Regency Romance Omnibus 2018: Dominate Dukes & Tenacious Women Page 7

  "Deaton!" Isobel exclaimed; the more her majordomo fawned over the duke, the angrier Isobel grew. She could certainly never blurt it out aloud to her servants - 'the Duke of Thrushmore violated me, he is a disgusting pervert' - and instead she simply silenced her servants, hesitantly making her way towards the dining hall. "Have him meet me here. Alone - no servants, please Deaton," Isobel requested, gesturing to the hall. Deaton nodded and rushed off to the front doors; Isobel sequestered herself into the Duskwood dining hall, which looked positively decrepit compared to the lavish manors of Thrushmore and Norbury. Silver sconces had long ago been raided and sold off; those few that remained were coated in smudges, dirt and dust, with the sheen of the metal decaying from fingerprints left to set upon precious surfaces. A tea set sat upon a silvered tray, so coated in dust that nothing even glinted in the muddled sunlight streaming through curtain-drawn windows. Isobel exhaled, covering her face with her palms, not ready to face the disgusting duke. Ready or not, she heard the doors to the dining hall fly open, the duke entering with his arms outstretched and glee beaming from his face.

  "Lady Duskwood! Please, I came as quickly as I could, after hearing you'd been forced into a meeting with that wretch, Lord Brighton," he exclaimed, as if their own meeting hadn't even happened. The doors shut behind him and he continued to play the part of the friendly gentleman, embracing Lady Duskwood; she squirmed against his grip, pushing him harshly away.

  "What do you want? Why have you come?" Lady Duskwood rebuffed him. "We met previous. You know what you said. And what you did."

  "M'lady, I needed to come and to apologize," he bowed his head, grasping her wrist and kissing her fingers gently; she shivered, even the feeling of his lips on her fingers filling her with bile. "I spoke rashly, and you certainly deserved a more metered approach, don't you? Your father passing and all, times must be difficult here at the Duskwood estate."

  "What do you mean? A metered approach? I took you for a gentleman, m'lord, but you violated that trust I had placed in you," Lady Isobel snatched her hand away from his kiss. "I... I have a new solution. Something I must do, for my estate, and for Upton."

  "You certainly don't mean giving in to that rogue Lord Brighton, do you?" Lord Miller said, voice full of disdain. "What has he got you doing? Certainly something suspect, scandalous. A lady such as yourself deserves more."

  "Deserves more? As in what?" Lady Duskwood asked. Suddenly, perhaps in a moment of emotional weakness, she saw a way out again - but could she trust the Duke of Thrushmore to be a gentleman, this time?

  "A woman of your stature deserves emotional care, devotion - a proper courtship," the duke said. She breathed a gentle sigh of relief - perhaps the end was in sight after all.

  "And how could I know that I can trust you to provide me with that - or anything close to it, after the way you acted in our last meeting?" Lady Duskwood needled him. She shivered, looking out the muddied window, her body shaking like a leaf on a lone tree. The duke took advantage, moving closer, his voice a churlish whisper.

  "I know the kinds of things that animal on the hill wants, and certainly what he wants out of you, whether he had been bold enough to say it or not." The Duke moved closer; Isobel closed her eyes, sucking down a deep breath, stilling her raging nerves. "What deal has he worked you in to, then? Moving to his estate, where he can have you serve him? As a slave, or worse? What scandal has he involved you in? Certainly not one your father would have approved of." The mention of her father had Isobel weak at her knees; she sniffled back tears, emotion beginning to grasp at her heart. "You want a way out... don't you?" he asked, his voice tense.

  "M'lord, please, I... I can't," Isobel murmured.

  "You can. I told you," the Duke of Thrushmore's voice grew thick and throaty, "there're ways out. Easy ways. I would treat you as a queen," the old, shrinking husk of a man clung to those filthy ideas in his head of courting young Isobel, and she felt nothing but appalled as he came in closer. "You'd never sweat nor worry again. What more could a woman of your stature ask of me, but to forgive debts for your hand?"

  "You want more than my hand. You want my dignity, just the same as he. You're no gentleman," Isobel hissed in a hushed voice.

  "You are a woman, and I am a man. I am a man of respectability, and your estate is in shambles. Which of us is the gentleman, and which the fraud - your father, or me?" Eugenius asked, roughly grasping at Isobel's wrist. "I'll have your hand. What choice do you have? To play slave to the Duke of Norbury?"

