Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Hetty was almost to her room when she felt a hand on her arm, spinning her around. She was staring into the face of the man again. Louis Montague, the Duke of Warwick. The man that she remembered as Vincent Cassidy.

She couldn't stop the tremble that suddenly swept through her body at their close proximity. Her mouth went dry. Oh, she remembered him, alright. The tall, handsome dark-haired stranger, who had asked her to dance at the Farnham's ball all those years ago. She still recalled those penetrating green eyes that had seemed to reach into her very soul.

He was older now, of course. A slight smattering of grey, along his hairline, looking like streaks of silver in the raven darkness. When he smiled, there were more creases around his eyes. But he was still the most devastatingly handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon.

She had only been one and twenty at the time. The engagement with Frank was at least a year away. They had shared one dance before her good friend, Annabelle, had approached her, claiming that she was sick, and they had to leave at once.

The handsome stranger had been busy talking with people, and Annabelle had been insistent, pale and sweating. She'd had no choice but to leave, guiding her friend to the carriage. As she was staying the night at Annabelle's estate, there wasn't even the option to go back and see him again.

It had only been a brief moment, and they had barely spoken. For months afterwards, she had looked eagerly into crowds whenever she had been socialising. He was never there. The disappointment was sour, but it was the way it was. She recalled he had told her he was from Hampshire. Perhaps his visit to Wiltshire was a one-off. And what did it matter, anyway? It wasn't as if she knew a thing about what kind of man he was.

And so, she had forgotten all about him. At least, she thought she had. But on those strange nights, when she sometimes woke up with a peculiar yearning, it was his green eyes that she saw in the darkness.

And now, here he was, materialising out of the ether, like a bizarre phantom, offering for her hand in marriage. It was all so very strange and shocking that she could not make head nor tail of it.

He had laughed off his lie about who he was, claiming it was just a joke for the night. But she knew nothing about him. And she was sick to death of being lied to by men. How could she trust a single word that came out of his mouth?

"Your Grace," she said through gritted teeth. "I thought that I was clear in saying that I have a headache …"

"Please," he said, staring down at her imploringly. "I know that we got off to a bad start. I had forgotten that I had introduced myself as someone different, all those years ago. I do not usually do that kind of thing, and I do not know what possessed me to do such a thing then …"

She took a deep breath, still trembling, trying to fight the feelings that were rising in her. The feelings that he was provoking by being so close to her.

"Your Grace," she said slowly. "I am flattered, of course, that you remember me from such a brief encounter, and have offered for my hand." She paused. "But you must realise that even if I wanted to accept it, I cannot. I am a legally married woman. An abandoned married woman, but still married. How can you believe that it could ever change?"

He didn't answer for a moment. He just kept gazing down at her, his green eyes magnetically drawing her in. Her heart was racing now. She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, desperate to get away from him.

"I know your circumstances," he said eventually, in a quiet voice. "All I am asking is for a chance. It may be possible to free you from the marriage that you are in. It is remote, but not unheard of. Would you be willing to try?"

She stared at him, so astonished that he was still pursuing this, that she simply could not think of a thing to say.

He took a deep breath. "Your father has said that I can stay here for a few days so that we can get to know each other better." He paused. "I am not asking you to make a decision, right at this moment. But will you at least think about it?"

She looked down at the ground. Her heart was racing so fast she could barely breathe. She needed to get away from him before he saw what he was doing to her. She hastily stepped back.

"I will think about it," she stammered. "But now, I must lie down …"

His eyes lit up with hope. "Thank you." He hesitated. "I hope that your headache eases soon. I will be waiting for you …"

She nodded quickly, turning on her heel, and almost fleeing to her chamber. She could barely grip the door handle. Once inside, she slammed it shut, leaning against it, her heart hammering as if she had just escaped the clutches of a wolf.

What was wrong with her? This physical response to him was almost overwhelming. So very shocking that it was shameful.

She didn't want to be married again, even if they could procure a divorce for her, which was unlikely in the extreme. She didn't want to be with any man. They were all liars. Had this man not proved that he was one, already? He was not to be trusted, any more than Frank could be. He had claimed that his lie about his identity was a one-off joke, but how did she know that?

