A Duchess by Midnight Read online

  For someone who claims I hold little appeal he certainly seems interested, Clara thought with a tiny little smile as she lifted her arms and squeezed the excess water from her hair. Left unbound it nearly reached her hips; a tangled mess of tawny gold curls.

  Before she could step back Thorncroft’s hand shot out and he grasped one of the damp tendrils, lifting it off her shoulder and rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He stared at the curl completely transfixed, as though it were a priceless piece of gold instead of a plain strand of hair.

  Clara felt her stomach do a slow, lazy loop before the muscles clenched and tightened. She remained perfectly still, a rabbit frozen before the hungry jaws of a fox as water dripped down her bare legs and pooled on the floor.

  “Thorncroft?” she whispered uncertainly.

  He lifted his head sharply, revealing the conflicting emotions running rampant across his tortured countenance. “Who are you?” he rasped. “A fairy princess sent from the woods and the wild to torment me? I don’t want you.”

  Clara bit her lip. “Then what do you want?”

  “This,” he groaned as he gathered her in his arms and pressed his mouth to hers…

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2016 by Jillian Eaton

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  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  SELECTED PRAISE FOR JILLIAN EATON

  “Romance lovers, [The Duke of St. Giles] is a book you’ll definitely want to read.” – Imagine A World

  “Fall in love, embrace the ride, and enjoy the thrill.” – Book Freak

  “[The Runaway Duchess] is fast paced and filled with chemistry. A must read for any historical romance readers who love a good romp through England.” – My Book Addiction and More

  “Enjoyable, sexy novella.” – Rogues Under the Covers

  “Jillian Eaton finds the perfect balance between intense emotions, sizzling chemistry, and light-hearted humor.” – Swept Away by Romance

  “Once I got started I couldn’t put it down.” – Bitten By Romance

  “[The Runaway Duchess] will sweep readers off their feet and into a whirlwind of romance and intrigue.” – Night Owl Review Top Pick

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FOR THE LOVE OF LYNETTE

  Chapter Three

  PROLOGUE

  To look upon the Duke of Thorncroft one would think him a dark, brooding, surly man. And he certainly was all of those things, there was no question about it. But the sad truth was he had not always been that way. For a long time he was like any other man (with the exception of his title and incredible wealth, of course) and like any other man he soon found himself in love with a beautiful woman.

  Her name was Katherine. She was a shy, soft-spoken brunette with a propensity towards stuttering when she became flustered or nervous, which she almost always was. Despite her social shortcomings – or perhaps because of them – the duke fell irrevocably in love and after a whirlwind courtship he asked for Katherine’s hand in marriage.

  Their wedding was the event of the Season. Over three hundred people attended but Thorncroft only had eyes for his blushing bride. After the ceremony they immediately retired to the duke’s ancestral home, a sprawling estate in the heart of Northumberland. It was there they began their life together and it was there that Katherine gave birth to their son, a strong, healthy boy whose boisterous cry shook the rafters.

  They named him Robert after the duke’s father and doted on him as though he were the most precious child on earth, which of course in their eyes he was. And for a while, all was well… until one stormy night everything changed.

  “What time is it?” His jaw rigid and his shoulders strained from the tension that had been weighing them down for the better part of the evening, Thorncroft stopped abruptly in the middle of the foyer and pinned his gaze on a poor, unsuspecting parlor maid who had the great misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “I – I do not know, Your Grace,” she stuttered, her cheeks paling as she bore the full brunt of Thorncroft’s hard, unblinking stare. It was only Emily’s second week in the duke’s household and the first time he had ever spoken to her directly. From a distance she had begun to think of him as a kind, loving man, especially when he was around his wife and young son. But now that they were face to face she found him quite intimidating.

  “What do you mean, you do not know?” he barked.

  Emily fidgeted in place, her gloved fingers tightening around the basket full of freshly pressed linens she had been trying to deliver upstairs before the duke stopped her and demanded to know the time. “I – I am afraid I do not carry a timepiece with me, Your Grace. But – but I believe you… that is to say, I am quite sure…”

  “Speak clearly,” he said, his stormy gray eyes – a mark of the Thorncroft’s that went back generations – narrowing to thinly veiled slits of impatience.

  Emily took a deep breath. Outside the mansion rain pelted the windows and thunder shook the sky as the storm that had caught them all unawares continued to inflict its wrath, forcing her to raise her voice to a near shout as she replied, “In the front pocket of your waistcoat, Your Grace. If I am not mistaken you carry a pocket watch there. A gold one.”

  She should not have known about the watch at all – a man’s timepiece, particularly one he kept on his person, was considered a very intimate object indeed – and she would not have known about it, if not for The Incident that had befallen the household three days after her arrival.

  Fresh from London and already quite overwhelmed by the duties required of a parlor maid in an estate as large and opulent as Longford Park, Emily had been stunned when she was directly approached by none other than the Duchess of Thorncroft herself.

