The Duchess on His Doorstep (Regency Accidental Families #1)

Chapter 1

“Help! Please! You must help me!”

Miss Ophelia Turner screamed so loudly that her voice turned hoarse.

However, the pounding rain that fell thick and heavy from the sky drowned it out so that it came as barely a whimper.

Worse still, the wind which blew harshly, and the rumbling of thunder that rolled across the black sky, made it so she might not have screamed at all.

“Help!” she cried again as she stumbled along the muddy road. “Please!”

Ophelia was not screaming in vain. She might have done, because she felt so desperate that she wanted to fall to her knees and cry out as if that might somehow save her. Only, in this instance, there was a reason for her shouting.

For hours now, she had stumbled along the road. Her journey had started at a quick pace, running through the night as if being chased, but as the hours wore on, and as the energy fled her body, it was all Ophelia could do to put one foot in front of the other.

She had no idea where she was. A problem, as there was somewhere that she needed to be. Told to run in a certain direction and not look back, she was promised that this road would lead her to safety.

And if not me, what I carry in my arms…

Those arms grew tired. She had on a thick coat, her arms hidden underneath, and in them she carried that which was the reason why she found herself on this empty road in the middle of the night. It was also the reason that she could not give up.

And she very nearly did give up. The rain lashed at her. The muddy road made each step a struggle. She nearly tripped, stumbled, wondered time and again what it was all for. Then, just as she was ready to collapse, she saw a faint glimmer of hope that gave her strength.

Through the darkness, down the road, Ophelia spied a dark figure wading slowly in her direction. It looked to be a man leading a horse, and while there was a part of her that worried about approaching such a stranger in the night, a larger part knew that she had no choice.

“Please!” she cried as she stumbled toward the man and his horse. “You must help me!”

“Who goes there?” The man’s voice broke through the storm.

“I am lost,” she shouted as she hurried toward the man and his horse. “Please! You must tell me in which direction lies Vermont Estate?”

There was little light to be found in darkness, but as the man came closer, his face became clearer. He was an elderly man, his back bent, his face crooked and broken. He wore a coat to cover himself from the rain, and he struggled mightily with the reins of his horse as he dragged it behind him.

But there was worry on his face when he saw Ophelia, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“This is no place for a woman,” the old man said. “What in God’s name are you thinking, being out in a storm like this?”

“Please…” She hurried closer, while also staying back in case she needed to flee. “Which way is Vermont Estate?”

He frowned. “You’re on it now. Where are you coming from?”

“I am?” Hope sparked inside of Ophelia so that she was almost able to ignore the pain in her legs and the tiredness in her body. “Duke Vermont’s manor? Which direction is it? Am I close?”

“His Grace?” The old man frowned as he looked at her. “What business have you there?”

“Please!” she begged, her arms growing weak. She pulled that which she held closer to her body, sure to keep it under her coat and hidden. “Which way?”

“I wouldn’t be going that way if I were you,” the old man said, concern and worry heard clearly in his tone. “Best you avoid that place entirely.”

Ophelia blinked. “What? What does that mean?”

“His Grace…” The old man hesitated. “The less said of him, the better, truth be told. You think this storm is bad?” He laughed bitterly. “The stories I could tell you.”

Ophelia hesitated, studying the old man the best that she could, as if searching for a lie. But he looked at her with brimming determination, as if he needed her to believe him.

Were times different, Ophelia might have listened. Sadly, such times were not these ones.

“What way?” she asked just as a clap of thunder ripped the sky in two. “Please!”

The old man clicked his tongue. “Back the way I came, if you must know. No more than a mile or so along this road. Can’t be missed. But now’s not the time to be disturbing dukes, especially not that one. Come with Betsy and me here.”

“Thank you,” she said, already backing away.

“Wait a minute…” The old man narrowed his eyes on her. “Under that coat. What’s that you’ve got there – wait!”

Ophelia heard the old man’s words and let them steel her. I am close… so close. Head down, she stepped around the old man and his horse, Betsy, hurrying down the road because she had no choice.

