Awakening His Duchess (5 page)

Tears burned at his eyes. He was home.

He never thought he’d make it back here. Soon he would see
his sisters and brothers, feel their arms around him, hug and kiss his mother
and greet the duke.

The towering thick tree was familiar, but different. The old
rope, more frayed and shorter, still dangled from an upper branch but the far
side of the tree was scarred. The limbs—what few were left on that side—were
withered and dead.

A little like him. He threw his arms around it, feeling the
rough bark and a scar where the tree had begun to heal from what must have been
a lightning strike. His eyes burned and his nose tickled. He hadn’t truly
believed he’d ever make it here again.

“Did you live in this tree?” Mazi waited on the lane behind
him.

“Not far now.” Trying to hide his emotions, Beau peeled away
from the trunk. “The turn to my home is just up there.”

“I will cry when I see my woman and children,” said Mazi.
“Not when I see the tree that shades their huts.”

“I will have to go with you to see when you cry.” Trust his
faithful friend to see through to the truth. “You will bawl like a baby when
you see the coast of Africa.”

Mazi muttered an obscenity in Kreole.

Beau grinned then moved on ahead as fast as his weak leg
would allow. “Just wait until you see my father’s hut.”

When they finally reached the gatehouse in the outer curtain
wall and turned onto the long drive, the moors rolled away to reveal Haven
Castle in all its splendor. Mazi’s wonder amused Beau.

“Your father is a king,” gasped Mazi.

“Just a duke.” The Duke of Newkirk.

Mazi grabbed Beau’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “You told
me you have no wealth.”

“I haven’t.” Just as he’d told Yvette when she asked. He was
penniless. He didn’t own anything. “This is my father’s and will be my
brother’s. I don’t own it and never will. But as you can see, there is plenty
of room in my father’s house.”

Beau’s right foot dragged before they reached the front
door. He’d pushed himself harder and farther than was wise. He could stand all
day and chop sugarcane with a machete, but walking for leagues the way they had
done made the weakness in his leg show. He’d never entirely recovered its use
after that night in a casket.

“Do you need to rest?” asked Mazi.

“I’ll rest when I’m home,” said Beau. He was too close now
to stop. The anticipation of being back filled him with raw nervous energy.

The front door opened. “You may go around to the kitchen for
alms.” The footman crossed the portico, waving toward the side.

Beau hadn’t come this close only to be stopped at the door.
“I know where the kitchens are. But I think not.”

Mazi faded back.

The footman seemed inclined to bump chests with Beau.
“Beggars cannot enter here.” His cracking voice betrayed his youth, and the
quick glance behind suggested he might be hoping for reinforcements.

Beau drew himself up to full height and realized he had
absolutely no idea who the young man was. Given the footman’s age, he would
have been a child when Beau was last here.

Mazi
muttered a warning in Kreole.

“Get out of my way,” ordered Beau with all the imperiousness
of generations of aristocrats. He might not have been born to rule, but he had
the blood of conquerors in his veins.

“He does not know you,
beautiful mountain,”
said Mazi
using his sobriquet for Beau.

“Fetch Finley.” Beau wondered if the imperious Finley was
still the butler. How much had changed since he left?

“Finley is engaged serving wine.”

“Danvers then.” Had his tutor-cum-companion made it home?
What was the housekeeper’s name? It hovered just out of reach in his brain.
“Damn it, lad, you are making us late for dinner.”

Meeting Beau’s gaze, the servant faltered. The footman’s
eyes narrowed and then widened, his mouth gaped. He would have a hard time
rising to an upper position if he didn’t learn to control his expressions.

“Tell them Lord Beaumont has returned home.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the footman, nearly bobbing a curtsy in
his sudden switch to obsequiousness. “Sorry, my lord. I’ve only been here two
years,” the youth rattled as he opened the door. “I thought they said you were
dead.”

“Only buried, never dead.” Beau wasn’t certain what had
sparked the sudden recognition, especially in a relatively new servant, but he
wasn’t about to wait any longer. He moved into the great hall that had once
been the main keep of the Norman stronghold. The castle had grown around it.

