Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“That is enough, Giles!” Richard, Duke of Hawksford, bellowed, shocked at the scene before him.
He stood in the cobbled yard, every eye turning to him even as thick-set Mr. Giles lashed at a cowering stable boy.
The duke’s stature, more than his title, commanded obedience.
His attire might have suited a foreman rather than a man of rank and fortune, yet it did nothing to diminish the quiet authority he radiated.
Every inch of him spoke of control, of power restrained, but unmistakable.
“Well, look who it is,” Giles sneered. Known for bullying servants, he showed no sign of yielding, even to the duke. “So, the duke has decided to leave his ledger books and deal with some dirty business. Leave the cleaning up to us, Your Grace.”
Richard’s blue eyes met the man’s, steady and cold. He knew disrespect when he saw it.
“Lower your hand, step away from the boy, and learn to address me with the respect due your landlord,” he said, calm and measured.
“Landlord?” Giles echoed, his face twisting in distaste. “Landlord by name? Your father, too busy with his feud against the Penwikes, could not be bothered with tenants who made his duels possible!”
Richard clenched his jaw. He had heard this before. Some tenants could twist any grievance into a justification for abuse against those they deemed beneath them.
“And your brother?” Giles pressed on. “Middle child, no survival skills even for seconding in a duel!”
Richard flinched at the mention of Edgar. The audacity. His brother is dead and insulted by a man like this.
“And you, Your Grace,” Giles continued, spitting the title like an insult, “you hide your wife in London like a precious trophy, as if she is too good for the likes of us. An excuse for one day escaping, after you’ve already taken what you could from the land.”
Even amid the barrage, Richard remained composed. Giles’ eyes darted nervously. His throat bobbed; the posturing of confidence wavered. Two deliberate steps forward from Richard and Giles instinctively took one back, trying to disguise their retreat.
“Is that what you enjoy? Insulting my family? Raising your hand to a child?” Richard’s voice cut through the murmurs of the onlookers. “No one should be treated as this boy has been. He earns his bread honestly, and he will not be abused under my roof.”
His gaze swept the crowd, and every eye turned to him. Then he fixed Giles with a look that left no room for argument.
“I do not speak often of what I have done for Hawksford, but the work is evident in every stone, every ledger, every field you tread upon. My accounts have always been transparent, my decisions deliberate. And now, as a fair and just master, I am ensuring that cruelty and insolence meet no welcome here.”
“A gentleman duke with the hands of a farmer,” Giles muttered. “Still … you don’t know what respect is. You think you can have everything just because you have money?”
“It’s never been about the money,” Richard said, his voice cold and unwavering. “It’s about ridding this estate of cruelty. That is what I will not tolerate.”
Giles bristled, his face red. “A man from a family full of hate does not lecture me! Feuds, Your Grace, they’ll be the death of your house!”
Richard’s jaw tightened. He fought the childish urge to roll his eyes, keeping his expression perfectly blank.
“You smug bastard!” Giles yelled, lunging at him with a wild swing aimed at his jaw.
Richard didn’t flinch. He sidestepped with the precision of a man trained for duels and long-standing family feuds. He had learned long ago how to defend himself and how to stay in control.
Giles swung again. Richard moved, closing the distance, and with a single, fluid motion, twisted the man’s wrist, forcing his bulky frame to the ground. His knee pressed firmly into Giles’ chest, pinning him without effort.
“Despite all you may have seen of my family,” Richard said, his voice low, steady, and lethal, “I do not tolerate violence; I avoid it whenever possible. But threats to my people or me will not stand. Consider your lease terminated. You are evicted. Do not show your face in Hawksford again.”
Only then did he release Giles. The tenant scrambled back, scrambled to his feet, and fled the yard, terror plain on his face.
Richard did not smile. Satisfaction was not in striking a man down—it was in demonstrating that cruelty, insolence, and weakness had no place here. His gaze returned to the trembling stable boy.
“Come, lad,” he said gently, extending his large hand. “He’s gone.”
The boy, no older than eleven or twelve, remained hunched, his small frame trembling from fear, likely not just from this encounter, but a lifetime of others like it.
“It’s all right,” Richard said softly, but firmly. “No one will treat you that way again. That, I promise. Cruelty in Hawksford will be punished.”
The boy straightened slightly. His thin face made his wide eyes look even larger, filled with awe and hope.
“What’s your name, lad?” Richard asked.
“Thomas, Your Grace,” he whispered.
“Well, Thomas … go back to your mother and get some rest. You deserve a big glass of milk after this.”
“There may not be any at home,” Thomas said, bewildered. The concept of care seemed foreign to him.
Richard reached into his pocket and produced a few coins. “Then take this. Get yourself some.”
The boy’s face lit up with wonder. He ran off, clutching the coins as if they were treasure.
Richard turned to the remaining tenants. Their eyes followed him, wide and unguarded.
“Rest assured,” he said, voice ringing with authority, “I will appoint a new tenant. No man under my roof will behave as Giles did. That is my promise.”
