Page 7 of Taken By the Broken Duke
“He is a very busy man,” Juliet remarked, “and truthfully, I do not even know if he has been invited. He has not said.”
They reached the drawing room and found it occupied. Juliet immediately wanted to turn around. Her Aunt Margaret was taking tea. Frances was sitting next to her, being handed a teacup by a maid, and watching Juliet with glittering eyes. Lady Margaret Godwin glanced up as her daughter and niece entered. She had the characteristic red hair of the Norton family, the line from which she and her sister Judith, who was mother to Juliet, came from. Today she had painted her dark beauty spot high onto her left cheek. Juliet also had a beauty spot, on her right cheek. But hers was part of her, not a cosmetic affectation. She had always been sensitive about the tiny dark mark, though all those around her insisted it was a desirable trait in a woman.
“Gallivanting in the woods again, Juliet?” Margaret said in a high, prim voice.
“Taking the air, Aunt Margaret,” Juliet replied.
“That is what gardens are for. It is not seemly for a young lady to be wandering alone in the wilds,” Margaret gently chided, “you must think of the image you are presenting to your betrothed. Just because Lord Hemsworth is courting you does not mean that he will continue to do so. If he knew that you tramp barefoot in the woods at every chance, dirtying your hands with wild animals, do you truly believe he would wish to marry you?”
“Lord Hemsworth appreciates my love for nature. He has even said that I could aspire to be a veterinarian,” Juliet replied stoutly.
It was a mistake. The kind of conversation best kept private.
Aunt Margaret and Uncle Gilbert would regard any lady of their family considering a trade to be a horrifying prospect. She was being truthful of course, having discussed the matter with her good friend Nigel. He had expressed the view that perhaps she should seek a veterinarian and serve as his apprentice. He was the kind of person who did not consider such things to be beyond the realms of possibility. However, that did not stop Aunt Margaret’s teacup from freezing halfway to her mouth.
“I beg your pardon!” she hissed. “I cannot believe a respectable gentleman like Lord Hemsworth would say such a thing. Therefore, you must be making it up simply to wound. Which is very wicked!”
Juliet stood, head bowed. It was to conceal the anger on her flushed cheeks. Since the death of her parents, she had no home but Wetherby and no family but the Godwins. That meant she could not stand up for herself as she would like. Could not rebel too far from their expectations or rules. But it was difficult.
“I suggest you go to your rooms until you are summoned to try on your dress. Though I hardly think you deserve to attend. If Lord Hemsworth attends and you are not present, then perhaps another young lady will take his fancy. Yes, that should teach you a lesson.”
Frances smiled to herself, sipping her tea but gazing out of the window in reverie. Juliet suppressed a smile. If her cousin was considering the handsome Lord Hemsworth, she would be bitterly disappointed. No woman could hope to win him over.
“Yes, Aunt Margaret. I am sorry, Aunt Margaret,” she replied meekly before turning to leave the room.
Edith made to follow but her mother brought her up short.
“Edith, remain here with us if you please. Your cousin needs some time on her own to consider her behavior, and we have much to discuss.”
Edith shot Juliet a look as they passed, head lowered. She gave a grimace which her mother did not see. It told Juliet that her younger cousin had wanted to speak to her privately. Juliet thought she knew what about and though she was happy to be Edith’s confidante, even to help her with her secret, she was glad that she would be left alone. There was a letter that she needed to finish. To be sent to Doctor Alistair Carmichael of Carlisle, Juliet’s last hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
REDBOURNE CASTLE
Horatio stood before the full-length dress mirror. His face was hidden by a mask worked into the shape of a stag, complete with antlers. The mask was made of thin bronze, molded to the precise angles of his face, and burnished to a sharp gleam. The antlers were real, an eight-pointer that Horatio’s father had hunted. He had always hated the sight of the animal’s majestic head, mounted in his father’s study. It represented to young Horatio the arrogance of mankind, that another life could be snuffed out for sport. And yet he had once done much the same, if not for sport then for no reason that was any better.
“I see Your Grace has decided on the Stag for this year,” Dickens Hall’s dry, rasping voice came from behind him.
The stag turned, Horatio’s unblinking cold blue eyes glaring out from his shining mask. Master Dickens Hall was as tall as his employer with broad shoulders and a score more years. His hair was coal black and his eyebrows thunderclouds. His nose was twisted and his voice choked by the inhalation of smoke. Horatioremembered the raging fire that had done the damage and which had almost consumed both their lives.
“It seemed…appropriate.The beast was denied the chance to make its mark in its world by my father. Why not let it make a mark on ours?”
“I shan’t deign to understand, but very good, Your Grace,” Hall declared with a grunt. “Do I take it that you will be mixing then?”
“You do,” Horatio muttered. “Once again, I will go among society in disguise and see whether the damage done to my name by my father and by… thatgirl, has been assuaged. Or am I stillpersona non grata.”
“Or are you unwelcome,” Hall added, ill-understanding the Latin.
Horatio smirked behind the mask. “Precisely, Hall.”
He wore black, a jacket of velvet, night-dark which was only relieved by the silver thread at the cuffs. His boots were polished, unadorned leather. The high collar of the coat buttoned just beneath his chin. The Stag covered his head, leaving no sight of his hair, only his eyes. He had hosted a masquerade ball at Ravenscourt every year for the last five that he had held the Dukedom. A chance for curious members of society to see how the Duke of Ravenscourt lived in his splendid isolation.
But they would not see him.
“Seems a lot of effort for nothing if you ask me. Wouldn’t see me opening the inn and hiding me face away,” Hall murmured, running a lint brush over Horatio’s shoulders.
“The name requires it,” Horatio explained. “I have a duty to it which goes far beyond my personal desires. If it were left to me, I would be happy to live alone. Give me canvas and paint, and I should be content for the rest of my life. But I am aTempleton. Do you know what that means, Hall?”