Also, she did not want him to know what she carried. If he found out, she doubted that he would let her leave so easily. Nor should he.

“Wait!” the old man cried out again. “Come back here! This ain’t no place for…” His voice died in the wind and the rain.

Each step taken was a struggle. Wet. Cold. Her limbs numb so that she could not feel them. But Ophelia looked ahead as she followed the road, determination flooding her bones because she was close… almost there… she had to make it.

How had it come to this? Ophelia’s life had not been an easy one, but these last few years had changed that perception, and she dared to believe that finally things were turning around.

Sadly, as she had long since come to learn, so often in this world, fate was not something one had control of.

If the worst were to happen, then it would do, and there was nothing that could stop it.

Ophelia was always the type to look on the bright side of life. That was how she had been raised. But these last few years… this night, especially… it made such a sunny disposition difficult to maintain.

As to Vermont Estate, the Duke’s manor, when she reached it… will anything change for me? Or will my woes only worsen? Especially if what that old man said is true…

But she could not think about that now – positivity was what she needed most. She had one task before her, a promise made, and the reminder of that promise sat heavy in her arms so that she would not forget.

Finally, after what felt like hours more of walking, Ophelia saw Vermont Manor appear on the horizon like a mirage. She might have said like a dream, but that felt wildly optimistic.

It was a castle built of gray stone, leering towers, paired with a sense of dread that made the darkness of night almost seem like a sunny day by comparison.

It loomed in the night, standing tall and warning her against her approach.

The wind howled. The rain fell. And when lightning lit the sky and shone over the manor, Ophelia wanted to cry out in fear.

She knew now that her salvation would not be found in that manor, but this was not about her. Again, a promise had been made, and the life which relied on her was far more important than her own.

Her legs were weak. Her body was dead tired. Her arms… she struggled to hold that which was clutched to her chest. But she remembered her promise, and with that in mind, she started up the driveway and toward the leering manor.

What would come next, she could not say. All she knew was that she had done as promised, and that needed to be enough.

“Your Grace…” The voice came softly from the doorway. “Is something the matter?”

Adrian Loxley, the Duke of Vermont, sat alone in the drawing room as he stared at the roaring fire of the stone-built hearth. He had a glass of brandy in his hand, and he sipped it as he watched the flames lick the stones and blacken them.

Beyond the drawing room, he heard the storm rage as if it were trying to match his mood. The wind whipped at the stone of the walls. The rain lashed wickedly. And the rumbling of thunder made the entire manor shake as if it were about to be brought down.

If only it might do. How much easier that might be…

Not that Adrian had a particular reason to feel this way. Nothing tragic had occurred lately in his life; no great sorrow brought onto him that was out of the ordinary. To put it simply, the way he felt on that night was just him, and it would continue to be until the day that he died.

“Your Grace,” the voice spoke again, barely heard over the storm. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I am quite fine, thank you,” Adrian said without turning around.

“The staff, Your Grace…” The speaker crept deeper into the room, but was hesitant as even he feared coming too close. “They have begun the celebrations, as you allowed. Until the morrow, most will be quite unreachable.”

“I am aware.”

“I mean to join them shortly…” Closer still, but not too close. “Before I do, I wish to check that you have everything you require for this night.”

Adrian sighed as if with frustration.

The man who spoke was his personal steward, Mr. Watley, the same who had attended Adrian for most of his life. He was, in some ways, like a father figure, and possibly the only person in this world who fully understood Adrian and why he was this way.

Even still, the two were not close. Always, there was an underlying sense of fear in the man, a precaution taken because look given was enough to scare most people away. Not that such a reaction was entirely justified… not that Adrian cared to change it.

“There is no need to pander to me, Mr. Watley,” Adrian sighed.

“I am not, Your Grace. I am merely checking –”

“Which you have done,” he said and turned sharply in his chair to look pointedly at the steward. “Now that you have, you are dismissed. Do not let me see you again until the morrow.”

Mr. Watley froze under Adrian’s pointed look. He was somewhere in his sixties, slight of frame, hunched in posture, but with a kind face that most would surely feel comforted to find themselves under.

