Page 1 of A Duke to Restore her Memory
Draycott Manor, Cornwall, 1812
“Christina.” Viscount Draycott’s voice was unusually tense as he addressed his daughter. “We must talk. Can you join me in the parlour after you have led your horse to its stable?”
Lady Christina Whitford nodded her head uncertainly as she gazed at her father. She had just returned from a ride along the rugged coastline of Cornwall, near Exmouth, and her heart was still pounding with exhilaration from the wild ride.
Christina loved to ride with abandon, taking in the beauty of this corner of England, her eyes feasting on the wild cliffs, the vast sea, and the tall ships sailing in the distance. There was nothing like it in the world.
“Of course, Papa,” she replied, trying to ignore the stab of misgiving in her chest at her father’s tone. “I will be along presently.”
The viscount nodded tersely, turning and striding back to the grand house. Christina frowned as she led her beloved black horse, Romulus, to the stable. What was going on?
Her sense of unease increased when she finally walked into the parlour. Her father was leaning against the mantelpiece with an abstracted, faraway expression. He turned at her footsteps, visibly starting, gesturing for her to sit down.
What is going on? Papa is usually so genial and easygoing. I cannot recall the last time I saw him looking so distracted and tense.
Christina sank into the plush velvet settee, her riding habit rustling as she smoothed her skirts. The parlour, usually a warm and inviting sanctuary, suddenly felt oppressive. Heavy drapes blocked much of the afternoon sunlight, casting long shadows across the Persian rug. The ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
Her father cleared his throat, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm on the mantelpiece. "My dear," he began, his voice rough with emotion, "I am afraid I have some rather distressing news to impart."
Christina's heart began to race. She had never seen her father so discomposed. "What is it, Papa? Please, you are frightening me."
“There is no easy way to say this, Christina,” he replied. She noticed a small vein twitching in his right temple. “Our family is experiencing severe financial difficulty. We are, to put it bluntly, in debt. We are in great debt.”
Christina gasped, her eyes widening in shock. “But … how? How could this have happened? We are one of the first families in Exmouth! I believed our fortune was rock solid …?”
The viscount sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as if under an immense weight. He sat beside Christina, taking her trembling hands in his own.
"My dear girl, I have failed you, failed our family,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "It began innocently enough with investments in shipping ventures, but the lure of quick profits blinded me to the risks. I was so certain of success, so eager to increase our fortune ..."
He paused, swallowing hard. Christina could see the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes.
"At first, the investments paid handsomely,” he continued. “I was intoxicated by the success, convinced of my financial acumen. I began to invest more heavily, borrowing against our estates to finance ever-grander schemes."
The viscount's gaze drifted to the heavily cloaked window. "Then came ruin.” His voice choked. “There is hardly anything left in the coffers anymore.” He hesitated, slowly turning back to look at her. “And I am afraid that I must ask you to solve this situation now … even though it pains me to do it.”
“Me?” Christina’s voice faltered. “How can I solve it?”
A deathly silence fell for a moment, and Christina could barely breathe.
"I am afraid that I must ask you to make a great sacrifice, my dear," the viscount continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "To save our family from complete ruin, I have ... I have arranged a marriage for you."
Christina felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. "A marriage?" she repeated faintly, her mind reeling. "To whom?"
Her father's eyes dropped, unable to meet her gaze. "To Lord Bertram Powell, the Earl of Cheltenham."
The name hit Christina like a physical blow. Lord Powell? The very thought made her skin crawl.
She had encountered the gentleman at various society functions, and each encounter had left her with an overwhelming desire to scrub herself clean.
His eyes were cold and predatory, his smile cruel and mocking. Worse still were the whispered rumours circulating about his treatment of his servants. Christina had heard that the earl beat them – they were always running away.
Christina took a deep breath, trying to fight the panic within her, which felt like a tiny, wild bird trying to escape her chest.
The earl owned many copper mines along the Cornish coast, and she had heard rumours that he was an unscrupulous businessman, in addition to his rough and coarse way with his inferiors.
And apart from all that, the gentleman was twenty years her senior. Her very soul shrivelled at the mere thought of marrying him. She had always dreamt of a love match. Now, that dream was slipping through her fingers faster than sand.
Christina leapt to her feet, her heart pounding. "No!" she cried, her voice ringing through the parlour. "I cannot marry Lord Powell, Papa. I will not!"
The viscount's face darkened, his jaw clenching. "You have no choice, Christina. The arrangements have already been made." He paused. “Lord Powell will be arriving at Draycott Manor next week, and the betrothal will be officially announced then.”
"No choice?" Christina's eyes flashed with defiance. "I am not a piece of property to be bartered away! I am your daughter – your flesh and blood!"
She paced the room, her riding habit swishing wildly around her ankles. The afternoon light, now golden and fading, cast long shadows across the floor through the curtains, mirroring the darkness creeping into her heart.
"Lord Powell is a brute, Papa! A cruel, heartless man who cares nothing for anyone but himself. How can you even consider such a match for me?"
