Discouraging the Duke by Alexa Aston
Chapter Four
Emery couldn’t stand the new Duke of Winslow.
And he’d only been at Wildwood a week.
She grit her teeth thinking about how arrogant and overbearing Ralph Notley could be. He had shown up with his mother in tow. She was as unpleasant as Emery remembered, finding fault with everything from the temperature of her tea to how far the curtains had been drawn. The next day, a party of five rowdy gentlemen showed up, all friends of the new Duke of Winslow. They had accompanied the new duke to the funeral, where the former duke was buried next to his son, Anthony, and then the guests had stayed for a week, drinking and carousing far into the night. Emery did her best to avoid them, knowing what they would have on their minds. She had never been kissed and wasn’t about to experience her first kiss forced upon her by a drunken lord.
Today, she and Papa had an appointment with Winslow. His friends had left yesterday and she supposed he was ready to settle down and see about the business of the estate. Fortunately, she had come across her father going over the books, a dazed look on his face. He told her he was trying to balance accounts.
And didn’t remember how.
Tamping down her fear, Emery had sent him back to their cottage, telling him he looked tired and was probably in need of a nap. That the numbers would make sense to him once he had gotten some rest. Then she had spent the rest of that afternoon and all the next day sorting through the mess he had made, reworking columns of numbers and adding things correctly. She left the pages she corrected inside the ledger, merely drawing a large X through them and initialing beside it. She didn’t want His Grace to think she had tampered with the books in any way. She doubted he would take the time to study them. He seemed more the type to skim them. If that.
Fortunately, she was the one who paid the bills at the estate and so no merchants had gone without their funds. Emery worried, though, about her father’s rapid decline. That was why she would sit in on his meeting today with the new duke. Hopefully, she could cover for Papa and answer the His Grace’s questions. If the duke suspected Papa’s mind had grown weak, he would sack him immediately. That would mean losing the cottage, which was attached to the position of steward. She prayed that wouldn’t come to pass and that her mother would also be able to retain her position as housekeeper.
Entering the office, she found her father seated behind the desk, staring into space as he often did these days. Emery’s heart went out to him. Papa had always been such an intelligent man, well versed in a good number of topics. As a viscount’s son, he had received an excellent education. Being a fourth son, however, he had to make his way in the world the best he could. He had attained the position of steward for the Earl of Raydon just before he turned forty. Having secure employment, he had then married the local doctor’s daughter. Emery arrived a few years later and when she was twelve, Papa had accepted the position as steward at Wildwood, a far larger estate. When the duke’s housekeeper had passed away unexpectedly a short time after their arrival, Papa had suggested Mama for the position. Winslow had agreed, having come to trust his estate manager implicitly.
These had been good years at Wildwood. The estate had become home to Emery. Leaving it would be difficult. It would be up to her to help hide Papa’s deficiencies and answer the duke’s questions. She had already overheard Winslow tell the duchess that he didn’t plan to stay in the country with the London Season in full swing so Emery knew today’s appointment might be the only time the duke spoke with Papa.
She watched her father a moment. He did not recognize her presence. It pained her to see how he had seemingly grown old overnight. His graying hair now had an abundance of white in it. His lined face continually looked weary. His posture, once tall and proud, now was slumped.
“Papa,” she called softly.
He turned and smiled. “Hello, Emery. Have you balanced the ledgers?”
“Yes, I have, Papa. Do you remember His Grace is coming to meet with us regarding the estate?”
He frowned. “I thought he was very ill.”
She swallowed. He had already forgotten the old duke had recently died.
“Remember, Papa, that His Grace passed away. We went to his funeral last week,” she reminded gently.
“Oh. Oh, that is quite right. His Grace is dead. The son is here. I remember now.” Papa frowned. “His friends are quite ill-mannered.”
She chuckled. “They are, indeed. You should keep that to yourself, though.”
“Of course. I would never say that to His Grace. It is not my place to judge his companions or their behavior.”
They waited a quarter-hour. After half an hour passed and still no duke, Emery rang for a footman.
When Thomas appeared, she asked, “Do you know where His Grace is? He was to discuss estate business with my father and has not kept his appointment.”
Thomas’ mouth twitched. “His Grace only awakened a few minutes ago, Miss Jenson. He called for hot water. It could be some time before he remembers this meeting.”