The cavernous hall echoed as the footman said, “If you would
wait here.”

Beau wasn’t waiting. The servant’s reaction notwithstanding,
the duke would likely have an apoplexy if Beau appeared at the table in the
tattered trousers and loose peasant linens. He wanted dinner. A real meal
complete with wine, served to him with course after course of food. He wanted
to laugh and regale his family with romanticized versions of the last decade.
He wanted to feel home, and he didn’t yet. As familiar as the stone of the
castle and its contents were, he could be embroiled in a delusion.

He’d endured far too many hallucinations of being home to
entirely believe it true.

“Come on, Mazi, I’ll show you to my room.” Even if his
clothes had been dispatched, he could borrow suitable attire from one of his
brothers.

Beau headed for the wide staircase that had been added in
the Elizabethan era, along with the two wings that sprouted out either side
turning the old keep into the center bar of an H.

When Mazi didn’t follow him, he turned to see the dark man
staring up at the murals painted on the ceilings. A couple hundred years
earlier the last traces of the ancient stone had been concealed behind plaster
and wooden panels, the floors covered with imported Italian marble, the
ceilings lowered to hide the massive support timbers.

Ornate moldings, paintings, statuary, and oriental vases
were everywhere. The ostentatious display of wealth shamed Beau. Once he never
would have given a thought to those born without. Now he’d learned how little
he really needed to get by. Food, water, and sleep—all the rest were luxuries.

Mazi turned in a slow circle. Facing the empty hearth, he
stopped.

Over the massive fireplace were ancient cudgels, long
swords, and shields in a display of power just as intimidating as the wealth.
The corner of the dark man’s mouth lifted as he took in the endless display of
weaponry. “Your ancestors were warriors?”

“As hard as that must be to believe, yes.”

“It is not so hard to believe,” said Mazi.

Footsteps resounded in the passageway leading to the dining room.
Eager for the warm greeting of his family, Beau turned. Only Finley appeared in
the arched walkway. He stared, then tilted back his head and sniffed.

Behind him Danvers skidded to a stop. He clutched his hand
to his chest. “Lord Beaumont?”

“In the flesh, Danvers.”

“Dear God above,” muttered Danvers as he not so much sat as
collapsed into one of the chairs lining the walls.

“Are you certain?” asked Finley.

Danvers nodded.

“Don’t you recognize me, Finley? I’m a bit burnt, but not so
different.” Beau took a step closer to the old retainer. Brown as a berry with
his hair bleached blond on the ends, Beau knew there was little left of the
callow youth who’d left to explore the world a decade earlier.

“Very good, my lord. I will have rooms prepared for you and
your...?” Finley was too correct to make an assumption about Mazi. Although he
kept his expression impassive, the disdain dripped from his voice.

“Good friend,” stated Beau firmly with a glare that conveyed
he would not be happy if Mazi was not treated as an equal.

Finley gave a short nod. “And supper trays sent to your
rooms. Your father will see you after dinner in the library, Lord Arrington.”

Lord Arrington?
Beau’s heart jolted. Earl of
Arrington was his oldest brother’s honorary title. One of their father’s lesser
titles. It went to the heir apparent to the dukedom.

Finley walked away before Beau recovered enough to question
him. He turned to his old tutor still sitting in the chair. Had he misheard
Finley? Beau would only be next in line if his brothers were all dead.

“Are my brothers...?” Beau couldn’t bring himself to say the
word
dead
out loud.

Danvers nodded glumly. “Lord William passed in the fall of
’88 from a sudden illness and Lord Arrington passed in the summer of ’90 after a
horse kicked him in the head.”

Beau wobbled, and Mazi caught his elbow, holding him
upright. His brothers were both gone? His joy at being home curled into ashes.
“Where is everyone?” He swallowed hard against the dry spot forming in the back
of his throat. Had anyone else passed? “My mother?”

“Your mother is with Lady Julia in Devonshire for her latest
confinement.”

“My other sisters?” Beau held his breath. At least if little
Julie was giving birth, she must be grown...and married.

“All well in their own residences about the country.”

