Page 319 of Desires of a Duke Collection

Frances sat staring mindlessly into the fireplace, which presently held no fire. The cold embers lay lifeless and still, much like she did. Her embroidery, long since forgotten, had slipped from her lap and was now precariously clinging to the edge of her skirts. In her hands, she clutched her mother’s handkerchief, the only memento left from her childhood.

The small cottage was modestly furnished, with simple but well-kept pieces that spoke of a bygone era. The walls were adorned with faded portraits of long-departed ancestors, their solemn faces watching over the quiet room. Heavy drapes framed the windows, shielding the interior from the harsh light of day.

The widow glanced over at her young niece, worried that she might never reach her. The fire that had taken Frances’ family away had seemed to rob her of her own vitality as well. She no longer laughed or sang. Even speaking was difficult for her. The widow longed to help Frances but had no idea how.

A knock at the cottage door shook Frances from her reverie, and she watched as the downstairs maid went to see who was calling. A brief smile touched her lips when she heard the cheerful tones of The Honorable Elias St. John. Besides being dashing and dreadfully handsome, he had terribly kind eyes, something to be highly prized in her way of thinking.

He often called on the widow, bringing her treats and bits of gossip to laugh over. Frances had almost found herself relaxed in his company—that is, almost, but not quite.

“Good afternoon, my fine ladies! I trust I find you well?” he twinkled while bowing, his eyes alight with mirth.

Frances rose to greet him and curtsied in return, “W-w-we a-r-re w-w-well.”

“I expect a kiss,” the widow propped her face up, and Elias went straight over to give her a peck on her weathered brow.

“Like I wouldn’t kiss my best gal. What kind of beau would I be then?” he teased, taking a seat beside Widow Abbot.

“What do you have for us today?” the widow asked without any aplomb, her curiosity piqued.

He threw his head back and laughed. “You are really too much. Perhaps I came seeking something from you?”

“You couldn’t possibly?” the widow grinned unashamedly, “I haven’t anything.”

“Oh, and it is there that you are most incorrect,” he said, tapping her on the end of her nose, which earned him a rap from her fan on his knuckles.

“Ouch! That really hurts!”

“Good, it was meant to.”

“I really do need something from you, though,” he said more seriously now.

Noting his tone, the widow looked at him, her expression softening. “Of course, Elias, you know I would do anything for you or your family.”

“It’s my mother. She has seemed quite down lately. I was hoping that perhaps you could come back to dinner with me and help cheer her up. I’ve already spoken with Cook. There have been some personal developments that I cannot divulge, but I fear it’s left her in a funk. I worry so much about her.”

The widow patted his hand with her old, arthritic one. “Of course, child, we would love to come. And we will make merry and help her to see that she is loved and wanted, at least by the three of us.”

“Th-th-three?” Frances stammered.

“You won’t come?” Elias asked softly with questioning eyes, his gaze never leaving her face.

She was quiet for a moment, at war with herself, and just when he was about to tell her that she really need not come if it were such a bother, but she surprised him.

“I-I-I’d love to,” she said and smiled, and she was radiant.

**

CeCe paced the drawing room, waiting for her mother to come down. The room was tastefully decorated, with elegant furnishings that spoke of wealth and refinement. A grand piano stood in one corner, its polished surface gleaming in the soft light of the chandelier overhead. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries and paintings of bucolic landscapes, adding a touch of serenity to the room.

She had changed into her finest gown. It was a soft avocado green, a color only she could pull off with her auburn curls. Edged in satin with tiny rosettes along the bodice, it was highly flattering on her slender figure.

The Baroness descended the stairs in a peach gown. Her figure was similar to CeCe’s, so the style was quite flattering as well. The skirt was pulled back to expose rows of lace cascading down the front, held back by rosettes.

“Do I look like I am trying too hard?” she asked, panicking. “Am I trying too hard?”

CeCe shook her head and came over to her mother. “You look perfect. This dress is beautiful on you. You look like you could be my sister. Don’t worry so much, he is only one man, and there are so many more of us.”

The Baroness squared her shoulders. “You are absolutely right, CeCe. He is only a man.”

The door to the drawing room opened, and the butler announced that the Rotherford family had arrived. Charles made a direct beeline for CeCe and grasped both of her hands, kissing them fervently before going over to greet her mother.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Robert apologized, “but my parents are in London for a business meeting. But as soon as they return, I am certain they will support you in any way that they can.”

“I am also sorry to inform you that we have not been able to locate Eli yet,” Charles added, returning to CeCe’s side. “But he’s never been known to miss a meal, so I am sure we will see him by dinner time.”

The Baroness let out a little laugh. “How right you are, Charles. I suppose there are some things I should explain to you all.”

She proceeded to tell them about the twins’ true father and the strange message she had received about the Baron coming to Mangrove Manor this very night to deal with Cousin Elizabeth, who was currently missing along with her mother.

A high-pitched scream startled them. It appeared to be coming from the kitchen.

Everyone jumped up and raced into the kitchen to find Cook screaming and pointing into the winter pantry. “She’s dead! Heaven above us, give us mercy! She is dead!”

Robert was quick to act. He bent down to Lady Stephens, who was lying sprawled out on her stomach across the floor.

“Call the magistrate! Call the rector! She’s dead!” Cook continued to wail.

“She’s not dead,” Robert huffed, trying not to roll his eyes. “She’s still breathing, but she does have a nasty bump on her head. Spencer, you and Charles help me lift her to her room. CeCe, send the butler for Doc Curry.”

The downstairs maid cleared her throat. “Baroness, um, the Baron is here and would like a word with you in the drawing room.”

The Baroness took one look at the group, and her eyes rolled to the top of her head. Luckily, the only thing the Rotherford boys were holding was Lady Stephens because they easily dropped her to catch the Baroness.

I think they call that... priorities.