“I see. Thomas, would you let His Grace’s valet know to send His Grace our way when he is presentable?”
The footman bit back a smile. “Yes, Miss Jenson.”
She got to work, allowing her father to flip through the pages of a book as she did. After another hour, the door opened.
The Duke of Winslow staggered in, a bottle in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other.
Her gut tightened. He may have bathed but he still looked disheveled. While dressed in the manner of a city gentleman more than a country one, his cravat was askew. His face sported yesterday’s whiskers. His hair stuck up in the air.
And he reeked of the brandy.
He weaved his way across the office, falling into a chair. Tilting the glass to his lips, he drained it and poured another.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said and Papa echoed her words.
Emery wanted to slap the man for a litany of things but kept her face neutral.
“What can we do for you today, Your Grace?” Papa asked politely.
The duke flicked his eyes to her. “Why are you here? Who are you?”
She steeled herself. “I am Miss Jenson. My father is your estate manager and my mother is your housekeeper. I aid them both in their work.”
His eyes looked her slowly up and down, causing her cheeks to heat in embarrassment. If he was a servant, she would slap him and give him a piece of her mind. Instead, because he was a peer and her parents’ employer, she sat mute.
“Tell me about the estate,” the duke said, his eyes still raking over her.
Papa began to speak and Winslow cut him off. “I want her to tell me. Let’s see what a female actually knows.”
Emery thought this a blessing in disguise. It would save Papa from stumbling through any explanation and show His Grace that she did pull her weight at Wildwood.
She began talking about the upcoming planting and harvest and watched as his eyes glazed over. He emptied his glass and refilled it from the bottle he still held.
Finally, he interrupted her. “This is boring. Tell me how much Wildwood makes each year. And how much I receive from the other estates—if you know.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
Emery threw numbers at him. Numbers were her friends and she knew them backward and forward. When she finished, the duke grunted.
And poured himself a final glass of brandy.
The bottle now empty, he let it drop to the floor and said, “You do know quite a bit.”
It was probably the closest she would ever come to a compliment from him. She bowed her head slightly, not trusting her tongue, which wished to dress him down for being drunk at two o’clock in the afternoon.
“I don’t plan to spend much time here,” he said, his words slurring. “I suppose I should see something of the place before I leave for town.”
“Did you grow up here, Your Grace?” she asked politely.
“I did. I never liked it here. Take me out now.”
“Take you . . . where, Your Grace?”
He frowned at her. “I said I wanted to see the estate. You do ride, don’t you, Miss Jenson?”
“I do. Perhaps you might wish to ride the estate when you can get an earlier start,” she smoothly suggested, knowing he had no business being on a horse in his inebriated condition.
His eyes narrowed. “I want to see it now.” He stood, letting the tumbler fall from his fingers. It landed on the carpet with a soft thunk.
“Very well,” she said, marching briskly out of the room and straight to the stables. She had a riding habit but knew this man didn’t have the patience to allow her time to change into it. She would have to make do. As it was, she doubted they would be out for long. If he made it a quarter-mile from the house without falling off his horse, it would be a miracle.
Mr. Harris, the head groom, met her, glancing over her shoulder. “You wish to ride, Miss Jenson?”
The duke arrived. “She does. We do. Fetch horses for us both.”
The groom looked at her uncertainly. Emery nodded slightly.
“Would you like Zeus, Miss?” he asked, knowing the mount was her favorite in the stables.
“Zeus?” the duke asked.
“Yes, Your Grace. The horses are all named after Greek gods. Zeus is the most spirited and hardest to control. He likes no one but Miss Jenson on his back.”
“He will prefer me,” Winslow proclaimed. “Saddle him. Give her something else.”
Worry creased the groom’s face. “Yes, Your Grace.” Harris hurried away.
“Zeus can be a handful, Your Grace,” she cautioned.
He glared at her. “If you can handle him, so can I. I can ride any beast and bring it to heel.” He paused and leered at her. “I would like to ride you.”
Her face flamed at his crass comment. Although two and twenty, she had little idea what went on between a man and a woman and sensed he knew that. What she did know was that a gentleman would never speak to her this way.
Winslow was definitely no gentleman, despite the title he now claimed.