Murmurs of assent followed. He nodded once, his presence enough to silence any further question, then turned on his heel and strode back to Hawksford Hall.
Back at Hawksford, the dust still clung to his boots. His body hummed with the satisfying ache of a day spent overseeing the estate personally, hands and mind engaged in the work he loved. Yet, the encounter with Giles lingered, a niggling edge to his otherwise steady satisfaction.
“Your Grace!” Harald, his fussy old butler, appeared, silver tray in hand. “A letter, sir. An express rider from London delivered it.”
Richard frowned before glancing at the seal. London. That meant business from the townhouse. His closest friend, Jonathan, rarely fussed with letters. He would have come unannounced if it were trivial.
The letter bore Victoria’s personal crest.
He frowned.
With a deliberate motion, Richard broke the seal and unfolded the crisp vellum. His eyes scanned the words, then reread them, his expression hardening. Lips pressed to a grim line.
He had to return to London.
Immediately.
By late the following afternoon, Richard reached Hawksford House in London. As if to emphasize the dread he was feeling, Mr. Hawthorne and Mrs. Davies were both immediately at the entrance. Their faces showed a blend of relief at his arrival and anxiety for whatever it was that ailed the household.
“The duchess? Where is she?” Richard demanded, as he removed his coat and his gloves. “What happened to her? The letter said I must be here as soon as I can, and that the matter is urgent.”
“Er,” Mrs. Davies’ eyes darted toward Mr. Hawthorne. Richard had never seen her so nervous and hesitant. “She is in the, er, nursery, I believe, Your Grace. I will fetch her and tell her that you have arrived.”
Richard nodded his assent at the housekeeper, who trotted away immediately. He idly wondered why his wife was in the nursery.
“Hawthorne, do you know what happened to the duchess? Is she ill?” he asked, feeling the anxiety that had been emanating from his staff.
“No, Your Grace,” the butler replied. Was Hawthorne avoiding his gaze? He didn’t seem as composed as he often was. “Her Grace is not unwell. It is best that the duchess discuss the matter with you herself.”
Richard had never been this perplexed in his life, and he belonged to a family that enjoyed an unhealthy dose of masochism by carrying over a feud from one generation to the next.
It was then that they heard approaching pairs of footsteps, one hurried and fumbling coming from the housekeeper, and one more relaxed.
Victoria stepped into the room, wearing a simple day dress.
Her petite frame looked even more taut. Tense.
One quick glimpse already showed Richard what he needed to see.
His wife was exhausted and furious. Her dark blonde hair had always been wild over her head, with her lack of interest in making herself look attractive for other people.
Her blue eyes flashed; the raw accusation in them felt like a physical blow.
Why would she look like that when he himself wondered what was wrong?
Victoria was carrying something small in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. A shock of dark hair peeked from the fabric.
His wife was holding a baby.
Richard froze. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Suddenly, the year they were apart became heavier between them as he tried to make sense of the sight before him.
“What is …?” he managed, as he took a step back.
Meanwhile, his wife was not going to cower. He never expected her to. What he did not expect was the chilly look on her face. Her eyes were hard and cold, the blues in them icy and unforgiving. This was not the Victoria he knew, the lively young woman who wanted to defy the norms of society.
“This, husband,” she said in a voice that was both controlled and brimming with fury, “is Melody. I believe you have some explaining to do.”
“A baby? How?” Richard felt a wave of dizziness come over him. “Where did you find this child?”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Do not insult my intelligence. Somebody left her on our doorstep with a note bearing her name. You’ve been gone for a year. Therefore, it is not difficult to deduce that you have returned to your old, uh, liaisons.”
Richard could not blame her. They did not really know each other much, except that they were a great match on paper. He had his liaisons with various women, nothing ever serious, but that was before they had gotten married.
“How can you think that I would be with another woman after we were wed?” he asked, his voice rising a little, even as he tried to keep it down. “This child is not mine. I swear it.”
She merely raised a skeptical eyebrow, leaving him frustrated. They were not wed for love. She was concerned about the potential disrespect. And he should not care about what she thought, but he did. Oh, he did.
The baby whimpered, tugging at his heartstrings. This was a real child. An infant. Somebody had chosen to leave her behind, but why?
“If she is not your child,” Victoria challenged, as she tried to command her feelings, “then whose is she? Why would anyone leave her here in particular, at your house? Why would the person leave only her Christian name and nothing more to identify her? Do you think it is a coincidence?”
“The person who left her here does not wish to be found. He or she would not dare give the child’s surname,” he reasoned out, pacing the floor and threading his fingers into his hair.
Victoria’s accusation stung.
His wife took a scrap of paper from under the baby’s swaddling cloth and handed it to him.
“That’s the note,” she said coldly.
Richard peered at the note and said, “I do not recognize the handwriting, but I will find out who left her. My men will track the child’s parents, and I will then free you from this burden.”