The Duke's Secret Desire (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 4) (2 page)

“Your Ladyship, the Duke of Middleton is without, requesting an audience.”

Startled out of her reverie, Arya frowned at the butler who delivered the message. “The Duke of Middleton is here?”

“Yes, milady. The Baron sent for him before he passed.”

She hadn’t known. No one had thought it important to let her know that her husband’s closest friend had been summoned to the Baron’s deathbed.

Arya rose. The black folds of her dress, stiff and unyielding as the mourning season, which was upon her, accompanied her like attendants. She would have preferred to observe the Hindi traditions of purification and to wear a white mourning garment. But even this choice had been taken away from her.

She took a deep breath and refocused her attention on the servant in front of her.

“Please escort His Grace in and bring in some tea.”

“I’ll have a tray sent in immediately, milady.”

Bartholomew entered the room with his swift, military gait, his hat under his arm, his sword at his side, but his eyes were on her. “My Lady Danver, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“And yours. The two of you were great friends.”

“Yes . . . since our boyhood. How are you managing?”

“There’s really nothing for me to manage,” she answered with a sad smile. “My father and Sir Henry are taking care of the funeral.”

Sir Henry Hastings was the liaison from the British government, a diplomat whose connections with His Majesty’s government were testimony to his long years of service and his broad knowledge of the political protocol. He was a dry, stiff man who clearly regarded Arya as an ornamental accoutrement to the marriage and of no innate significance. He had delivered his condolences and the condolences of His Majesty’s government by rote before going off to meet with her father as they determined how to handle this development.

“Yes, I understand that. I meant you. I—he told me the happy news. I’m sorry that your child, when born, will not be able to know his father.”

“Or her father,” Arya replied with a flash of impertinence. “Girl children are born, you know, although they are not wanted as much as boy children.”

Bartholomew’s expression was entirely within the boundaries of decorum, but as his eyes travelled over her thick chestnut hair and deep amber, expressive eyes, he thought to himself that a daughter who looked like Arya would be a beauty and a delight to her family and an everlasting asset to the Danver lineage.

“I rather fancy, Lady Danver, that all those short-sighted men and women who crave sons had better give a thought to the means by which children enter the world. I grant you, we men have our merits and I venture to say that we have some areas of superiority, but worthy though we are, we have not yet been entrusted with the propagation of the species.”

She laughed out loud at Bartholomew’s comment, then clapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m in mourning; you made me laugh.”

“You are to be a mother; you must convey some joy to your child,” he countered.

“Oh, Lord Bartholomew, it’s so good to see you.” Arya dropped the contrived formality, and addressed the Duke in the informal manner that was their habit when in private.

“I’ve felt so useless these past few days. I wasn’t allowed in the sickroom because the doctors feared that I should catch whatever it is that has taken my husband from us. I sit and wait and I have no idea what to do next. All of which is perfectly meaningless because there is nothing for me to do.”

“On the contrary, I believe there is.” Briefly, he conveyed to her the reason that he had been summoned to the Baron’s bedside. “He did not specifically say so, but I believe that he had some concerns for your safety, and the safety of his child. He asked me to look after you. He was most adamant on this.”

“Look after me? But whatever for? My father will certainly see to my safety and I will be cared for as I await the birth of our child. He might have been delirious and speaking out of some feverish thought.”

“He was quite rational when he spoke to me.” Bartholomew did not wish to inveigh against her half-brother, Param; he did not know whether she was aware of the prince’s political activities rousing discontent against the British presence in general and against collaboration in Bharatpur in particular.

“He begged me to be sure that you are looked after and kept in safety, and that your child is raised to take his place in society.”

“Which society?” she demanded. “British or Bharatpur?”

She would never have said such a thing to her late husband, or to her father, but it was easy to express her thoughts to Bartholomew, who never seemed to be surprised that she was capable of thinking. In fact, he engaged with her in conversation most energetically when they disagreed on some ideal or controversy.

“Both, I should think,” he replied. “He was very much aware that his marriage with you was more than simply a matter of mutual affection and regard.”