  "Your confidence is a lie, just as much as these overtures of yours are nothing but lies, Eugenius," she hissed his name like a striking viper. "How dare you impugn my father, in his own estate. Your confidence is a lie - your wealth is a lie. Your name is a lie, and you are no gentleman," Isobel snarled, louder now. "You hate that you can't have me - a simple woman, with everything against her, saying 'no'. You can't take it, can you?" Lady Duskwood taunted him, seething as tears streamed from her eyes.

  "I told you that you would be mine," Duke Miller growled threateningly, tugging at her wrist until he'd nearly bruised it. She couldn't tell what had come over her - perhaps it was that confident impetuousness of Lord Brighton's, rubbing off on her. She resisted.

  "You're a liar, and I'll have you thrown out of my estate if I must! You'll never have me," Isobel shouted. She shrieked when the duke raised his hand, swinging it in a wide, arcing slap across her cheeks, with enough force to throw her onto her knees, tears streaming along her cheeks. She looked up at him, her gaze vexed, her sobs loud, and her face full of fire.

  "You'll be mine, you harlot," he hissed down at her, eyes like rumbling storm clouds, "and if you don't - you'll come to regret it more than you ever will the debts you owe to Lord Brighton."

  Lady Duskwood's eyes burned in defiance as the dining hall doors creaked open, and shut. She heard through the wooden panels the muffled sounds of his lies - the Duke of Thrushmore, presenting himself as personable; respectable, a gentleman, to Deaton, who waited just outside the door. Lady Duskwood wouldn't allow herself to be seen in this kind of position. She scrambled to her feet, smoothing the ruffles in her gown; she fought away tears still streaming from her eyes, composing herself with a cold dignity in her eyes. She wiped away the moisture and she straightened her hair and she took a deep breath, exhaling sharply as she heard the duke's voice echo through the halls, back towards the front door of Isobel's decrepit manor. Relieved to finally hear him leave, she grasped the doors, pulling them open and swirling with furor into the main hall.

  "M'lady! Did you..." Deaton cried out; Isobel kept her head high, not willing to listen to more lies.

  "I'll be departing in the morning, Deaton. The Duke of Thrushmore has made his choice, as have I," she stated simply; vaguely.

  "But m'lady—" Deaton chased after her, ever-harried by what he saw as a lack of business sense. "If you—"

  "That's the end of it, Deaton," Isobel's cracking voice squeaked. She had begun to understand the difficulties that her father must have faced - and she understood why he had avoiding letting the estate fall in to debt to the Duke of Thrushmore. Perhaps an improper, scurrilous philanderer was preferable to a venomous, lying viper like Eugenius.

  Isobel sighed. What a choice to have to make.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "So y'said you're only staying temporarily, m'lady?" Mr. Trevingham's voice carried with it a stark wariness; he had asked the question more than once on the trek across the countryside, back up the steep, rocky hill to the Norbury estate. As the horses clopped to a slow stop in front of the foreboding, shadow-wrapped manor, Isobel kept a cool demeanor; the sting of the Duke's slap still in her head, she had felt utterly helpless - squirming between hell and something worse. While her time had been so enthralling with Lord Brighton, she still hated herself for liking it - and she hated the duke for his crass nature, taking advantage of her compromised situation for his carnal, base needs.

  Now, she had little choice - she simply hoped to never se
e the vile Eugenius again.

  "Yes, Mr. Trevingham," Isobel answered plainly. "Temporarily. I'd... also appreciate your discretion in this particular matter, Mr. Trevingham," her voice fluttered quiet and weak. "The servants, the people in Upton... they worry for me, and I don't want to trouble them too greatly."

  "I worry too, m'lady. When will you need my carriage again? Shall I return this evening?" Mr. Trevingham asked, his voice defensive.

  "Not that temporarily, Mr. Trevingham," Isobel smiled and sighed. "I shall send a message to Upton when I require you to return for me."

  "The bandits haunting the woods are a mite dangerous, m'lady. Perhaps I ought to stay, and watch the roadways up to the Norbury estate," Mr. Trevingham offered, his voice determined and serious.

  "No, no, Mr. Trevingham, truly, your services are needed back in Upton. I'll send for you," she sensed how defensive her driver had grown over her, and while it flattered her, she had business to attend to now.