Adrian bore the man no ill will. In fact, a small part of him cared deeply for the aged servant. Sadly, Adrian was not one to show such emotions.

“Would you care to join us, Your Grace?” Mr. Watley dared.

Adrian scoffed. “I would not burden you with my company.”

“It is no burden, Your Grace.”

“No?” Adrian scoffed again. “Perhaps ask the rest of the staff how they might feel before making such a bold declaration.” He raised an eyebrow at Mr. Watley and saw the doubt in the man’s blue eyes.

Where Mr. Watley was surely willing to invite Adrian to join him, the rest of the staff would bemoan such an inclusion.

As they would be right to do. “Go,” Adrian sighed.

“And enjoy yourself, Mr. Watley. You deserve it.”

The event in question was the Feast of John the Baptist. It was a yearly event, one celebrated with feasts and drink, dancing and laughter, and the knowledge that for one night at least, those who participated could forget their troubles and act freely and without care.

It was not an event that suited Adrian.

“I will see you on the morrow,” Mr. Watley said with a soft smile. “Be well, Your Grace.”

Adrian exhaled sharply through his nose, indicated toward the doorway with his head, and then turned back to watching the flames of the hearth.

Alone, finally, and Adrian took a sip of brandy.

It would not be the last. His intent was to drink the entire bottle, bring himself to a point where he could hardly stand or think, and then pass out cold.

That was the easiest way to dull his senses and forget for a time who he was, how much he was hated, and how there was nothing to be done about it.

The storm continued to rage. The minutes ticked over. Adrian drank. And then, as if it were a dream, he thought that he heard something…

It sounded like the storm, at first. But the manor was large and hollow, so the sound echoed throughout its vast chambers until even Adrian could not deny it. It was the sound of someone knocking on the front door.

“Mr. Watley!” Adrian shouted. “The door!”

No answer came and Adrian cursed as he remembered the reason why.

The knocking continued in intensity and for a moment, Adrian considered ignoring it. But the sound was incessant, and he worried that if he left it alone, it would not stop. Peace and quiet were what he desired on that night, and such disturbances threatened to lay those plans in ruins.

He groaned and rose from the chair, then he stumbled from the drawing room and into the halls.

The knocking grew louder, filled with panic. Adrian sneered, figuring it to be a farmer or some such, caught in the storm and wanting help.

He almost laughed at the notion. Surely, anyone within a ten-mile radius would know better than to risk disturbing the Duke of Vermont. Why, was he to guess, he would have said that most would have preferred the dangers of the storm.

The front doors shook with the incessant knocking. Adrian crossed the darkened foyer, a sneer already on his lips as he reached for the handles. He then took a breath as if to calm himself before throwing the doors open.

Rain and wind lashed his face. He threw up a hand to cover himself. It took a moment then to see who had disturbed him, but when he did, Adrian started with surprise… what on earth…

A young woman stood shivering on the doorstep. She wore a cloak to cover her body and face. Her skin was pale. Her coat drenched to the bone. And as she looked up at him, she swayed on the spot as if she might collapse.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded on instinct.

“His Grace…” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “I need to see… Vermont”

He frowned at her, trying to see her face clearly. It was too dark to make out, however, so all he could see were a pair of green eyes so bright they were almost blinding.

“I am he,” he said carefully. “What is this about? Who are you?”

“Please…” Slowly, as if in pain, she shifted her cloak and opened it wide.

Adrian gasped because the woman held a baby in her arms. Somehow, it was asleep, wrapped warmly, looking more comfortable than it had any right to be.

“Worry not about me…” The woman held the baby out to him.

“The child, Your Grace. Take your child…”

Adrian did not realize what he was doing, but he reached for the sleeping baby and brought it into his arms. It was light and warm, and it smiled as it rested in his arms.

“Who are you?” Adrian demanded. “What is the meaning of –”

The woman collapsed suddenly. Adrian started in surprise, caught between helping the woman and holding the baby. But through it all, the woman’s words echoed in his mind. ‘Take your child…’

My child? I do not have a child…

What in the name of John the Baptist was going on?