Chapter One
Derbyshire, December 1814
Rotting.
To Hugh La Coeur's mind, that was the most apt description for the moldering mansion on the hill. Usually the bright white of newly fallen snow brought a peaceful serenity to the landscape. Not so with this property. Even the pristine beauty of winter could not hide the neglect apparent in everything about the place.
He hesitated for a moment, taking in the view with a disgusted snort. Ominous clouds roiled above him, but the sky was darkening for another reason—the day was ending. Thoughts of returning the way he'd come, through the snow and without light, forced Hugh to proceed. If his need were less dire, he'd ride on in search of a more hospitable-looking home. But he was desperate, and the curling smoke rising from the manor's chimneys told him the place was inhabited. Help was at hand, and he couldn't ignore it, no matter how much he desired to.
He tied his mount, one of his prized carriage bays, to the metal ring protruding from a nearby stone pillar. At one time the pillar had held up the park gate, but not any longer. One side of the gate remained upright, while the other leaned precariously atop the frozen ground.
"Atrocious," Hugh muttered to his horse, as he edged his way through the Sylvia Day - Bad Boys Ahoy!
opening and started the long walk up the drive to the main house.
He glanced around with morbid fascination. It was easy to imagine how beautiful the property must have been once, a source of pride for its noble occupants. But fate had dealt a cruel blow to the peer and family who owned the place. It had obviously gone without maintenance for many years. Vines, long dead, crawled over the brick exterior. Places where paint had once brightened the facade now peeled and warped from lack of care.
The wind picked up, and soft, powdery snow began to swirl around Hugh's polished Hessians. His hair blew across his forehead, his hat long lost in a ditch.
The storm would be upon them soon. His legs lengthened their strides. He would have to hurry.
Reaching the door, Hugh banged the tarnished lion-head knocker. The sound echoed eerily, and he shook off the shivers. He was an earl, for Christ's sake!
The esteemed, if slightly scandalous, Earl of Montrose, an ancient title that carried a wealth of prestige. His station should place him above such childish fears. But frankly, the place looked haunted, and the forgotten air that surrounded the hall filled him with foreboding.
He almost fled, blizzard be damned, when the door creaked open with torturous slowness. A stooped butler, as decrepit as the manse in which he worked, stood in the doorway.
"Aye?" the old man queried in a gravelly voice.
Hugh handed over his card. "Is the lord of the manor at home?"
The butler squinted at the lettering. He lifted the card to an oddly protruding eye and then dropped his hand with a grunt. The servant gestured wildly behind him.
"You'll find 'im in the cemetery out back."
Before Hugh could blink, the door was swinging with lightning speed toward his Sylvia Day - Bad Boys Ahoy!
face. Moving with a pugilist's quick ease, he slipped into the hall before the door slammed shut. The butler turned, bumped into his chest, and shrieked in terror.
Rolling his eyes, Hugh steadied the frail man. "Listen, old chap. My desire to be here is far less than your desire to have me here. I require some assistance. If you provide it, I can be on my way."
The butler studied him closely with his oversized blue eye. "Wot ye be needin', gov'na?"
"You may address me as 'my lord,'" Hugh corrected, with a pointed look at his calling card, presently being crushed in the butler's hand. "What is your name?"
The servant sniffled. "Artemis."
"Very well, Artemis. Are there any other men about the place?" Hugh glanced around. "Men preferably capable of physical exertion."
Artemis studied him with blatant suspicion. "'Enry. 'E's a strapping lad wot runs the stables. And Tom, 'e 'elps Cook wiv thevittles."
"Excellent." Hugh released a sigh of relief. "Would it be possible to find decent horseflesh around here?" Even as he asked, he knew it was asking too much, given the sight of the place.
"O' course!" the old man cried, affronted, "'er Grace 'as the finest 'orses you'll ever see!"
Hugh stilled, his mind rapidly disseminating the information he'd gathered so far. His Grace lay in the cemetery, which left Her Grace widowed. There weren't many duchesses, hardly any that were widowed, and only one of whom he was aware who would claim ownership to a sorry place such as this—
"'Her Mad Grace'?" Of all the damnable luck!