The butler brought in the tea tray and set it down before them. Arya was silent until he left the room.

“My marriage, as you know very well, was a political alliance.”

“I have no doubt that you were held in the highest esteem by your husband, Lady Arya,” Bartholomew said.

She waved a dismissive hand before lifting the teapot to pour. “Esteem. Yes, there was esteem. He was a good man and an honourable husband.”

“Whose dying wish was to see that you are looked after. I pledged to do so and I intend to honour my vow to a dying man who had been my friend since we were young.”

Her eyes, so trusting, were locked into his. He tried not to allow himself to be distracted by the lustrous beauty of her dark gaze, which was such a remarkable union of amber tinged with emerald. He could think of no poet who could have done justice to it in rhyme.

“I cannot conceive what my husband meant, Lord Bartholomew. How do you intend to follow through on this mysterious promise that you made when we have no evidence of his reasoning for it?”

The Duke drew in his breath. “I have been thinking of his words since I left his deathbed and I concede that I have not had the time to consider the matter. But I implore you to trust that your husband’s judgment was entirely sound, and his concern for your safety paramount.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “But you have not answered my question.”

Bartholomew exhaled slowly. “Lady Arya,” he began. “Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” 

He was not sure what reaction he expected, but when he witnessed the look of disbelief in her eyes, he hastened to make his explanation.

“I know that marriage so soon after widowhood is a social
faux pas
, and please accept my apologies for making such an untoward proposal at such a time. I am not disregarding either your delicate condition or your emotional state. But I cannot protect you outside of marriage. As the Duchess of Middleton, you will be your own woman and you will be under my protection.”

She stared at him. He was as dark as her husband had been fair; the two men mirror opposites. Bart’s hair, as black as midnight, and his brown eyes and olive skin were the reminders of his Italian mother, a
Marchesa
. A Roman beauty who bequeathed to her children her colouring, her love of music and the theatre, and her expressive nature which had been quite unlike her British husband’s natural reserve.

Arya had met his mother when the Dowager Duchess had made a stop in India to see her son. She had wondered how a woman of such marked personality had ever managed to fit into British society. Bartholomew had laughed at the question. “She is herself,” he had answered. “My father never wished her to change.”

The memory lingered and she wondered if
he
would expect
her
to be herself. Shaking her head, she turned towards him.

“Marriage,” she repeated.

“I cannot think of any other way to accede to his request. He was dying when he asked for my oath. I cannot disregard his wishes. If the notion of marriage to me is repugnant to you, I quite understand, but I beg you—”

“No! No, it is not repugnant to me.” She struggled to maintain her composure. “You were my husband’s dearest friend, how could I regard your offer with anything but gratitude? But it was not fair of him to ask this of you.”

Bartholomew could not answer. He was looking at the Baroness; he had loved her since he met her, but he could not say such a thing to her at this time. Perhaps in the months to come, after her grief at the loss of her husband receded and she was ready to embrace life again, she might come to the point where she could come to love him.

“He did not ask me to marry you, Lady Arya,” Bartholomew replied in a low voice. “He asked me to look after you. But there is no way for a man who is not a relative to do so, as you well know. Matrimony provides a man with that right.”

“I repeat, Lord Bartholomew: it is not fair to you. You are unmarried; you must be allowed to find a bride who suits your temperament as well as your social and political ambitions.”

She had fallen in love with him on the day she wed his best friend, but she could not admit this. Did she dare to imagine a time in the future when she was no longer regarded as the Baron’s widow, and she could follow the desires of her heart rather than the duty that had been required of her? Despite her personal wishes, she could not allow the man she loved to sacrifice himself because of his loyalty to his friend.

“Lord Bartholomew, you are the kindest man I know. Why would you choose to burden yourself with the widow of your friend, a woman who is carrying his child?”

“What could be more fitting than to offer my protection to my best friend widow and his child?” he returned, keeping his emotions out of his voice so that she would not know the depth of his feelings.

“He asked me to make sure that his child learns of him. I promised that I would do so.”

“And what of the children that you would be expect to have? You are the Duke of Middleton; your family will expect you to provide an heir.”

