Page 5 of When her Duke Returns
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The Castle of Summerhead had belonged to the Carlisle family for nigh on seven generations. It had stood the test of time against familial disputes, grand changes in fashion, and the constant lapping of the salty southern winds of the English coast against its grey stone walls. The lands surrounding the castle stretched on as far as the eye could see with fields of grass and poppies melting into a vast, interminable canvas of green.
It was, without a doubt, Mary’s favorite place in the world.
The castle had passed to her eldest brother Francis upon the death of their father nearly two years gone, and there had been much commotion over what was to be done with the place. Francis was hardly a man of the country and despised each and every trip away from London. His mother was no keener to oversee the running of such large an estate than Harry, her second brother, who had far more adventurous aspirations than being a housekeeper.
A procession of carriages had lined the outside of the castle that fateful Friday afternoon as servants carried last-minute crates of delicacies and fabrics into the castle to prepare for the coming ball. Mary stepped out of the large oak doors of the castle’s main entrance and heard her mother before she saw her.
“No, August! What are you thinking? Hold that box the other way! Take it up, quickly now, or I shall find a footman worthy of the title!”
Mary could not help but grin. “Should you not let Mrs. Powell or Fitzwilliam take care of this, Mama? Surely, it’s a task better suited to a butler?”
Her mother wiped her forehead and sighed. “No, I shan’t! I must make sure everything is as I have planned. Besides, they’re both far too busy arranging the rooms for your guests.”
“Yourguests, you mean. I have invited no one.”
“Need I remind you that most daughters would be grateful to have a mother as generous as I? I will not let my only daughter be weda la bourgeoisie.”
Mary trailed the bottom of her cerulean morning gown against the pebbles at their feet. “I am grateful, Mama, though I hate the thought of you working yourself to the bone…Have you seen Harry or Francis perchance?” Mary asked, shielding her eyes from the timid British sun.
Her mother was back pointing and directing the servants as if they were part of some play. “What? Oh, your brothers! Yes, I do believe Harry has gone into town. Francis should be in the gardens—his wife has just arrived,” she added with a queer look that meant trouble was ahead and then turned back to her staff. “Honora, have you seen Mr. Cluett perchance?”
The gardens were abuzz with the comings and goings of summer. Mary paused for a moment to bask in the soft midday sun, breathing in deeply the smells of the garden as though it were the first time she had ever stepped foot on the grounds. The divinity of the moment was lost almost immediately when she heard raised voices from further in the maze.
“I will not hear of it, My Lord; I willnot!” She heard upon her approach. “Things are not so far gone that I will not leave you; I swear it.”
Her brother, Francis, was sitting in one of the garden’s alcoves on a small white bench with ivy overhead. He looked as though he were losing a war, his head resting lifelessly on his fist and his dark brown hair tumbling into his eyes.
Sophia turned to meet her gaze. She was dressed in a yellow gown that complimented the cream of her skin, and her golden, curled hair had been coiffed with beads. She looked like the image of the perfect English lady—a blazon of beauty as lauded over in sonnets of times gone. Only her eyes betrayed this perfect portrait as they were full of fire.
“Oh good,” Francis said with sarcasm as he caught sight of his sister. “Come to watch, have you?”
Sophia ignored him and spoke only to Mary. “Cousin, you are soon to be wed are you not?” she asked, ignoring all the rules as set out by theton. Mary could not help but admire her for it. “Good luck to you!”With her venom expelled, the woman picked up her skirts and sauntered away.
“I fear I am at a loss,” Mary said to her brother, trying as best she could to stifle her smile.
“Let us simply say that in what concerns her assets, Sophia is utterly impossible,” he said and pursed his lips. “She has been at my throat all morning over a deal I have been looking to strike.”
“What deal?” Mary asked.
“Not one that is any of concern of yours. I merely told Sophia as a courtesy.” Francis sighed deeply and ran his hands over his face. “Let us hope that your betrothed proves more malleable than mine.”
Mary dropped her gaze and ran a hand along a train of ivy. “You would know. You made the match.”
“Only a mother’s behest, I swear it. Though from what I can gather, Antony will treat you fairly. He seems smitten.”
“With me or the promise of my dowry?”
Francis laughed. “We shall settle on both for now. Do not write him off so quickly simply because he was eager to ask for your hand. There are far worse men you could have accepted.”
“Are you alluding to the Duke?” she asked despite her better judgment.
“Oh, come now Mary… You know I liked Redgrave well enough.” He paused and thought for a moment. “But if you are asking which of the two I prefer, I shall forever say Antony Simons.”
“He was your friend, yet you speak of him so coldly,” noted Mary, referring once more to her departed Duke.
It was true. The young gentlemen of Rowe, Carlisle, and Simons had met at Eton in their youth and become quick friends. They had gone through the early motions of the world together, and Harry had regaled Mary with the tales of their exploits since her earliest age. That was, of course, before the Duke’s untimely departure and his even more untimely death.