"'ere now!" Artemis complained. "We don't take kindly to that nonsense 'round Sylvia Day - Bad Boys Ahoy!
'ere!"
Hugh cleared his throat. He was leaving. Now. "Well, I'm certain Her Grace wouldn't mind at all if I borrowed her—"
"You can't just barge in 'ere and run off wiv 'er Grace's 'orses." The old man straightened as best he could. "You'll 'ave to ask 'er first!"
" Ask her? Good God, she's in residence here?" The place wasn't fit for man or beast, let alone for a duchess.
"O' course. Where else would she be?" Artemis snorted.
Hugh arched a brow. "Where else indeed?"
"Come along, then, gov'na." The servant shuffled away, stopping only to grasp the candelabra off the console. "You can wait in the parlor while I tell 'er Grace yer 'ere." Shoving open a set of double doors on the right, Artemis gestured impatiently for him to go inside, shoving the candelabra at him as he passed.
Hugh moved into the room and then spun about as the door slammed shut behind him. "Abominable service," he muttered, glancing around.
No other candles were lit, and the grate was cold. Every bit of furniture was draped and covered with thick dust. Even the portrait over the fireplace was hidden from view. Depositing his meager source of light on a cloth-covered table, he set to work building a fire.
Grumbling under his breath, Hugh inspected the coal bucket, surprised to discover it did indeed have coal inside it. Within moments he'd started a fire. He stood and used a nearby dusty sheet to wipe his hands.
Of all the confounded places for his wheel to break, why did it have to be here?
Hugh rubbed the space between his brows, trying to remember everything he'd heard about the dowager Lady Glenmoore. The elderly duke had shocked the ton Sylvia Day - Bad Boys Ahoy!
a few years past with a rushed elopement with his second wife. Then His Grace had gone on to compound the astonishment by passing away within scant weeks of his marriage.
It was widely speculated that the new duchess had helped her husband to his final reward. The succeeding Duke of Glenmoore had distanced himself from his stepmother in short order, banishing her to a remote holding, where it was rumored she passed the time scaring the wits out of hapless passersby such as Hugh. The duchess's weird behavior had earned her the moniker 'Her Mad Grace.'
A bizarre noise caught his ear, pulling him from his thoughts, and Hugh held his breath as it drew closer and increased in volume.
The door opened, the squeaking of the unoiled hinges accompanied by the cacophony of rattling china. His eyes widened as he found himself dumbfounded by the vision that greeted him.
A young woman entered, her slim arms weighted with an ancient tea service.
The entire arrangement wobbled horrendously, and he gaped at the bouncing, clattering items on the tray. He'd never seen anything like it in his life, and he waited breathlessly for the moment when everything would crash to the floor.
She whimpered suddenly, and the sound galvanized him into action. Hugh closed the space between them, plucked the service from her hands, and set it down. Turning to face the maid, he saw that her entire body shook as if she stood in the back of a cart traveling a very bumpy lane. Pretty, in a plain sort of way, with flyaway brown hair and pale blue eyes, she offered a smile as shaky as the rest of her.
Hiding his reaction with practiced ease, Hugh realized the young woman suffered from a pitiable nervous affliction of some sort, not surprising Sylvia Day - Bad Boys Ahoy!
considering the residence in which she lived and made her livelihood.
She stammered something unintelligible, dipped an odd, crooked curtsy, and fled the room, as if he posed some grave threat to her person.
Hugh shook his head in wonder. Were all the servants plagued with some ailment or another?
Glancing at the service, he was relieved to see the tea had already been prepared.
He poured and drank, appreciating the warmth, which chased away his chill. So much time passed while he waited, he nearly finished the pot before the door creaked open again.
Hugh turned to face the newest arrival. He was so amazed at the graceful glide with which the figure entered, he forgot to set his cup and saucer down and merely stared.
Black-clad from head to toe, her face veiled with lace, the duchess swept in with haste and halted just as quickly. She stood a few feet away, her figure short and petite. Because the darkness of her gown blended with the shadows, he could see very little of her, but something about her gave him pause. His body tensed, turning hard all over, and his fingers held the delicate china saucer far too tightly. Sweat misted his brow despite the cold. It wasn't nerves or apprehension that held his attention so completely. No, it was far worse than that…
Good God, he was becoming aroused!