“I would make no demands upon you that you were not willing to receive,” he replied in a cool tone. His visage divulging none of his inner thoughts on the matter.

Arya looked away. “That is most chivalrous,” she said after a pause. “But it does not sound at all companionable.”

“I will do my duty,” Bartholomew vowed. “I promised that I would do my duty to my friend, to you, and to your child, to keep you safe and to strengthen the bonds between our countries.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “Duty. We must not forget our duty.”

He could not understand her tone of voice. Was she bitter? Had he offended her with his offer? Was she so grief-stricken at the loss of her husband that she would only be contemptuous of any other candidate for husband?

“Lady Arya,” he said. “Please accept my apology if I have offended. Such is not my intent. I believe that marriage is the only way to honour your husband’s request. But I pledge to you that within the bonds of marriage, I shall be your servant.”

She was tempted to tell him that she had servants of her own. What she wanted was a husband who loved her for herself, not for her connection to the ruling family of an Indian province or for her father’s wealth and influence. But she was a widow and she could not utter such words to the man who had been her husband’s dearest friend, even if it was the Duke of Middleton who, without knowing it, owned her heart.

“You have not offended, Lord Bartholomew. You could never offend.” She stood up; the Duke immediately rose to his feet. “I will consider what you have said. Please feel free to call upon me next week, when I will be able to think more clearly.”

“Please do,” he urged. “Your safety is my highest priority. The quicker we are married the better.”

“I have not yet accepted your proposed arrangement. Even amongst the
ton
in London, such haste would be frowned upon. A week is hardly a long time under the circumstances.”

“I apologise,” he said. “But the Baron was insistent that you must be cared for and he seemed to think there was reason for that protection to commence immediately.”

He could not tell her of her husband’s distrust of her half-brother Param or his belief that the Maharajah’s firstborn son intended to disrupt the political balance between the British and the province of Bharatpur. He did not know whether she and Param were close; as the offspring of different mothers, they would not have been raised in the same household. Param was a decade older than Arya and he would have been receiving his education out of the palace during her childhood. Besides, rumour held that Param Singh had disapproved of his father’s marriage to a British woman. To Param, marriage to a member of the occupying force was a discredit to the people of India. It stood to reason that Param would resent his half-sister’s birth as well, although British spy sources had no definitive information on his private opinions of Lady Arya. The consensus was that Param Singh had his own plans for the future of Bharatpur and that he was unscrupulous enough to follow through on anything that would achieve his ends.

Param Singh’s spies were everywhere, so it should not have surprised anyone to learn that he had sources inside his sister’s palace. Her marriage to a British officer had enraged Param; it didn’t matter that she had married at their father’s direction, not her own. Because she was half-British, already by birth she belonged to the enemy.

As the firstborn son of the Maharajah, Param had his own palaces, splendid residences where he met socially with others of his class and members of his family. But when he was meeting with his network of informants, he kept those encounters removed from his private life. He was adept at living two lives: the heir to the Maharajah’s power and position among the potentates of India and the calculating nationalist who was dedicated to ousting the British from the Indian continent by force. He was not afraid of the bloodshed which would result if the two sides went to war. It was true that the loss of life would be heavy, but the only way to purge the country of the trespassing British was to rid it of all those traitors who did not have the courage to save them all from the invaders.

It was early morning in the city. Pilgrims were already at the Ganges, presenting their offerings to the sacred river. Two more would not be noticed amidst the crowd.

“The Duke of Middleton has met privately with your sister three times since her husband’s death.”

The two men were in the river, ostensibly two devout men with holy thoughts on their minds.

Param considered the importance of the information provided and dismissed it.

“They were both officers of the British,” he replied. “Middleton had longstanding ties with her husband.”

“Some people think it improper that she should be meeting him with no servants present.”

“Perhaps. But the British are so tied to their rules that it’s unlikely the Duke will violate his code. He is a gentleman,” Param sneered.

The spy, who was employed in the palace kitchens, had never even set eyes on the Maharajah’s daughters. But the servants were full of news and gossip and their penchant for speculating meant that even the kitchens were a warehouse of information about the goings-on above stairs.