He probably did it at all the engagements he went to, out of his district, hoping to charm any lady, then leave her for dust, with no consequences. Any lady would be searching for Vincent Cassidy, not the Duke of Warwick. A cad, through and through.

The sooner she could get to a convent and put all of this behind her, the better. Only then would she be safe.

***

She was almost going to send down her excuses for dinner, that her headache still raged, and she could not possibly attend, when something stopped her. She didn't know what it was. Curiosity? A desire to understand why this man had shockingly arrived on her doorstep, determined to marry her, after such a brief encounter years ago.

She didn't take any extra care with her toilette, that evening, before she drifted down the stairs again to the dining room. She didn't even bother to change her gown. She was not going to dress up to please him or her parents.

But his eyes still widened in admiration as she swept into the room, taking her usual seat. He was seated opposite her, a wine glass already in front of him, filled with her father's best claret. Papa and Mama had gone to an effort for him. The table was covered with the best tablecloth, white and pristine, and Hetty noted that they were using the best silver, as well. Lord only knew what paroxysms her mother had gone into when deciding upon the menu for the evening.

Mama was wearing one of her very best gowns, a peacock blue silk dress, normally reserved for fine dinner parties. And Papa had made a very big effort, too, slicking back his hair into a sleek silver cap, rather than the usual slightly wild curls. Nobody spoke as she unfolded her napkin, placing it on her lap. The butler filled up her empty wine glass, and she took it, drinking deeply.

"I hope that your headache is better," said the Duke, clearing his throat as he gazed at her.

"Much better, I thank you," she replied, putting down her wine glass.

There was an awkward silence.

Her father rushed in. "His Grace was telling me this afternoon about his ancestral home, Hetty," he said quickly. "One hundred acres, on the border of our county and Hampshire."

"Hampshire?" She raised a quizzical eyebrow at the man, sitting across from her. "So, you told the truth about where you reside, at any rate, when we last met. I suppose I should be very grateful for that."

He didn't look ashamed. He didn't colour, or slide his eyes away, towards the floor. Instead, he looked at her almost challengingly, his green eyes speculative.

"No, I did not lie about that," he replied slowly. "Warwick Manor is located just over the county border, as your father said." A pause. "It has been in my family for centuries. We acquired the land just after Henry Tudor defeated the Plantagenets at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485."

She nodded. "Your family benefited, then, from the change of monarchy," she said in a crisp voice. "I assume they were Lancastrians, then? Henry Tudor would hardly have allowed one hundred acres to be given to his enemy. The War of the Roses was bitter, and allegiances were fierce."

He looked surprised. She felt a sharp stab of triumph. He obviously thought that she was a vacant headed woman, who only knew about embroidery and pressing flowers into books. Usually, she never talked about her love of history in company. And never to gentlemen. Her mother had told her long ago that gentlemen did not like ladies to be knowledgeable, in case they were contradicted. Best to stick to safe subjects when speaking to them.

But she did not care about any of that, now. She was not out to impress him; in fact, it was the very opposite. Maybe he would be discouraged by her tongue. Maybe he would think her too clever a woman, and back right away. Most gentlemen preferred a docile, vacuous lady, who looked pretty but who didn't speak out of turn. A painted doll, to prop on their arm.

"You surprise me," he said eventually, picking up his wine glass and sipping it thoughtfully. "Is English history a passion of yours?"

She nodded, staring at him steadily. "It is. I also like French history. Mama is always scolding me for having my head in a book. She tells me that I shall ruin my eyesight and that no man likes a learned woman."

"Hetty," said her mother, colouring. "I have said no such thing …"

The Duke smiled, turning to her mother. "Do not be alarmed, Mrs Arnold. It is only what most mothers tell their daughters, after all." He turned back to Hetty. "It is true, for the most part. Most gentlemen do not like learned women. But I have always marched to the beat of a different drum. My own mother, God rest her soul, was a passionate reader, and highly educated. My sister, Catherine, took after her, and we often have spirited debates about various topics."