“We can have fun together, Miss Jenson. I can show you things. Many things.”
“I am not interested in fun, Your Grace,” she said primly.
He roared with laughter.
Thankfully, their horses arrived. As usual, Zeus snorted and huffed. She stepped to the horse, his nostrils flaring and murmured to him softly as she stroked his neck, calming him.
The duke stepped toward her and said, “Would you like to stroke me that way, Miss Jenson?”
Horrified, she stepped back and quickly went to Ares, a groom helping her to mount. She took up the reins as she tried to gather her wits about her. She had drawn the duke’s attention in a terrible way and had no idea how to stop his advances. Fortunately, he had said he wouldn’t remain at Wildwood for long. If she could avoid him for a day or two, he would be gone and forget about her. Thank goodness she lived away from the house in the cottage with her parents. If she’d had a room in the main house, she knew she wouldn’t be safe from this lecherous drunk.
Turning, she saw Winslow had been helped into the saddle and asked, “Where would you like to see first, Your Grace?”
He grunted.
“I will show you the fields then.”
Emery nudged her horse and Ares responded, taking off at a slow trot. The duke joined her, riding by her side. She could tell, though, that he struggled to keep Zeus under control. She wondered if she could suggest they trade mounts but couldn’t think of any reason why they should that Winslow would accept.
She showed the duke the fields where various crops had been planted and then took him by the rows of his tenants’ cottages.
“I remember a bluff,” he said. “It overlooked a good deal of land.”
“I know where that is,” she replied. “Follow me.”
She kept Ares at a steady canter, knowing if she sped up that Zeus might think the duke was giving the horse his head and take off at a raging gallop.
They reached the area and Winslow dismounted. He looked at her expectantly and she slid from the saddle, worried about how she would get up again without assistance, especially in the gown she wore. She didn’t want him having any excuse to put his hands on her. The thought of that made her uncomfortable and might give him a reason to try and take liberties with her.
He stepped forward unsteadily and gazed across the land below.
“It is finally all mine,” he said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “I’ve waited long enough.”
It angered her that this man seemed to hold no feelings for his father. While the previous duke might not have been the best of men, he didn’t deserve such disrespect from his heir.
“Where is the mill?” he asked.
Emery pointed. “Over there.”
Before she could lower her arm, he latched on to her wrist and jerked her toward him. Panic raced through her.
“Please, let me go,” she said, her voice quavering.
“No,” he said, a slow smile crossing his face. “I don’t think I will.”
His fingers tightened on her wrist. She thought the bones might shatter. His other hand went to her breast, squeezing it painfully. She gasped in outrage.
“We are going to have fun, Miss Jenson. What is your first name?” he asked, his eyes glowing with his newfound power.
“That is none of your business,” she snapped at him.
His hands dropped, surprising her. She started to turn, only to find he grabbed her upper arms, his fingers digging into her tender flesh. He yanked her to him.
“You are my business,” he said boldly. “You are my property. Just as Wildwood is. I will do with you what I want. I thought to bring you to my bed but I think I will take you right here.”
Fear paralyzed her for a moment. His mouth slammed down on hers, bruising it as her arms would also be bruised. She opened her mouth to protest and he forced his tongue into her mouth. Disgust filled her. She had hoped one day to be kissed. To find a man who respected her and wanted to marry her. This was no kiss. This was some vile act by a horrid man drunk on his newfound power.
She remembered hearing one maid tell another what to do if a groom or footman grew frisky. Without thinking of the consequences, Emery slammed her knee into Winslow’s groin.
Immediately, he roared, his mouth disengaging from hers as she pushed hard against his chest. He tumbled to the ground. She looked at him, horrified at what she had done but having had no other way to stop him.
Then she ran to her horse and, somehow, the blood racing through her, she threw herself into the saddle and took off. As she rode away, she heard him loudly cursing her.
Emery didn’t dare look back.
When she reached the stables, Harris met her, helping her from Ares.
“Where is His Grace?”
“He decided . . . to continue the ride. He said he didn’t need me anymore.”
The groom looked at her with sympathy. “Are you all right, Miss Jenson?”
She imagined she looked as white as a ghost and a bit disheveled. “I am. Thank you for asking.”
More than anything, she wanted Mama.
Emery hurried to the house and found her mother, who took one look at her and said, “Come with me.”
