The Duke’s Twin Lust by Lorena Owen

Chapter Eighteen

“Your Grace,” Mary said breathlessly. “There has been an accident.”

“An accident? Where?” he asked. There was no sign the mishap had taken place at the manor.

“In one of the tenants’ houses. The Highsmiths,” the maid replied.

“And how are they?” he asked expectantly, fearing the worst.

“I do not know. The estate manager, Mr Boyle, is here to see you. He’s waiting for you in the great hall,” she said.

Together, they headed into the house.

Mr Boyle was waiting for Ernest in the great hall. The man had been the estate manager to the Dukes of Roxburghe for as long as Ernest could recall. He was a tall man with brown eyes and black hair with streaks of gray in it.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” Mr Boyle bowed to Ernest.

“Good evening, Mr Boyle. Christiana, this is Mr Boyle, the estate manager. Mr Boyle, this is my wife, the Duchess of Roxburghe,” he said.

“Good evening, Mr Boyle. How nice to meet you,” Christiana greeted.

“Good evening to you, Your Grace,” he said.

Mr Boyle turned to Ernest. “Shall we move to your library?”

“No, there is no need for that. Whatever you might say to me can be said in the presence of my wife,” he said.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” the manager acquiesced with a bow. Without any preamble, he went straight to the point. “From the looks on your face, you must have been told there has been an accident involving the Highsmiths. Word travels among the servants, I guess,” he said.

“How are the Highsmiths? Are they alright?” Ernest asked with fear in his voice.

“Unfortunately, no. Mr and Mrs Highsmith perished in the fire. We still don’t know exactly how it started, and we are hard at work trying to figure it out,” he said.

Ernest felt his heart fill with pain. The couple had been friends with Rebecca, and Ernest could only imagine how she was taking the news. Then, he remembered something. “They had a son, did they not? I cannot recall the lad’s name. He was lost in the fire too?” he asked.

“No, he wasn’t. Miraculously, the fire did not spread to the quarters of Michael Highsmith. He’s alive and unhurt, but shaken by the loss of his parents,” Mr Boyle said.

“Dear Lord. Where is he now?” he asked.

“He is with his mother’s younger sister for now,” Mr Boyle answered.

Ernest frowned. “For now? The arrangement is only temporary? I would think she would take him in as a ward,” he said.

“I’m afraid she cannot be of much help to him, as she is a struggling widow with seven kids. Her late husband left her no fortune, only debts. According to her, Mr Highsmith was an only child who lost his parents to an attack of bandits. She is the only family Michael has left,” he concluded.

“What can we do to help Michael? I cannot let one of my tenants’ children fall prey to never-do-wells. Michael is a young kid, ages away from becoming an adult. He shall need all the care and love he can get at the moment,” Ernest insisted.

“Your Grace?” Christiana spoke up. It was the first time she had said anything since they introductions.

“Yes, Christiana?” he asked, curious about what she had to say. He was so engrossed in his conversation with Mr Boyle that he had almost forgotten his wife was in drawing room with him.

“May I make a suggestion?” she enquired somewhat timidly.

“Yes you can, my lady. You know your opinions are highly esteemed and would always be welcome,” he said.

Christiana took a deep breath. “Can we take him in? He could become our ward, and we could give him the best possible care,” she said.

Ernest stared at her. He could not believe what Christiana had just said. It would have been inconceivable for her to suggest such a thing a few weeks past. She truly had changed, he thought.

“I am sorry if I have spoken out of turn, Your Grace,” she said. Apparently, she mistook Ernest’s rumination for his dissent at the idea of taking Michael in.

“You have not spoken out of turn.,” Ernest said quickly. “Yes, we can take him in as a ward.” The boy was possibly traumatized, and Ernest could not think of better women for the job than the new Christiana and Rebecca. Perhaps they would even bond over the care of the boy.

“Alright, Your Grace. I will let his aunt know of your decision. Good night, Your Graces,” Mr Boyle said, and departed the great hall.

* * *

Back in her room, Amelia collapsed onto her bed, reminiscing about the strange events of the day. From almost succumbing to her passions for the duke to convincing him to take in a recently orphaned child as a ward, the day had held a store of surprises. She did not even know why she suggested they take in Michael. All she knew was she had been through hunger, neglect, and suffering. If she could, she would not want anybody to go through what she had as an orphan.

Another surprising thing was Ernest’s quick acceptance of Amelia’s suggestion. She’d expected it to be met with minimal resistance from Ernest, but was stumped when it was met with none. Ernest was so much unlike every other noble she had heard of or encountered.

Other nobles saw their wives and other commoners as nothing more than playthings. She had heard plenty of stories back at the inn that proved as much. Most noblemen never consulted their wives for advice on any issue. They often used their fists, or even whips, on their wives if the women were too strong-willed. The wives, in turn, would successfully hide those marks by dabbing rouge and wearing long-sleeved gowns. They made messes everywhere, expecting the lowborn to clear it up. And here was the Duke of Roxburghe, who did none of this, who was kind and considerate of the feelings of others, highborn or lowborn.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door of her quarters.

“Yes, come in,” she answered.

It was Mary, who promptly entered and walked over to Amelia.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying. Since Amelia had started spending more time with the duke, she’d seen less of Mary, so Amelia was glad to see her

“Yes, Mary. What is the matter?” she enquired.

“Michael Highsmith is here,” she said.

It had been Ernest’s idea that they take the lad in as soon as possible, to relieve his widowed aunt of the burden of feeding one extra mouth.

“Where is he now?” she asked.

“He’s in the great hall. I’ve taken his luggage to one of the guest rooms. I will run a bath for him now,” Mary said.

