Page 1 of A Duke Of Her Own
CHAPTER1
April 1821
Derbyshire, England
Basket gripped in her hand, Lady Francie Walcott walked along the woodland path leading to a cottage and the enigmatic gentleman she had been friends with these last thirteen months—Mr. Alexander Crawford. The mere thought that she would see him soon quickened her heart. He was a friend, and she dearly treasured the connection they had formed.
Should Francie’s family know she had befriended a gentleman, surely, she would earn their displeasure. Even her brother, the Earl of Blade, maintained that a man and woman could never own a genuine friendship. Francie slowed her steps and once again wondered if it was wise to call unannounced upon Mr. Crawford.
The letter from her mother, the Dowager Countess of Blade, summoning Francie to London and an uncertain future burned a hole in the deep pockets of her day gown. Unsurprisingly, the letter had upset her so much that she sought Mr. Crawford’s company despite the threat of imminent rains and heavy winds. Her mother was a lady of uncertain temper, and always presumed she knew the best path for her children’s futures. Her mother was indifferent to her daughter’s torment, but Francie still missed her fiercely and longed to be back with her family. The isolation she endured buried in the countryside was half self-imposed because she still blamed herself from the naivety in trusting a gentleman with no honor. The other was half punishment from her mother for nearly ruining her family with scandal. The irrevocable truth was that this loneliness was terrifying to Francie who had grown amongst love and laughter.
She was starting to feel threads of anxiety building up in her heart, and she shoved the feelings away.Not today. Francie inhaled deeply and smiled. She rather loved the forest and tranquil nature of the countryside. The glittering world of theton,their harsh judgment and scandals was a place beyond these woods and seemed but a distant memory.
Sunlight filtered through the dark clouds, the interwoven canopy of ancient oaks and sycamores, casting warm light on the beaten path. The air was tinged with the perfume of blooming wildflowers intermingled with an aroma of the damp earth. Francie had always loved this boundless feeling of nature—the endless green, refreshing air, the scent of rain, and the birds that occasionally flew overhead. She hastened her footsteps as thunder rumbled. It would not do to be caught in the rain.
What if he is not at home?
It was not only the dread of receiving that letter from her mother that pushed her to seek out Mr. Crawford in the hopes she would not have to be alone today.
My three and twentieth birthday. I am to celebrate another birth celebration without my family.
Painful and familiar grief twisted through her. Francie had not seen her family in almost a year. Despite the many letters written to her mother asking for understanding and forgiveness, they remained unanswered. Only her brother, Tobias, the Earl of Blade and his darling wife, Livvie, the Countess of Blade, sent frequent letters to Francie. A lump formed in her throat. There was no communication from her mama, who remained deeply disappointed and infuriated with Francie.
Because of a foolish mistake made in the name of rebellion and love.
That awful ache rose inside Francie's chest, and she forcefully shoved them aside, hating to recall the whimsical notions that had once filled her heart and led her to irrevocable ruin. She did not wish to endure the sting of pain and regret today. They would be awaiting her tomorrow, and that was enough.
Beyond the large cusp of trees ahead lay the promise of laughter, warm conversation, and a presence that would assuage her loneliness. Francie frowned, for she did not like the notion she might rely on seeing her neighbor to feel a measure of contentment. Their friendship was quite unorthodox because whenever they encountered each other, they did not speak of their past or futures, solely living within the present. Those rare instances always existed within these surrounding woodlands and the lake. Mr. Crawford had never invited her into his cottage, and Francie had never invited him into hers.
Her steps slowed as she emerged in the clearing, and the cottage came into view. Nestled amid towering trees, the large cottage exuded rustic charm. Its wooden facade and stone chimney blend seamlessly with the surrounding forest. Expansive windows overlook a tranquil lake, reflecting the ever-changing skies. There was an air of stillness about the area that suggested Mr. Crawford might not be in residence. Francie glanced toward the lake. It was empty. She canted her head and keenly listened for the sound of his dog, Samson.
Disappointment lodged against her heart. That she felt it so keenly shook Francie.
I’ve missed him terribly.
Despite all the reservations in her heart about getting too close to Mr. Crawford, she still felt herself pulled toward him. It had been a month since they sat in that small boat on the lake, laughing and chatting. She had wanted to tell him so much but was afraid to reveal her connections and the terrible scandal she had left behind in London.
A most peculiar sensation rippled over her skin.
He is close!
Whenever Mr. Crawford was near, Francie felt different, certainly more aware of herself and alive. Though she did not trust this odd reaction to him, she enjoyed his company immensely.
Oh, why does thisfeel so perilous?
At this moment, she knew it was a mistake to have come. The comfort and conversation she hungered for would have to be delayed until her good senses and the walls she had placed around her heart reasserted themselves. Gripping the basket, Francie whirled around, intending to return to her cottage.
“Why do you leave?”
Her heart clenched with unexpected yearning at that query. Without glancing over her shoulder or turning around, Francie said, “I merely intended to strengthen my constitution with a bracing walk. However, rain seems to be imminent. I should return home.”
A fat drop of rain landed on her forehead as if to support her excuse.
“I see.”
Had he moved closer?
“I have never seen you stroll with a basket before.” An audible inhalation sounded. “Whatever it holds smells divine, Miss Walcott.”