” Forsythe muttered.

  “I heard that, boy,” Lord Swansea harrumphed. “If you find my house lacking, you and your fancy friends can take yourselves off. Chawton”—here he jabbed at Liam with his cane—“you may stay, as your attire indicates you seem to have more sense than this other lot.”

  Liam exchanged a look with Nicholas. They both stifled a smile. Liam rather liked the old man—more than Mr. Edward Forsythe, in any event.

  Liam hardly knew Forsythe. He was an acquaintance of Nicholas. But as Liam’s inquiries as to Eliza’s whereabouts had led them to Rothsbury, Forsythe had been needed to provide an introduction to the area. It was Nicholas who had encouraged Forsythe to insist on a house party at Ambrose Park.

  Currently, Liam had no other information as to Eliza’s whereabouts. Just that she was married and living in Rothsbury. He was not able to even learn her husband’s name. Granted, Liam could have easily sent his man of affairs to snoop about.

  But he was honest enough to admit that he wanted to see her. He wanted to hear her voice as she offered her excuses . . . her explanations.

  Of course, he could now throw the weight of his title around and easily dig up answers to his questions himself. But such behavior would give rise to gossip and rife speculation for Eliza. Dukes did not suddenly appear, asking after married, genteel women of moderate means.

  Even after everything, Liam had no intention of damaging Eliza’s reputation as a married woman, such as it might be. Besides, he knew almost nothing of the man she had married. What would her husband say and do? What repercussions would there be for her? This explained why Nicholas was also keeping his connection with Eliza secret for now. Making that relationship known would surely bring questions that Eliza would prefer not to answer. Would Eliza react to seeing her cousin here?

  And so, Liam had gone to great lengths to make their meeting appear happenstance. First, contacting Lord Swansea as the grandson of the Lion Duke and hinting that he would be in the area. Then through Nicholas, striking up a casual friendship with Edward Forsythe, who was only too eager to claim the connection, pushing his uncle to formally invite Liam for a visit.

  He suppressed a grimace. He should receive a sainthood for this. Eliza merited no such consideration. Not after what she had done.

  But Liam was a gentleman, first and last. No matter how deserving, he couldn’t bring himself to be purposefully cruel. Not even to Eliza.

  Liam clasped his hands behind his back, a small smile touching his lips. “You are too kind, Swansea. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.”

  Lord Swansea grunted his approval. “So why are you three here so suddenly? I cannot imagine that my home or company comes highly recommended.”

  “You do yourself a disservice, my lord.” Nicholas smiled, his chestnut hair and dark eyes so like those of Eliza.

  “I daresay you are chasing after a woman,” Lord Swansea said.

  “’Pon rep, Uncle!” Forsythe threw his hands up in disgust and slooooowly turned himself around to face his uncle, shirt points dangerously close to his eyes. “As if His Grace would have designs of any kind on what passes as a ‘lady’ in this godforsaken corner of the world.”

  Liam barely stopped himself from growling at Forsythe’s disdain. If he didn’t need this popinjay—

  “Let the man speak for himself.” Lord Swansea tapped his cane on the floor and shifted his gaze to Liam. “Is this about a woman?”

  Liam managed to keep his face straight. “A gentleman would never say.”

  Lord Swansea chuckled. “Ah. Diplomatically stated. It is most definitely about a woman, then. Looking to set up your nursery, eh? It’s about time, I say. You sold out of your officer’s commission when?”

  “Just over six months ago.”

  Liam’s father had passed away last year—making Liam the Duke of Chawton—but it took Liam several months to settle his men, sell his commission, and return home from Spain. From there, he had presented himself before parliament and dealt with pressing estate issues. But the moment he encountered Nicholas with information about Eliza, he was on the scent, tracking her down.

  “Well, I wish you luck with your lady, Your Grace.” Lord Swansea jabbed with his cane again.

  “There is no lady, Uncle.” Forsythe nearly whined the words.

  Forsythe might have been Liam’s age, but seven years of war and a world of behavior separated them. Liam felt half a lifetime older.

  Besides, there was indeed a lady.