“Very good, Mary. I shall go to receive him now,” she said, checking herself out in the mirror.

She was dressed in one of Lady Gilingham’s elaborate gowns. The gown was somewhat too heavy for her. She hoped she wouldn’t appear intimidating to Michael with her dress.

She sauntered into the great hall and saw the boy seated in an ornate chair, his head facing downward. “Hello, Michael,” she said, hoping she sounded as friendly as possibly could.

Michael turned his head up to look at her. He was a good looking boy with a face that looked wiser than his years. The look in his eyes struck at her heart. They seemed to tell of stories a normal eight-year-old would never comprehend. Tales of death, loss and grief. He reminded Amelia of a young bird with a broken wing whose home had been destroyed. She felt sorry for him.

He looked down at his hands, not saying anything.

Amelia went over to his chair and crouched beside him, not caring about the extra effort it took because of her heavy gown. “Michael, my name is Christiana, and this is your new home. I really hope we become great friends,” she said with an excited look on her face, hoping to elicit a sentence from him.

The boy said nothing.

Amelia sighed. This was harder than she’d bargained for. “Michael?” she asked. “Why don’t you go to your room and have a bath? Mary has run up the bath for you,” she said.

“In a bathtub?” Michael said in a soft voice.

Amelia felt massive relief. “Yes,” she said.

“We never had a bathtub. Mama always said a bath was like wasting water. We bathed in the lake instead.” He turned away as if the memory was too much for him to handle.

Amelia was lost as how to respond to Michael. Thankfully, Mary came back at that exact moment.

“Michael, it is time for you to get a bath. By the time you’re done cleaning, dinner will be ready,” she said.

“You go with Mary, Michael, and I will check in on you later,” Amelia reassured him. She hoped he would be more talkative the next time they saw each other, as their interaction had not gone as she’d planned.

Mary led him out of the room, and Amelia felt her heart constrict as she watched his retreating form.

Just then, Rebecca walked into the room holding a piece of clothing that she had apparently embroidered. Even to Amelia’s untrained eyes, she could see that Rebecca was an expert.

Amelia steeled herself for the barrage of unpleasant remarks that were sure to come from Rebecca.

“Good afternoon, Rebecca,” she said, hoping the duke’s sister would not reply with a rude remark.

Amelia’s prayers went unanswered, as Rebecca looked at her a moment with sad eyes before sitting down and ignoring her entirely.

Amelia felt for the poor woman. She had been told that Rebecca had befriended the Highsmiths, and she could not imagine the pain the other woman must be suffering.

Amelia sighed. “Rebecca, I know I have been unkind to you from the beginning, and I will always be sorry for that. But I am begging you now to forgive me and let us move ahead to becoming—“

“Becoming what?” Rebecca interrupted.

“Sisters. Or if not sisters, at least friends,” she completed with a pleading look on her face.

Rebecca let out a loud burst of laughter. “I seem to recall you saying you would rather run backwards to the ends of the earth than be friends with an ugly spinster,” Rebecca said.

Lady Gillingham had actually said that? Good Lord, there was no limit to that lady’s cruelty. It was no wonder she was liked by no one.

But Amelia was persistent. “I don’t recall saying such, but I know I must have said that and worse to you. Even if you do not wish to forgive me, I beg of you to try to be civil with me, for Michael’s sake if no one else’s. It will do him no good to see us trading insults with each other at every turn,” she finished.

“About that…” Rebecca started.

“About what? What about Michael?” she asked.

“Do not think I do not see through your ploy,” Rebecca replied.

“What ploy?” This time, Amelia was genuinely confused.

“You may fool the others, but not me. I know you for the mean, cruel person you are. I know you have a low opinion of commoners—why, I heard you refer to them as the dregs of the earth. And yet you act so nice towards this boy. I would have you know that I have been close to the boy’s parents since he was born. And I will not allow him to be used as a pawn in any of your games,” she finished, her nostrils flared with the passion of her words.

“What games could I possibly be playing that involve an eight-year-old orphan?” Amelia asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

Rebecca was annoyingly stubborn.

“You intend to act like a saint to make my brother fall in love with you. When he does, you obviously intend to manipulate him and treat his estate as badly as you want. Pray, tell me, why do you want access to my brother’s estate? To buy yourself fancy gowns and visit those shops in London with my brother’s money? Well, I’m going to stop you, even if my brother is too blind to see you for who you are,” Rebecca said in a large rush.

Amelia stared open-mouthed at Rebecca. For a fraction of a second, she had been certain Rebecca was warming up to her. But it seemed like the death of Michael’s parents had set back any progress she’d made these last few days.

“And as for Michael, kindly stay away from him,” Rebecca continued. “I can take care of him myself. I do not want such a young innocent soul to be tainted by your evil.”

“No,” Amelia said. She was not Lady Gillingham, and she did not know how long she was going to have to suffer for sins she had not committed. “As long as he lives in this house, it is my duty as the Duchess of Roxburghe to take care of him.”

“I knew him before you did,” Rebecca replied, utter venom dripping from her voice

“It was I who suggested we take him in as a ward,” Amelia retorted, trying to maintain her calm.

“Only because you wanted to use him as a pawn to manipulate my brother.”

Amelia was about to deny that, but just then, they heard a large crack from the eastern windows.

Rebecca and Amelia hurried to see the source of the noise. What they saw made Amelia’s blood run cold.

Hanging from a tree, holding onto a branch for dear life, was Michael.

The branch looked as though it was about to give way under his weight, and he hung approximately twenty feet from the ground. If the branch gave way before he was rescued, Michael Highsmith would fall to his certain death.