They retreated to her mother’s office. Both Wildwood’s housekeeper and butler had a room of their own to manage the household. Mama used hers to work on the accounts and plan menus with Cook. She also retreated for a few minutes every afternoon for a cup of tea to fortify her. She prepared tea for them now, not asking anything until they had mugs before them.
“What happened? I know you went riding with His Grace and that he had downed an entire bottle of brandy.”
Her mother always had been well informed of events within the household.
Her fingers tightening on her skirts, she briefly told Mama what had happened.
“Oh, Emery. This is very bad.”
“I know. You and Papa might very well lose your positions and be dismissed without references.”
Mama shook her head. “That will be the least of it. You have assaulted a peer of the realm. You could go to prison. Even be transported to Australia.”
The knowledge of what she did now slammed into her and she began weeping. Her mother stroked her hair.
“You need to leave,” Mama insisted. “Go now and pack. If you are gone—if they cannot find you—then you will be safe.”
“But I would be on the run for the rest of my life, Mama,” she protested. “That is not the right thing to do.”
Her mother, always sage when dispensing advice, said, “You did the right thing as a woman. In a society where laws are passed by men of privilege, you are held to a different standard.”
She took Emery’s hands in hers. “I would rather you live in England, under an assumed name, never seeing you again, than have you convicted and sent halfway around the world to a penal colony. Or you can sail to America. Perhaps that would be best.”
Mama came to her feet and embraced Emery. “Go,” she whispered. “Pack just a few things. Look in the trunk at the foot of my bed. Inside a small chest, I have a pearl necklace you can sell. No, do not protest, my sweet. Also in the chest is an old reticule. It has money in it. Take it, as well.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “Mama. I love you.”
“I love you, too, my dearest child.” She released Emery and handed her a handkerchief. “Dry your tears. Avoid talking to any servants.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Emery slipped from the room, knowing she would never see her parents again. She had no idea where she might go. London, she supposed. It would be best to lose herself in the large city. She could take time to figure out her future and if she should cross the ocean to America.
She reached the cottage and opened the door, thankful that she hadn’t seen anyone on her way home. Going to the trunk, she found the necklace and savings her mother spoke of. She left half of the coins, knowing Mama and Papa would need them since they, too, would be leaving Wildwood. The new duke was an angry, spiteful man. He would boot them from the estate without a second thought.
She looked under their bed for the lone valise and then decided to leave that for them, as well. In her room, she donned a second gown over the one she wore and wrapped her favorite shawl around her. She rarely carried a reticule since she hardly ever left the estate, but she withdrew hers and stuffed the necklace, money, a night rail, and an extra chemise into it. She glanced around the bedchamber she had spent so many years in and swallowed the lump in her throat.
When she emerged from the room, her father came shuffling in, his eyes downcast. She uttered a quick prayer of thanks that she was able to see him once more.
“I don’t feel well,” he said as he glanced at her. Then he crumbled to the ground.
“Papa!” she cried, racing to him.
Emery managed to get him on his feet and had him lean against her as she led him to his bed. She slipped his shoes off and loosened his cravat, removing it and tossing it aside.
“What’s wrong, Papa?” she asked, trying to keep the urgency from her voice, wanting to soothe him instead.
“I . . . don’t know. I feel . . . I feel odd.”
“I will send for the doctor.”
Knowing she was wasting time—time that should be spent fleeing—Emery ran back in the direction of the house and veered toward the stables. Finding a groom, she told him to fetch the doctor at once and have him come to the Jenson cottage. She returned and sat on the bed, holding Papa’s hand.
Doctor Collier arrived at the same time Mama did. Her mother’s eyes widened when she saw Emery still here. Briefly, she told the physician what Papa had said and Collier went into the bedchamber.
Once he was gone, she said, “I couldn’t leave Papa. I just couldn’t. And I won’t go now. Not until I know what is wrong.”
“I understand.”
She saw the sorrow in her mother’s eyes. Emery wondered if she would regret her actions but decided Papa’s health was more important.
The physician called them into the room. She saw Papa was asleep.
“I think Mr. Jenson has suffered a mild case of apoplexy,” Doctor Collier said. “He told me he has numbness along his right side and he had trouble moving his right arm when I asked him to do so. His speech seems unimpaired. That is a good thing.”