  “Can you please help me?” the duchess had asked, her glittering blue eyes awash with tears. “I fear I have misplaced something very important.”

  As it turned out the duchess, in an attempt to surprise her husband for their third wedding anniversary, had taken his pocket watch to the local jeweler to have the date of their nuptials engraved on the back. All had gone seamlessly… until the duchess went to return the pocket watch and realized it was missing from her reticule.

  “I – I would be happy to assist you, Your Grace.”

  “Wonderful.” As a bright smile had lit the duchess’s face she had taken both of Emily’s hands in her own and squeezed them tight. “If you would follow me, I believe we should start in the East Library…”

  After two hours of exhaustive searching they had found the pocket watch wedged in the seat cushions of the duchess’s private coach.
The duchess had been so grateful to have found the missing timepiece that she had gifted Emily with one of her bracelets, a delicate silver chain with a dangling charm in the shape of a star.

  The bracelet was Emily’s most prized possession and although she could not wear it during the day while she worked, she often slipped it on at night to admire the way the silver caught the moonlight.

  “So I do,” said the duke, his deep voice startling Emily back into the present. Pulling out the gold watch from the front pocket of his satin waistcoat by its chain, his brow creased into two solid lines as he noted the time. “Half past six,” he muttered. “They should have been here nearly an hour ago.”

  Emily did not have to ask to whom Thorncroft was referring. It was well known that the duchess and young Master Robert were due home this evening after a week spent visiting family in Bath.

  “Perhaps… perhaps they chose to shelter the storm at a nearby inn,” she suggested timidly. “And they will resume their journey as soon as it has passed.”

  “Maybe,” said Thorncroft, although he did not look very convinced. His boots echoed loudly on the tile floor as he walked across the foyer and stared broodingly out the window at the ravaging storm. “Have Thomas ready my horse.”

  “Your - Your Grace?” Emily said, startled by the request.

  Thorncroft turned around. “Do you or do you not know who Thomas is? If you do not, then find someone who does!”

  Emily was still trying to learn all of the servant’s names – a rather gargantuan task as it took a staff of sixty to keep Longford Park running efficiently – but she did, in fact, know Thomas. What did she not know was why the duke would want his horse readied in the midst of such a terrible storm.

  “Now!” Thorncroft barked, his tone so severe that Emily squeaked in alarm and dropped her basket.

  “Yes, Your Grace Right away, Your Grace.” In her haste to obey the duke’s request she stepped on the freshly pressed linens as she rushed out of the foyer and down the hall.

  The servants had their own separate wing that was attached to the back of the manor. Given the hour Emily hoped – and prayed – that Thomas, who normally spent most of his time in the stables as one of the head livery boys, would be eating dinner with the rest of the staff in the small, windowless room reserved exclusively for their meals. When she spotted him flirting with one of the upstairs scullery maids she breathed a quick sigh of relief and wasted no time in informing him of the duke’s unusual request.

  “His wants his horse readied now?” Thomas said, his plain face pinching in confusion.

  “Right this very second,” Emily confirmed.

  “Does he mean to ride out in the storm?”

  “I believe he means to search for the duchess.”

  Thomas’ eyes widened. “Bollocks,” he cursed under his breath as he shot up out of his chair. “I forgot she was comin’ home tonight.” Without another word he grabbed his jacket hanging on the wall and ran out of the kitchen while the rest of the staff looked on in open-mouthed silence.

  “Do you think the duchess and Master Robbie are all right?” asked the cook, a large-breasted woman who was renowned for sneaking the duke’s young son extra sweets after supper.

  “I am sure they are fine,” said Emily. “The duke is simply being cautious.”

  As though to contest her words, a giant boom of thunder shook the sky with enough force to rattle the plates. It was the first ominous sign that Emily’s life – and the life of everyone else who called Longford Park home – would soon be changed forever.

  But it would not be the last.

  CHAPTER ONE

  As young Clara Witherspoon said goodbye to her father, she had no way of knowing it would be the last time she wrapped her thin arms around his stocky barrel or inhaled his woodsy scent. If she had known about the dire events that were about to transpire she would have been certain to embrace him a bit longer and a bit tighter, or perhaps she might have refused to let him go all together.

  Unfortunately, she had no way to see into the future and so she let him leave as she always did and he tousled her hair as he always did and she retreated to the third floor of their country estate to watch from the highest window as her beloved father said goodbye to her considerably less beloved stepmother and two new stepsisters.

  Clara may have only met Lady Irene Farnsworth – Lady Irene Witherspoon now – four days ago, but four days was more than enough time for her to form a rather unfavorable opinion of her father’s new wife.