Hetty took a deep gulp of wine to hide her surprise. He was probably only saying such things to try and impress her, now that he knew that she liked learning. It was probably another lie.

"English history is also a passion of mine," he continued, leaning back in his chair and fixing her with an intense gaze. "I have an extensive library at Warwick Manor, and a large section of it is devoted to English history. I have many rare books, on the War of the Roses, and some dating back to William the Conqueror."

She gazed at him, not knowing what to say, as she felt a quick stab of excitement. What she wouldn't give to be able to peruse such a library. What treasures would be stored in there? It would be like being in Aladdin's cave, finding a trunk load of rare and precious jewels.

"Warwick Manor is almost like going back in time," he continued. "As things were so unstable when it was built, my ancestor, the third Duke of Warwick, made sure that many hidden passageways were constructed within it. In case any within needed to flee quickly, or hide, if there was an overthrow of power, and we were on the wrong side of it."

"You have hidden passages?" asked Hetty, unable to stop herself. "I have heard of them but never been into a house that has them. Does it also have a secret room, where mass could be heard, after the Reformation?"

He nodded. "It does. My family were Catholics, for a long time, and tried to stay true to their faith. But when Henry the Eighth went on his path of destruction, destroying churches, monasteries, and the like, one of my ancestors built a wall, which hid a room, so mass could be said in secret." He paused. "Perhaps you might like to see it if you come to the manor. I would very much like to give you a tour …"

She was saved a reply by the arrival of the first course. While Clarrie served it, she looked down at the table, overcome by confusion.

Louis Montague, the Duke of Warwick, was a surprise. She could not deny that he seemed a clever and knowledgeable man. An interesting man.

She pulled herself up. He was just a man. And men lied. She would do well to keep remembering that and stop herself from being drawn into his web of charm.

***

That night, in bed, she turned over the extraordinary events of the day in her mind, trying desperately to make sense of them.

The Duke of Warwick was in the house, now. He was sleeping in one of the guest chambers down the hallway. He had kissed her hand briefly when they had all retired for the evening, not lingering over it. But she had seen the ardent look in his eyes, nonetheless. It still made her shiver, just thinking about it.

She had tried to stay immune to him, as they had chatted after dinner in the drawing room. He had tried to draw her into conversation again about history. But she had made sure to temper her replies so that he could not see how interested she was in what he was discussing. Her father had tried to keep up with the conversation, but history had never been his forte. Mama, who didn't know Richard Plantagenet from Oliver Cromwell, retreated into her embroidery, not offering a word.

He is charming , she thought suddenly. Very charming. And clever. As well as being handsome.

She turned over in the bed, thumping the pillow, restlessly. He had turned everything upside down. Only this morning, she had received the replies to her letters from the convents. Her course had been set. And now, the Duke of Warwick was staying in the house, determined to marry her and upset the applecart entirely.

It wasn't that she believed she couldn't resist him. It was the fact that her parents, having been thrown this lifeline, were now committed to it. Before he had arrived, they had been willing to let her enquire about becoming a nun, even though they hadn't liked the idea. She felt sure that if the Duke had not arrived, they would eventually have let her go.

But now … now, everything was different. What parents could resist a duke, with a grand ancestral estate, and wealth, for their only daughter? It would give them high status by association. They would try to move heaven and earth to make it happen.

She sighed deeply, staring at the ceiling. She had one thing going in her favour. Papa and Mama wanted her to marry the Duke. The Duke wanted to marry her.

But, she was not free to marry.

They could all go on about getting a divorce for her, but she knew the laws of this land. Divorce was a rare thing and rarely granted. It certainly was not a given that it would happen. In fact, it was the opposite. She would probably be Mrs Frank Blackmore for the rest of her life.

A cold shiver ran through her. She didn't want the name of her errant husband. But equally, she didn't want the name of the Duke of Warwick, no matter how much prestige it may bring.

A single tear trickled down her cheek. She just wanted to be left alone. She just wanted to heal, in her own time, and in peace. Why could no one understand that? And why could they not accept that she never wanted to stand at the altar, beside a man, ever again?