So much for a loving family to welcome him home. Of course
his sisters were married and producing families of their own. Just because his
life had become one endless grind for survival didn’t mean their lives had
stopped. They were women now.

“I never could find your body to bring back,” muttered
Danvers. “Your casket was empty. I thought grave robbers...”

“Remember when I was in my casket and you thought I was
looking at you?” asked Beau.

Danvers ceased his muttering and looked up revealing the
creases in his face. Damn, the man had aged.

“I was.”

Danvers covered his mouth and looked as stricken as a man
could look.

“I was poisoned to appear dead.”

The color drained from Danvers face.

“They couldn’t let you take my body home because I would
have been pounding on the lid to be let out in a few hours.”

“You had no pulse.”

“I wasn’t dead. I heard everything that was said.” He
softened his tone. “I know you tried.”

“Your father will be so relieved to see you alive.”

Yes, he’d been so relieved he’d flown from the dinner table
to see his Lazarus son. No, he’d sent servants to verify Beau’s identity. Beau
shook his head and turned toward the staircase. As he passed the life-size
Greek statue of an ancient maiden that vaguely reminded him of Yvette, he
thought how sorry she’d be to find she’d missed out on becoming a duchess and
the mistress of all this. But no, if not for her grasping nature, he’d be whole
and hardy and he wouldn’t have missed his brothers’ last years.

*~*~*

None of his old clothes fit. The slender jackets and the too
tight breeches surprised Beau. Working from sunup to midnight in the sugar
fields had built ropey muscles all over his body. He finally found a pair of
knit pantaloons that stretched enough to go over his thighs and a shirt that
strained through the shoulders and cut under his arms.

Although his boots fit, his feet were no longer used to
being confined and felt jailed. But as winter came, bare feet would no longer
be an option. While he clumped awkwardly down stairs he used to race up and
down, the meal he’d looked forward to curdled in his stomach. Would his father
be happy to see him? Would his change in status to the heir make a difference?
Beau was no longer anticipating a joyful reunion. He just wanted to get this
interview over with.

He would have preferred to be properly attired when meeting
his sire, but until a tailor was summoned, Beau would have to do with what he
had. He knocked into the footman who had rushed to open the door.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” mumbled the footman.

“My fault entirely,” said Beau. Getting used to servants
jumping to attention and doing everything for him would take time.

The footman opened the door then scooted through to announce
Beau’s arrival. “Your grace, Lord Arrington.”

“As soon as Lady B—Lady Arrington returns from her
engagement, have her shown in.” The duke’s familiar voice boomed from inside
the room.

The footman nodded and backed out the door.

What his brother’s widow had to do with him, Beau didn’t
know. His heart was thumping so madly now, he couldn’t focus on anything other
than seeing his father. Crossing the threshold, he peered across the room
draped in long shadows. By the fire, an old man sat in a Bath chair with a lap
robe over his legs.

“Come closer that I may see it is really you,” ordered the
booming voice that belonged to the duke.

His father had married late, well into his thirties. Now he
was old, much more shriveled than when Beau left. He had been virile and
powerful then.

“It’s me.” Beau moved toward the fire.

“Where the hell have you been all this time?” the duke
thundered. “Do you know what you have put your mother through?”

At one time the booming voice would have made Beau quake and
he’d have come back with an irreverent rejoinder just to keep his fear from
showing. Instead he answered calmly, “I escaped at my first opportunity. I was
in
Saint-Domingue
until
I managed to book passage to New Orleans a year ago.” Beau stopped to breathe
air into his weakened lungs.

His father’s eyes narrowed.

“Mazi and I made our way to the eastern coast of America
where we were able to find a ship bound for England. Ten days ago we docked in
Liverpool. I am happy to see you too.”

And he was, in spite of his father offering no more warmth
than a winter’s day. Other than growing weak and infirm, the duke hadn’t
changed. Oddly Beau found comfort in that. If it had been a delusion or
drug-induced dream, his father would have been kind, but this was familiar.

Wheeling closer, the duke peered up at him then bent forward
and with great difficulty pushed himself to stand. His gaze raked over his
youngest son. Beau stood still under the scrutiny.