  "As you wish, m'lady," he responded, not enamored with her response. He watched the shadow creep along the carriage as he swung around the rough cobblestones, leaving Isobel at the front door. She stepped out, watching as the sun fell behind the towering estate hall, its facade dark; the same as her feelings about its occupant. She had brought little with her, only a single black trunk - for in truth she had very little to bring. The family's debt had struck hard, and she couldn't even afford a newly tailored gown for the trip. Instead, she wore her simple black dress, stockings and heels.

  "Who's 'at, then?" Isobel heard Mr. Trevingham comment over her shoulder; she turned her gaze to the steep path leading up to the manor, and beheld a carriage that put her rickety cart, truly, to shame. Its accouterments nearly as opulent as the manor before which she stood, fine wood painted in blue and white gleamed in the sunlight, windows of glass painted with finely-filigreed gold. A pair of snow-white steeds led the carriage ahead; with a black suit and a heavy hat laid down over his eyes, the driver expertly guided the snorting horses to the front of the manor, the supreme luxury of the vehicle bearing down on shabby Isobel as she stepped back. The driver looked up from his steeds, and she saw something deep, dark in his eyes; a sunken green gaze, beneath a head of long and messy straw-blonde hair, a chin marked with stubble and a deeply disturbing smirk.

  "Move," he commanded to Mr. Trevingham, in a voice as darkly vexing as that snakelike smile on his lips. Mr. Trevingham offered no protest and only a simple, scared nod to Lady Duskwood, his carriage bouncing along the pathway, its axles creaking under the weight of the crumbling wood and rusting metal. Still wide-eyed at the luxury of the newly-arrived carriage, Isobel's chin hung open in terrified awe.

  "You, too. M'lady will be returning soon. Move," the chauffeur grunted, motioning to one side with his finger. Isobel felt compelled to obey; something ghostly about the man touched at the very core of her.

  "Your lady?" Isobel asked, gawping.

  "Is that any business of yours?" he cut back at her roughly. "Are you a new maidservant? I've not seen you before," the carriage-driver croaked. Isobel blinked, huffing.

  "M-maidservant?" she retorted. "I'm—I'm the Lady Duskwood," she explained, half-swallowing her words.

  "A lady, eh? Dressed as you are?" the driver scoffed.

  "I'm... yes, I'm the Lady and administrator of Upton," she blustered. She felt anger in her blood, but the ice-cold and dangerous stare of this wisp of a man shook away all her righteous rage, leaving her sputtering and weak.

  "Y'don't strike me s'much of a lady," he retorted simply. She couldn't figure out what to say, and stood in the falling sun in awkward silence. It then occurred to her - if the driver was waiting for a lady, who could it have been - and what business did she have with Lord Brighton? Jealousy suddenly seared in her blood. Jealousy - and she hated herself for it. How could she feel any sense of jealousy about this man, this man who had crassly used debts she owed to him as reasoning for an improper liaison? Isobel gripped her hands into tightened fists, her teeth gritted, her breaths harder.

  "Wh-who is your lady?" she asked, her voice fiery.

  "I ain't ever heard of a Lady of Upton," the driver cut back at her with his growling, coarse tone. "Where's Upton, anyway?" she bristled, but the courage to respond fell out of her when his ghostly gaze pierced her once again. She felt humiliated; ashamed. Ashamed of her jealousy; ashamed of her outfit. Ashamed of this entire, sordid situation.

  "Upton is—" she thought to interject, when she heard the creak of the manor doors behind her. Eyes popping wide she spun around, expecting to see the Lord Brighton. Instead, breezing past her with an inimitable sense of unperturbed grace flowed a woman dressed in a gown more expensive and elegant than Isobel had ever seen; thick and long and flowing behind her, a gown of gossamer baby-blues and whites in the exorbitant, Parisian style. Embossed with bows and ribbons, she moved with her back straight, her head held high, unaffected by anything in the world around her; not Isobel's gawking, not the ghastly gaze of the driver; not the burn of the sun or the bluster of the wind. Her skin was nearly as pale as the gossamer-white of her dress; hair of blonde lay braided down her back, with not a stray strand to mar the perfect image of an angelic woman strutting undeterred across rough cobblestones.

  "M'lady," the driver tipped his hat to the woman, and Isobel froze, watching the elegant young lady approach the carriage. She moved silently, and when she finally spoke, her voice came out as soft as the silk of her dress; refined, perfectly appointed, but at the same time... icy. Uninviting - and steely in its resolve.

  "Thank you, Arthur," she regarded him briefly, before her sky-blue eyes fell upon Isobel, who looked like a scabby pauper by comparison. "Is this woman Lord Brighton's new maidservant, Arthur?"

