Page 3 of His Abandoned Duchess

Amelia laughed lightly, the sound not fully embracing her.

“I am most confident that there is nothing in my power that could encourage the return of the Duke. And I am quite satisfied with that appraisal. I am more than at ease on my own. The outings and drums attended with my dear friends,” she raked her gaze across all of them, “is by far my preferred way to spend the Season or any other day.”

Charlotte met Amelia, where the Duchess stood near the fireplace and offered a comforting hand on Amelia’s.

“You will never be without your friends, Amelia. You are as dear to Amelia as any sister, which is quite fortunate since I was blessed only with a Corinthian older brother.”

Magnus sighed, shaking his head at her. “I will have none of your Spanish coin, Charlotte.”

“I would never,” she exclaimed playfully before returning her attention to Amelia. “But perhaps it is wise to send the invitations for your next drum after a time has passed. Let their ire calm some.”

“Of course, Charlotte,” Amelia agreed. “I am agreeable to enjoying a much-earned interlude between events on my social calendar. Perhaps we can take a ride into to the shops and look at the latest arrivals?”

Charlotte perked up, along with Selina and even Ethel. As her friends supported Amelia’s suggestion, Ethel chiefly excited over the prospect of finding a new work by a writer whom she’d been following most ardently, the Duchess had difficulty keeping her mind pinned to the conversation.

It drifted back, conjuring up images of her absent spouse, and provided increasingly irritating hypotheses of what the Duke might be doing at that very moment. She recalled his words on the day of their wedding.

I have no intention of siring any heirs or sharing your bed. I have little interest or concern for what duty may sayabout those martial requirements, and I suggest that you, too, disregard the matter and put it far from your mind.

And what he might think if the scandal sheets made their way into his possession.

Chapter Two

“Would someone let me in!” He called out, slamming his fist into the door once more.

Lightning cracked and lit up the night sky as the storm continued to drown the Duke of Blackford in frigid rain. He stood at the front steps of Heartwick,hisestate, and there had yet to be an answer to his furious pounding on the door. Richard had left the country that afternoon as soon as the news had made its way to him. His arrival at Heartwick was met with as much fanfare as he could expect for it being well past midnight.

He’d left Blackford as soon as he was able, the cause of the compulsion still clutched in his grip, the paper soggy and crumpled. It was hardly the first of its kind that had suffered a similar forceful containment. Still, this latest sheet to reach him had filled Richard with a type of fury he’d thought reserved solely for his blasted father.

Jiggling metal sounded on the other side of the thick entry at last, and Richard heaved out a foggy breath into the cold air. Edward, Richard’s stalwart valet, stood at his side, holding an umbrella over his head as the icy liquid poured over the roof above them. When finally the door creaked open, Richard shoved his way through with little ceremony.

“My goodness!”

The elderly butler of the estate, Winslow, stumbled back, surprised, to say the least. As Edward followed Richard inside, closing up the door to keep the deluge of rain from rushing in, the Duke shook off his greatcoat before hauling the thing off and holding it out for his valet.

“Your Grace,” Winslow said, his voice warbling with age and shock, “you’ve arrived at such a late hour and with no notice from Blackford. Please, please, allow Amelia to take your wet things and lead you to a fire to get warm.”

Reaching out, Winslow took the greatcoat from Edward’s arms, gesturing forward as he turned sharply toward the door to the drawing room and hastily pulled the thing open.

“Do you require refreshment, Your Grace? I would be happy to ring up the maids. I’m sure they could have something lovely prepared readily from the kitchen stores.”

“I’m quite well, Winslow. I only wish to rid myself of these dampened coverings.”

He ducked his head, holding out his hand again, this time toward the dimly glowing fireplace. “Of course, Your Grace. I will stoke the flames at once.”

Richard sighed, not wishing to tarry about in the drawing room but instead retire to his bedroom after the long evening he spent within the cramped confines of his port chaise.

“That is all well and good, Winslow. But I wish to?—”

“Oh, the staff will be most excited to see you, Your Grace. And the Duchess will be most enthusiastic about your return to Heartwick. I will be sure to send the maids to the market to acquire ingredients for a meal celebrating your return. It will be?—”

“Winslow, please.” The man stopped, turning from the fire and facing Richard as he still stood near the door to the drawing room. “I will be retiring to my room. Sleep is what calls after such a journey. We can talk about my return in the morning.”

Without another word, Richard turned and started off for his bedroom. The long stretch of the house seemed all the more pronounced for his exhaustion, and Richard dimly dreaded the notion of climbing the stairs up to his bed.

“Your Grace!” Richard heard Winslow call, but the remainder of his words was lost as the Duke pressed on and paid no mind to whatever the elderly man was saying.

He was far too tired to deal with the overly excited man at present, and the only thing indeed that he required was to rest himself upon the comfort of his mattress.

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