“Watch my sister; take note of her movements at all times.” Beneath the surface of the water, Param’s hand offered a coin which the other man quickly grabbed. “Keep your ears open. Bring me something better.”

Param had paid little attention to his sister as she had grown up. He was busy with his own interests and as a woman, she was of no consequence. Women married and had children; the fates of nations fell to men to decide. That said perhaps it was time to re-establish ties with her. He smiled to himself, then called his manservant, who had been hiding a stone’s throw away.

The very next day, he went to visit his estranged sister. The butler announced him. Arya was in the drawing room, a slender woman all in black. How British she was, this sister of his, Param thought. Instead of wearing the traditional white for mourning, she had adopted the British customs of her British mother. Param, who had deliberately clothed himself in white to show respect for her loss, revealed nothing of his inner thoughts as he asked after her welfare.

Arya offered him tea, which he accepted. She thanked him for his offer of aid, but assured him that she was well cared for.

“You grieve,” he remarked.

She bowed her head. Param studied her. She was half-Indian, half-British; regarded as a beauty in social circles, he understood. Her child would be only one-quarter Indian. They were still blood to him, although that blood was diluted by the despised British heritage. But it would not do to disregard his sister or the potential use of the child she carried.

He urged her to call upon him if she found herself in need. As he was leaving, the butler was admitting a new arrival, a British officer. Param, who deliberately shunned the British social circle, was nonetheless familiar with its members and he recognised the Duke of Middleton. If his spy’s information was accurate, the Duke was making his fourth visit to Arya. It was probably nothing, but it merited attention.

“Lady Arya, was that your half-brother who was leaving?” Bartholomew asked upon entering the room.

“Yes, he came by to offer his condolences. It’s very odd,” she said, sitting down.

Bartholomew did likewise. “Odd?”

“This is the first time that he’s visited me here. When I lived with my father and mother, I saw him when he came by to visit our father, but nothing since. “

Something didn’t sound right to Bartholomew. He wondered what Param was plotting, and whether Arya was at risk, as her husband had warned.

“I came to tell you that I’ve made the preparations. If you’re still willing to let me protect you, I’ll send my carriage for you tonight. I’ve arranged for a clergyman to marry us. It will all be private until we announce that we are married.”

“My family will be aghast; there will be a scandal,” she predicted. “If my mother were alive, she would disown me. My father may do so.”

If Bartholomew had any doubts about the need for haste, they had been abolished by seeing Param Singh at Arya’s palace. “I will explain to your father why we have taken this step,” he assured her. “There will be no need for you to embroil yourself in a family quarrel over propriety.”

“Where will we live? We can hardly live in the officer’s quarters, and I don’t know if my father will allow me to stay in the palace. It belonged to him and if he feels that I have shamed him by marrying so soon after my husband’s death, he may take it back.”

“You will not be impoverished. Whilst I have no doubt that you are provided for in your husband’s will I am hardly a pauper. I have a vast estate and holdings of my own in England. For now I have acquired a property near the barracks where we will be within the confines of the British Army but yet on our own. I have explained to the Major General my reasons for this action and why I have undertaken it.”

The Major General, well acquainted with the volatile temperament within the province, had only to hear the name Param Singh to grant his consent. “That viper!” he had proclaimed. “If Danver had reason to suspect him of mischief, you can be sure there is something afoot. Yes, by all means, do your duty and marry his widow. There will be a frightful scandal, of course, but you will have to weather it as best you can. I understand that the Baroness is expecting a blessed event; you do realize that that complicates matters and will titillate the curiosity of the vulgar.”

His gaze unflinching, Bartholomew had told the Major General that this marriage was to be maintained with the highest standards of propriety. The Major General had given him a perceptive look, but had said nothing.

Bartholomew did not divulge the Major General’s comments to Arya. A clandestine marriage was not what he would have chosen to offer her, but he hoped that the time would come when Arya could simply be his wife, the Duchess of Middleton, and not the widow of his best friend or the nexus of a strategic alliance between two political forces.