Page 83 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
Mr. Jennings glided into the room with a silver tray in hand. “Good morning, Your Grace. I’ve brought your morning tea and a letter that just arrived.”
Kenneth grunted in acknowledgment, reaching for the steaming cup. As he sipped the restorative brew, his eyes fell on the envelope. His stomach churned when he recognized Lord Eastfold’s seal.
With trembling fingers, he tore open the missive and began to read. Each word felt like a dagger twisting in his gut.
To the Duke and Duchess of Dunford,
I hope this letter finds you both in good spirits. I write to inform you of an upcoming art exhibition and auction at Somerset House. As patrons of the arts, I’m sure you’ll find the collection most intriguing. There will be a grand ball following theauction, and I do hope Your Graces will attend. Your presence would greatly enhance the evening.
Yours sincerely, Lord Eastfold.
Kenneth’s vision blurred with rage. He crumpled the letter in his fist and hurled it into the fireplace, watching with grim satisfaction as the flames consumed it. Any guilt he had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a burning anger.
“Jennings!” he barked, startling the butler. “Tell the stablehand to prepare my horse. I’m going out for the day.”
“But, Your Grace,” Mr. Jennings protested, his usual composure slipping, “you haven’t eaten, and in your current state?—”
“Did I ask for your opinion?” Kenneth snarled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Do as I say, and be quick about it!”
Jennings bowed stiffly and retreated from the room.
As Kenneth dressed, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, his mind raced. The nerve of Eastfold, addressing them both as if nothing had changed. And Beatrice—was she already aware of this invitation? Had she perhaps orchestrated it herself?
He stomped down the stairs, ignoring the concerned glances from the staff. His head was still pounding, but the pain only fueled his anger.
As he reached the foyer, he bellowed, “Where are my riding boots?”
A terrified footman scurried forward with the boots, nearly dropping them in his haste.
Kenneth snatched them away, muttering darkly under his breath. He’d show them all. Beatrice, Eastfold, the entire ton. He was the Duke of Dunford, and he answered to no one.
With a final glare at the assembled staff, he wrenched open the front door and strode out into the morning light, leaving bewildered silence behind him.
The cool morning air hit him like a slap to the face, momentarily clearing his head. He strode towards the stables where a groom was already waiting with his horse, a magnificent black stallion named Tempest. Kenneth swung himself into the saddle, ignoring the twinge of pain in his head, and nudged the horse into a gallop.
As they thundered across the grounds, he felt some of his anger dissipate, replaced by a grim determination. He slowed Tempest to a trot as they approached the eastern fields where new irrigation systems were being installed. This was his doing, his vision for improving the estate.
He dismounted, patting Tempest’s neck absently as he surveyed the work. The laborers, upon seeing him approach, redoubled their efforts. Kenneth nodded approvingly. This was what he should be focusing on, not the drama with Beatrice.
For the next few hours, he rode across the vast Dunford estate, inspecting various projects and improvements. He spoke with tenant farmers, reviewed plans for new outbuildings, and even rolled up his sleeves to help repair a broken fence. With each task, he felt more centered, more in control.
As the sun reached its zenith, Kenneth found himself atop a hill overlooking the castle. From this vantage point, he could see the full extent of the Dunford lands. Fields of wheat swayed in the breeze, dotted with grazing sheep and cattle. The newly repaired mill wheel turned steadily, its rhythmic creaking carrying on the wind.
Kenneth’s chest swelled with pride. This was his legacy, the fruit of his labor. When he had inherited the title, the estate had been on the brink of ruin, thanks to his father’s excesses. Through sheer determination and hard work, he had turned it round, making it profitable again.
“I did all this without her,” he muttered to himself, a hint of his earlier bitterness creeping back into his voice. “I was fine before Beatrice, and I’ll be fine now.”
Yet, even as the words left his mouth, he felt a hollow ache in his chest. The estate might be thriving, but the castle felt empty without her.
Kenneth took a deep breath, his resolve hardening. He would not be his father. And he would be fine with or without Beatrice.
A week had passed since Kenneth’s departure, and Beatrice found herself alone in their London townhouse, accompanied only by a handful of servants, including her trusted lady’s maid, Anna. The once lively halls now felt empty and dull, a reflection of the void in her heart.
She had thrown herself into her painting, desperately seeking solace in the familiar strokes of her brush. But even as she worked, her mind was consumed with thoughts of Eastfold and the leverage he now had over her.
How could I have been so blind?
Her brush slashed across the canvas with a fury born of frustration and self-recrimination.