“He has been forgetful of late, Doctor,” Emery said. “More so than one would expect in the elderly. He has forgotten how to do things he has done all his life.”
Dr. Collier nodded. “It could be connected to this episode. However it could be dementia.”
“What is that?” Mama asked, frowning.
“It is a new term which describes a progressive condition. It affects one’s memory and can impair behavior. How old is Mr. Jenson?”
“Sixty-five,” Mama said.
“It might be best if he retired from his position at Wildwood. With a new duke in residence, you could suggest to His Grace that he might want his own man in the position,” Dr. Collier suggested.
The physician gave them a few instructions on how to care for their patient and left, promising to call again tomorrow morning.
The moment the door closed, Mama said, “You must leave, Emery. I cannot believe His Grace hasn’t already sent for us all.”
A strong knock sounded at the door. Both women froze.
“No matter what happens, we love you,” Mama said.
“Even if I have cost you your livelihood?” she asked sadly.
Emery opened the door and found Thomas standing there.
“You’re needed at the house, Miss Jenson,” he said solemnly.
“I understand.”
She pulled her shawl tightly around her, hoping to disguise that she wore two sets of clothes and had been about to flee. She would leave her reticule. No sense in taking it now.
“Goodbye, Mama,” she said softly, not having the courage to glance at her mother a final time.
As she and Thomas left the cottage, he said, “His Grace is dead.”
She halted in her tracks. “What?”
“Zeus must have thrown him. Mr. Oldham discovered the body and brought it back to Wildwood. By then, Zeus had already returned to the stables. Come along, Sir William is here and wishes to speak with you since you were the last one to see the duke alive.”
Sir William Grant served as the area’s magistrate. Numbly, Emery accompanied Thomas back to the house and to the drawing room, where Mr. Sevill and Sir William awaited. She also saw the duke’s London valet present, along with Mr. Harris.
“Ah, welcome, Miss Jenson,” Sir William said. “Please, have a seat.” He turned to the three men. “You are dismissed.”
Emery watched them leave. She clutched her hands in her lap, forcing herself not to wring them.
“Miss Jenson, I have already spoken with the others regarding the duke’s . . . delicate condition. You accompanied His Grace out on the estate this afternoon?”
She swallowed. “Yes, Sir William. I did not think it wise for him to ride but His Grace insisted that he wanted to ride the estate once before he returned to London.”
“Mr. Harris said it seemed as if His Grace had a bit to drink.”
Emery nodded, knowing Sir William carefully watched her as she spoke.
“Yes. He met with Father and me before our tour. His Grace arrived at the meeting smelling of brandy and brought a bottle with him. He consumed three or four glasses during this time, finishing the bottle.”
“I see.” Sir William hesitated and then said, “Mr. Harris said His Grace was insistent upon riding a horse that is unmanageable.”
“Yes, Mr. Harris is correct. Zeus is a difficult horse for a sober rider to handle.” She swallowed. “I assume His Grace fell from the horse?”
“That is what I wished to ask you about. You returned to the stables without His Grace.”
“Yes,” she said, nerves rushing through her as she prepared herself to tell a white lie. “His Grace wished to continue surveying Wildwood on his own. I had shown him the crops and the cottages where his tenants live. I had things to do, helping Papa, and His Grace—against my advice—decided to continue on his own.”
Emery took a deep breath and looked the magistrate in the eyes. “It was not my place to tell His Grace what he could and couldn’t do. We parted ways and I returned to the stables.”
Sir William nodded. “I understand, Miss Jenson. Mr. Harris said much the same thing. That he would have advised His Grace not to take Zeus out under any circumstances. But especially under these.”
He rose and she followed suit. “I will be ruling His Grace’s death as accidental. You and I both know that it should be death by misadventure since His Grace voluntarily took the risk and rode out on an unfamiliar, highly-spirited mount when he was soused. I think it best for all concerned, though, to say there was no unreasonable willful risk involved. It would be better for the family.”
She thought of the duchess, first losing her husband and now her son. That led her to wonder who would now inherit the dukedom. She recalled the words the previous duke had spoken to her just before he died.
He is dead to me.
Would the son no one ever spoke of—and who might very well be alive—now become the Duke of Winslow?