The Heart of a Duke
The Heart of a Duke
Victoria Morgan
Chapter One
SHE knew what they said about her.
Dumped by a duke. Bedford’s forgotten fiancée. The hushed murmurs circulated in a widening pool of ripples. The betrothal contract was still good, just yet to be honored. If the man hadn’t wedded and bedded her yet, he never would—or so pledged some of the wagers filling White’s infamous betting book. Others proved more generous, wagering on the year—or decade—of the pending nuptials.
Long after the news should no longer have been grist for the gossip mill, it still managed to turn the wheel. After all, she was Lady Julia Chandler, the daughter of an earl, an heiress and renowned beauty. But that was yesterday. Today, she was a fading flower, waiting and wilting at the ancient age of three-and-twenty.
She knew what they asked about her. The question circulated in the same hushed stage whispers. What is wrong with her?
Of course, the fault had to lie with her. After all, Bedford was a duke, practically royalty, perched at the pinnacle of the revered aristocratic pyramid. Toss in young, handsome, and rich, and who dared to question such sterling credentials? No one.
Except Julia.
And she knew the answers to the questions—or at least to most of them.
Today she vowed to get the rest.
Julia tightened her hands on the reins and dug her heel into Constance’s flank, leaning low over her sidesaddle and streaking across the field. She relished the bite of the wind against her cheeks, the whip of it through her riding habit. The feel of freedom. The sense of purpose.
Edmund was in Bedfordshire. Spotted in town. Her Damn Duke—for that was her name for him these days. Still evoked with affection, but lacking the reverence she’d used when he had been her Beautiful Bedford or her Earnest Edmund. After all, there was a price to pay for his paucity of visits, letters, and, of course, those nasty rumors he never deigned to squelch. “Damn Duke,” she muttered. But he was still her Damn Duke, and today, she vowed to remind him of it.
She did not know what made her choose the shortcut through Lakeview Manor, which abutted her father’s estate. Despite the scenic views overlooking the lake, the skeletal remains of the burned-out manor haunted. Charred timbers rose like a plaintive plea to the heavens to rebuild. A riotous mass of untamed weeds, ferns, and brambles snaked, weaved, and climbed into the sandstone foundation and over the crumbling brick walls like wild decorations breathing life into the desolate landscape.
She wondered why Edmund hadn’t cleared out the remaining debris. His brother had inherited it by way of his maternal grand-mère, but he had left England years ago. Edmund had said he had never cared for it, so why let it sit and rot over the past decade, a morose symbol of loss? Why not tear it down and rebuild?
She reined in Constance, coming to a halt on a bluff overlooking the remains. The site held a macabre fascination for her. How could it not, tangled up in so many childhood memories? Those were the days when Edmund had been beautiful. And she had been happy.
She shook her head, bemused. Had been happy? One would think she heeded the rumors about her . . . and Edmund. Well, she was not quite ready for a silver-tipped walking cane, and she was happy. Planned to be happier if her courage did not desert her. But still, her gaze drifted back to those stark, ghostly timbers, and she frowned.
“Bleak but still beautiful.”
Julia started at the words, her sudden movement irritating Constance, who grunted, tossed her head, and danced back a step. Julia lay a calming hand on the mare’s neck as she turned to confront the intruder. Her heart thudded and her mouth went bone dry.
Edmund.
Tall and lean, he stood in the shadows of a copse of trees. As she straightened, he moved forward and into the sunlight. Months had passed since she had last seen him, and she drank in the changes to his appearance.
He looked thinner, his hair unfashionably longer and lighter than she remembered. Thick, wavy, and golden brown, it curled over the collar of his crisp white shirt. His black riding jacket hugged his lean frame, the tight fit of his buff-colored trousers accentuating his muscular thighs and long legs as he strode toward her with an easy grace.
A gust of wind lifted a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and her gaze roved over his handsome features; the strong jawline, the sharp cheekbones, and the intriguing cleft denting his chin. But it was his eyes that were so arresting, a rich, deep moss green. Edmund was vain and clever enough to appreciate the asset, spearing many a maiden heart with a well-aimed look.
He stopped a few feet away, and Julia found her own heart endangered when those eyes locked on her. Her breath caught at his expression. Never before had he studied her with such intensity, looking at her as if she were some ghostly apparition or as if he were seeing her for the first time. She squelched the urge to shift in her saddle, like so many giggling, twittering maids did under his regard. There were advantages to being older. She rarely giggled and had never twittered.