  "Claims she's a lady," the driver croaked, seedy and shifting across his driver's seat. "From somewhere called Upton." The lady studied Isobel briefly, tilting her head; Isobel silently squirmed, the woman's eyes as hot and painful against her poor dress and her skin as a blazing sun.

  "Upton. A lady, from Upton." The dressy woman's voice felt ethereal, and simultaneously disconnected from reality - cold, even painful to the ears, as if every word closely and judgmentally examined its target. "I've not heard tale of Upton in some time. Certainly its prestige must have fallen in the past years. Certainly," she spoke, her eyes expressionless; almost soulless in their appraisal of Isobel, who tried her best to clumsily curtsy.

  "My father passed recently. I'm Lady Isobel H... Duskwood," she responded meekly.

  "Duskwood. Duskwood," the lady responded, a gloved finger moving to press against her own chin. "Well. Lady Duskwood. Conduct yourself charitably in the presence of my friend, won't you?" the lady tried to sound friendly, even smiling; but it was an inhuman smile, and her words came more as a chilling threat than an invitation. "Lord Brighton is a busy man. I'm ready to depart now, Arthur, thank you," the woman concluded after a lengthy stare into Isobel's eyes. The threat had shivered down Isobel's back - it felt so improper for a woman of such wealth and poise. Isobel again reflected on the lies she'd seen as the woman in the perfect dress hoisted herself into the carriage, giving a small, almost taunting wave, in Isobel's direction through the glass panes of her expensive vehicle.

  The driver's venomous smirk flashed in Isobel's direction once more; with a nod of his wide-brimmed black hat, he gave a quick 'yip' to his steeds and their hooves vaulted into motion, carrying the startling, ethereal countess down the long, gravelly roadway. Startled, rattled; disturbed, Isobel gulped down a breath to steady her nerves at the harrowing encounter with two creatures that felt like they'd come from another world altogether. She nearly fell flat onto her back when she dared take a step, her limbs still frozen.

  "Are you quite alright?" another harsh voice barked into her ear; another uninvited tone, and with each step she begged to see Mr. Trevingham's face again to whisk her away from the hell she had stepped in to. Over her shoulder she glimpsed a shorn and elderly figure; the old ma
n, Lord Brighton's short-spoken butler, his face curled into a wrinkled frown, his arms crossed atop his chest. "I trust that your arrival didn't disturb the Lady Maryweather. She's a respected guest in the Norbury estate," he added pedantically. "Now, if you're quite finished, you've been expected, Lady Duskwood."

  "Have you always got to be so frank, Werner?" Isobel sighed in soft relief when she saw another familiar face, Lilian the maid, emerge from behind the grunting and barking butler at the doorway. She grinned weakly, comfortably invited by the hardworking woman's loose, ragged smile.

  "It's not my job to be kind to everyone," Werner growled.

  "That's exactly your job, considering you're the first face most of Lord Brighton's guests are likely to encounter," Lilian commented incredulously. "Come on, Lady Duskwood. Don't mind him, truly." Werner responded with a simple groan and a roll of his eyes, beckoning Isobel into the Norbury estate. She followed dutifully, Lilian assisting her with the single trunk she had brought to contain what garments and effects she could handle. Werner slammed the doorway shut behind the women, and Isobel, with a deep breath outward, finally spoke.

  "Ms. Lilian, who was—"

  "Oh, the woman in the long, flowing dress? That way she looks at you, it's right frightening, isn't it?" Lilian whispered; the scandalous gossip brought a searing blush to Isobel's cheeks, yet she couldn't help but giggle at the maidservant's assessment. "That's the Lady Maryweather. An heiress from an estate up... somewhere," Lilian laughed and shrugged in a quiet, conspiratorial manner. "I'm not terribly familiar with the politics of nobility."

  "You're not missing out," Isobel responded, exasperated. The two huddled beneath the shadow of the grandiose stairwell at the heart of the estate.

  "I'm certain I'm not. Though, if there're ladies like you stuffed in those manors, perhaps that's something worth seeing," Lilian grinned. "Though, I suppose I need not go on a search for them. I didn't know that you'd be back for any particular amount of time... are you staying in the village? Has Lord Brighton arranged for accommodation?" Isobel stopped herself from quite immediately blurting out the nature of the arrangement. She stopped, looking up the stairs, indecisive. She so desperately wanted a kindred soul to confide her troubles in.