  Now he simply had to flush her out of hiding.

  He would not leave Ambrose Park until this business with Eliza was finished, one way or another.

  Sixteen Years Earlier

  There was a girl in his favored spot. Sitting, just there, beside a sprawling wild rosebush that covered part of the crumbling abbey ruins.

  He tucked his slim volume of Milton under his arm, turning the title inward. Most people didn’t understand why he liked books so much—most people meaning primarily his father.

  But books equaled knowledge. And knowledge equaled new ideas. And new ideas equaled lots of fascinating things to contemplate.

  And he very much enjoyed contemplation.

  Particularly here in the shade of the ancient abbey, tucked into its cool recesses, resting in the stone seats of the choir where medieval monks would have kept midnight vigil.

  But today instead of the ghosts of monks past, a girl perched in the middle of the stone seats.

  Well . . . in a way. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t sitting on the seats.

  No.

  She had somehow scaled the fragmented stones in her skirts and short boots and now sat on the ruined wall above the stone choir, her feet dangling down. Were he to sit in his favorite carved seat, her toes would certainly rest on his cap.

  He frowned.

  This simply would not do. He came here for contemplation . . . to escape his father’s disappointment and read without being chided for his ‘unmanly’ pursuits. Not to be a footstool for a tomboy clearly younger than his own ten years.

  She lifted her head and locked eyes with him as he drew near.

  He stopped below her, shading his face as he looked up.

  “You are in my spot.” His words were just as cross as he felt.

  She pursed her lips, clearly unconcerned. She looked down, then right and left. Finally, she shrugged and scooted herself two feet to the left.

  “There.” She smoothed her skirts. “Now you can sit.” She patted the space she had just vacated. Right beside her. Up the wall.

  Not in the sensibly placed choir seats below.

  His frown deepened, moving into a scowl. “I do not climb walls.”

  He did not deign to explain himself further. That was one of the first things his father had drilled into him.

  Never apologize. Never offer explanation. You a
re above such things.

  Her mouth formed a surprised O.

  “Whyever not?” She had a lilting voice. Pert. Chipper. “Climbing is ever so much fun. And besides, the higher you climb, the more you see. Why would you not want to see more?”

  He paused, contemplating what she had just said.

  Her statement had . . . layers.

  She angled her head.

  “My name is Elizabeth Anne Carter.” She studied him, a bird trying to make heads or tails of what it saw. “What is your name?”

  He scowled even deeper. That was not how introductions were made. Not in the world he inhabited. Besides . . . he had many names to choose from.

  More silence.

  They continued to stare at each other.

  And then it finally registered. This girl was . . . pretty. Curls the color of roasted chestnuts framed two enormous chocolate eyes, a button nose, and pointed chin. He supposed she looked like a wood nymph from Greek mythology. Logically, that shouldn’t have made any difference, and yet, for some reason, it changed everything.

  It was the nature of being ten years old, he had realized. Things appeared less . . . childlike.

  Liam blinked and cleared his throat. “Are you related to Nicholas Carter?” he asked.

  Nicholas was a boy who lived nearby. Liam was not allowed to associate with Nicholas Carter, as Mr. Carter was merely a country gentleman without any lofty connections.

  And more importantly, Nicholas liked to play cricket and hunt pheasants and had never heard of Milton.

  “Yes! Do you know Nicholas? He is my cousin.” She smiled, bright and cheery, as if Liam had just given her a grand gift. “Surely you have a name,” the girl coaxed. “What does your father call you?”

  Aside from “That Blasted Disappointment”?

  “My father calls me Strathclyde,” he finally offered.

  She instantly puckered her face. “That is a rather different name . . . Strathclyde.”

  “’Tis a title, not a Christian name . . . my courtesy title, Earl of Strathclyde. Someday, when I become the next duke, my name will change to Chawton.”

  Her face remained drawn down, absorbing this information.

  “I think I understand.” She nodded solemnly. “It is like how my mother called me Eliza, but now that Mamma has gone to sing with the angels, I live with Aunt and Uncle Carter, and they both call me Elizabeth. I have two names, too.”