Her father snorted with derision. “You exaggerate, Christina! Lord Powell is a fine man, an earl, an exemplary figure in our community.” He shook his head angrily. “Would you see us cast out onto the streets? Our ancestral home sold to pay our debts?"
Christina whirled to face him, her green eyes flashing. "And what of my happiness? I did not create any of this! Would you see your only daughter consigned to misery forever?”
Her father’s face tightened. “You will do your duty by your family, daughter. You will be a countess, one of the finest figures in this district. What more do you want?”
“I want love!” cried Christina, her hands balling into fists at her side, her eyes fiery. “I want respect! And I want to respect my life partner. I cannot respect nor ever admire such a man …”
“You will do it,” growled her father. “You have no choice. It is my final word, Christina.”
Christina glared at him amid a tense impasse, where they stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Christina felt a wave of pure anger but also intense sorrow.
She and her father were so rarely at loggerheads that this dreadful scene – to witness his transformation from a loving, doting father to this cold, implacable stranger ordering her to marry the Earl of Cheltenham – was truly shocking.
She knew, with sudden, crystal clarity, that he would not capitulate. She would be wasting breath entirely if she kept trying to convince him.
“I feel unwell,” she said in a choked voice. “I am going to my chambers.”
“Christina …”
But she was already sweeping out of the room, running as fast as she could.
The thought briefly crossed her mind to appeal to her mother, who would be resting in her chambers with her embroidery patch as was her usual habit at this hour, but she knew that was useless.
Mama would always side with her husband, and besides, Mama would not see anything wrong with her marrying the earl. The viscountess wanted her daughter to find a good match, and in Mama’s eyes, an earl was one of the finest matches there was – even if this particular earl was an utter brute.
She ran up the staircase to her chambers, bursting into the room and falling across the bed. She could no longer contain the tears – they burst like a torrent.
She grabbed a pillow, sobbing hard. She was so distraught she didn’t even hear the door opening and someone entering the room until she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She stopped, mid sob, staring up at the kind, warm face of Harriet, her lady’s maid, who was also her friend and confidante.
“My Lady,” soothed Harriet, her brows knitting together in concern. “Whatever is the matter? Why are you so distressed?”
“Oh, Harriet,” cried Christina, her voice thick with tears. “My life is over! It is over!”
“But why? What has happened?”
“My father is forcing me to marry Lord Powell,” she replied, her face contorting with grief and anger again. “He is a brute, Harriet.” She shuddered. “You know, more than anyone, how much I longed for a love match. And now, that hope is lying in ashes around me.”
“I am so very sorry, milady,” said Harriet solemnly, shaking her head. “It surprises me that Lord Draycott would do such a thing. He dotes upon you. He has only ever wanted your happiness.”
“Yes, well, things have changed,” said Christina, unable to keep the thread of bitterness out of her voice. “He invested heavily in a shipping scheme that went wrong, and our fortune is greatly diminished … and now, he wants me to marry the earl to save our family.”
“That is a heavy burden to carry,” said Harriet, shaking her head ruefully. “But I suppose you have no choice now, milady. You are compelled to do your duty by your family–”
“No!” cried Christina, pushing her hair from her face as she jumped to her feet and started pacing the floor. “There must be a way …”
She stopped suddenly, staring at her reflection in the mirror. A pale face gazed back at her, streaked with tears. Through the shimmering mist they created, her green eyes looked brighter, almost catlike.
Her hair had dislodged from its neat chignon and had fallen, soft golden curls framing her face, tumbling down her back.
I am only twenty years old. My whole life was ahead of me. And now, I feel as if I am about to be enshrouded in a tomb. As if I am about to be buried alive.
“Papa may change his mind with time,” she said faintly, her heart beating erratically. “If he loses me for a short while, he might realize how much my happiness means to him and that I will never compromise it.”
Harriet stared at her. “What do you mean, milady?”
Christina took a deep breath. A plan was starting to formulate in her mind. A plan so daring, so wild, that she was shocking herself even as it was crystallizing.
“My dear friend Lady Penelope Duvall lives in Edinburgh,” she said breathlessly. “I know that ships leave for Edinburgh from Plymouth … if I can get to Plymouth and get on a ship that sails to Edinburgh, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Penelope’s family will give me sanctuary …”
“Oh, no,” Harriet said, shaking her head vigorously. “You are contemplating running away? It is so dangerous, milady! Thieves could beset you, highwaymen, cutthroats – you might never even make the ship, or if you do, be ravished upon it!”
“No one will notice me,” interrupted Christina breathlessly, staring at her maid. “Not if I look like you, Harriet … and not myself at all.” She hesitated. “If I journey as a maid, not a lady, no one will look twice at me. It will be the perfect disguise to aid my passage.”
Harriet’s face blanched. She looked shocked.
“You must help me, my friend,” continued Christina faintly. “You must give me one of your gowns to wear.” She turned, gazing out the window at the wild blue sea beyond. “There is no time to tarry. From this moment, Lady Christina Whitford no longer exists … at least, not for a while.”