Shooting a horrified glance at the tea in his hand, he quickly deduced that the infamous madness must spread through the water. Hugh dropped the cup and saucer on the table with such haste, the remaining liquid splashed over the rim and stained the dusty cloth below.
"Is there something wrong with the tea?" the duchess queried, her voice muffled by the thick veil.
He shook his head. "No. I apologize for the—"
"What do you want?" she snapped suddenly.
"Beg your pardon?" He, of the dry wit and ready retort, could think of nothing more clever to say, his brain feverishly trying to comprehend why his body was ready to mate with an elderly duchess suffering a mental malady.
"Why are you here?" she repeated slowly as if it were he that suffered the brain affliction. "What have you come for?"
Hugh gathered his wits. "My carriage wheel was damaged in a rut. I require the use of—"
"I'm truly sorry, but I haven't the means to help you." She fled the room with as much haste as the maid.
Mouth agape, he decided something truly heinous polluted the water hereabouts.
There was no other explanation for this craziness. Flushed, slightly disoriented, and quickly becoming mad as hell, Hugh strode out the open doorway, bearing down on the dark figure who scurried away.
"Oh, Your Grace," he called out with deceptive courtesy. "Another moment, if you please."
Her pace quickened. So did his.
His legs were longer.
She hit the steps, hiking up her skirts, and he lunged forward, catching her elbow. She gasped. He almost did, too, but restrained himself. Her arm was firm and well-formed under his fingers, not at all as he imagined.
"Perhaps I misled," he said dryly. Her lace-covered face turned to his. "I wasn't asking."
She stiffened.
"You're ill; I collect that." His gaze narrowed as he attempted to discern the facial features hidden behind the veil. "It appears you are unaware that a blizzard is fast approaching, and this is one of the coldest winters on record. My servant's arm was broken in the fall, and one of my horses is lame—"
"Lame?" she repeated, her voice tight.
Ah! He suddenly remembered Her Grace's love of horses, as professed by the ancient Artemis. Cad that he was, Hugh had no hesitation in playing on her sympathies. "Yes, lame. I'm certain the beast will recover, given the proper care and rest. So, too, will my footman, if also provided with proper care and rest."
He released her arm and stepped back, prepared to give chase if she fled again.
"I haven't the time to seek out another domicile, Your Grace. I am the Earl of Montrose, not some thief set to rob you. I will return your horses and conveyance to you at my soonest, I can assure you of that."
She stood silently for a long moment, her damaged brain seeking something to say, he was certain. Finally she gave a jerky nod of agreement and turned, taking the steps with remarkable agility for a woman of her vast years.
Relieved, Hugh turned and bellowed for Artemis. He had no notion if the madness was permanent or not, but he had no desire to catch it in any case.
"Go with him."
Charlotte looked out the upper-floor window and watched the dashing earl hitch the horses to a cart. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder, with the most glorious shade of dark-honey hair. He stood silhouetted by the snow, his elegantly dressed body moving with latent power, his shoulders bunching and flexing beneath the velvet of his coat. She couldn't see his face from here, but she guessed he would be handsome. Or at least she hoped he would be. A man blessed with so fine a form should have a face to match. "It wouldn't be proper."
"Who cares about proper?" came the laughing rejoinder. "We've never done anything properly. And the earl appears quite… interesting."
Interesting? Yes, he would be. It had been so long since she'd spoken to someone even remotely her age. She told herself every day that she was content with her life here, but sometimes, at night, she wished for things to be different.
Turning, Charlotte allowed the heavy velvet drapes to fall back into place. Her gaze moved around the spotless, well-appointed room, with its damask-covered walls and Chippendale furniture, before settling on the trim figure who waited with an arched brow. "I don't know. I'd like to help him, but the more assistance we extend, the more he may discover about us."
"Keep him busy then. We can't leave them out in the cold. The horse is injured and must be tended. The footman could use your healing touch. They'll catch their death, and neither one of us could live with that. You've done well enough protecting our secret these last years. I've every faith that you will continue to do so."