  For one thing, Lady Irene wore far too much perfume. It enveloped her in a cloud of musty flowers wherever she went, making Clara loathe to stand within three feet of her. For another thing, the way Lady Irene spoke to Clara in front of her father was not the same way she spoke to her behind closed doors. The differences were minimal – a nasally inflection in her tone, a glint of annoyance in her eyes, a whiteness in her knuckles – but to a child as sensitive as Clara they might as well have been night and day.

  Now she was stuck with Lady Irene and her two daughters for an entire month while her father traveled to London on business! It was horrible. It was awful. It was–

  “What are you doing up here?” Her thin, high-pitched voice as unmistakable as her mother’s, twelve-year-old Henrietta Farnsworth opened the door to Clara’s private lookout spot without bothering to knock and waltzed inside the small, sunlit room with her nose in the air and her arms clutched around her new pet, a fluffy white kitten she had named Oscar.

  Clara took a step back from the window and crossed her arms, knobby elbows sticking out the side. “Nothing,” she said defensively. “What are you doing up here?” She knew in her heart that she needed to be kinder to her stepsisters even though they had not been very kind to her, but it was proving to be rather difficult. While Lady Irene had at least made an effort to disguise her true feelings in regards to her new daughter, Henrietta and Gabriella had made their contempt for Clara plainly known. She did not know where their animosity stemmed from, although she suspected it had something to do with the suddenness of their mother’s marriage.

  What she did not know – but would come to discover in time – was that her stepsisters were viciously jealous creatures who coveted things not because they wanted them, but because others had them and they did not.

  “Mama sent me to find you. She would like you to meet her downstairs in the drawing room.”

  It was a simple enough request, although the smirking curve of Henrietta’s lips warned of darker intentions. The muscles in Clara’s tummy clenched tight. She was not looking forward to the next four weeks by any stretch of the imagination, but she planned on getting through her father’s absence by keeping herself busy with a variety of her favorite activities including horseback riding, helping Mr. Plum with the vegetable garden, collecting bouquets of wildflowers to decorate the house, and feeding the ducks down by the pond.

  Not on her list?

  Meeting with Lady Irene.

  “I would prefer to remain here,” she said, a mutinous frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  “In this dusty old place?” Henrietta’s nose wrinkled. “How odd.”

  “It is not odd,” Clara protested. “It is quiet and peaceful. Or rather it was quiet and peaceful,” she muttered under breath with a meaningful glare at her intrusive stepsister. She had hoped that the third floor attic would be the one room in the house she could spend her time uninterrupted, but it seemed even this sanctuary was to be taken from her.

  “Well I think it smells and Oscar agrees. Don’t you, Oscar?” Grabbing the kitten’s tiny chin Henriette forced him to nod his head up and down. “See? Even he thinks it smells and he’s just a cat. Now are you coming downstairs or not? Mama is waiting.”

  She is not my mother, Clara thought silently. She would have said the words out loud, but she really was trying her best to keep an open mind where Lady Irene and her daughters were concerned. It was what her father would have wanted, and there was
no one else in the world Clara hated to disappoint more than him.

  He was the only parent she had ever known; her mother having succumbed to a wasting sickness when Clara was just three years of age. From what she had learned from her father and the servants she knew her mother had been a soft-spoken, kind, gracious woman with a love for animals and nature that she had passed on to her only daughter. Sometimes Clara dreamed about her, but the dreams were vague and blurred by time. The only thing she could remember with any clarity was a whimsical smile, the soft scent of lavender, and a loving kiss being placed upon her brow.

  A life-size portrait of her mother hung above the fireplace in the front parlor. Unlike most portraits where the subject was painfully stiff the late Lady Gwen had been painted in the middle of a flowering meadow, her strawberry blonde hair teased by an invisible breeze as she smiled dreamily up at the clear blue sky.

  At the end of every day Clara made it a point to visit her mother in the parlor. Sometimes she would speak, but often she would merely study the painting with naked longing as she wished for the impossible.

  It was a small comfort to know that she was growing up to look exactly like her mother. A miniature replica, Father had proclaimed more than once, his face beaming with pride. Although Clara’s features were still rounded with childhood and were not yet as well defined as her mother’s had been, they shared the same tumble of titian curls, large blue eyes, and sprinkle of freckles across their delicate noses and rosy cheeks.

  At only twelve years of age Clara already had the makings of becoming one of the greatest beauties the ton had ever seen.

  Something her new stepmother was darkly aware of.

  “What does she want?” Clara asked. Her gaze fell to Oliver as the kitten squirmed and tried to free itself from Henrietta’s tight grasp. She had made the mistake of telling Lady Irene that her father was going to give her a kitten for her thirteenth birthday. The next day Oliver had arrived, bundled up in a basket and wearing a big floppy bow. At first Clara had thought the furry little feline was intended for her and she’d been beyond delighted, but her excitement had been short-lived when she learned Oliver was a gift for Henrietta and was not to be touched. It was her first inclination there was more to her stepmother than met the eye.