Page 4 of Her Rogue of a Duke
“…Yes, it is true,” she answered with a nod. She did not offer any further information as she felt somewhat uneasy to be discussing the topic with the pair.
But then, Lady Susan gave her a look that could only be described as a mockery of sympathy. “You poor thing,” she sighed. “I do not know that my heart could handle a gentleman with such an… indulgent reputation.”
Francesca frowned, her nails almost puncturing the leather cover of her book now.
“I am afraid I do not quite understand what you mean,” she murmured.
Lady Susan shook her head. “You shouldn’t fret, my dear. I imagine your choices for a suitor are rather limited, so of course you turn a blind eye to Lord Terrell’s indiscretions. I'm certain anyone in your predicament would do the same.”
Francesca gaped at the younger woman’s words. Whatever unpleasantness she might encounter with the Duke paled in comparison to the vile venom Lady Susan was spitting at her now. What was worse was that she delivered it with a saccharine smile. At least when the Duke insulted Francesca, he did not try to hide his animosity behind a seemingly friendly mask.
“Lady Susan,” the Duke interjected sharply, gazing down at her with wide eyes. “Such remarks are unbecoming of a lady.”
Lady Susan gazed up at him with an expression of pure, innocent confusion.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she pouted. “Did I say something out of turn? I believed I was merely offering a compliment.”
Unable to endure another moment of the veiled insults, Francesca turned sharply, her exit as dignified as it was swift, and began her retreat down the path from where she came.
“Lady Francesca, wait!”
Francesca hesitated briefly, glancing over her shoulder to see the Duke hastening after her. She bit back tears and rolled her eyes in a feeble attempt at defiance. “Your Grace, I believe it is best I return home,” her voice cracked, betraying her effort to suppress a sob. "I have never sought your concern, nor do I desire your pity."
“Lady Susan was out of line,” he began after finally reaching her. Lady Susan, still being within earshot, looked appalled by his words. “I apologize on her behalf for any offense she may have caused.”
Francesca stared up at Elmcroft, baffled that he was apologizing to her. Did he truly care that she was upset? No. Of course he did not. She would have thought he would enjoy seeing her humiliated, especially given his usual enjoyment of her discomfiture.
“Good day, Your Grace,” she murmured dismissively, unwilling to extend any gesture of forgiveness to the man who had made it his pastime to cause her offense. With that, she turned away, steadfastly ignoring his call after her.
Francesca did not look back once as she hurried home. When she was certain she was out of sight of the Duke and Lady Susan,she broke into a sprint, only slowing as she approached her family’s manor. It was a modest and well-kept house, standing in stark contrast to the grand estates that neighbored them. Despite their lack of staff, Francesca made certain that the home was clean and cared for. Still, there were some hedges that needed tending to, and vines were taking over the western wall. The roof also leaked, and on windy days, one could hear the air whistling past the aged window frames. Each was a reminder of the grandeur they once held—that was stolen from them by that vile man.
Still, Francesca thought the house was beautiful and took pride in caring for it.
When she reached the front door, she paused and took a moment to catch her breath before going inside. The house was quiet, but she had expected that. What little help her father could afford consisted of a cook, a single maid, and an elderly gardener. They all lived in the nearby village and only came to the house a few days a week. Today was not one of their work days, and so Francesca was alone, as her father was also away conducting business in Town.
So, it was quite a startling surprise when she heard noises coming from her father’s study as she passed by the door. Francesca stopped, her heart in her throat. Cautiously, she approached the door, nudging it open just enough to peer inside. A figure was standing behind her father’s large wooden desk, rifling through the papers resting on its top. It took her a moment to place the man.
“Oh! Mr. Campbell!” she burst out, throwing the door open and entering the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Father is away, but I am certain you know that.”
Mr. Robert Campbell, the family’s solicitor and her father’s confidant, met her gaze with a red face and a damp brow. His expression was grave and his eyes filled with a sorrow that sent Francesca’s stomach twisting as a shiver traveled up her spine.
“Mr. Campbell…?”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he blurted, his voice laden with distress. “I have been awaiting your arrival. I am terribly sorry, but I must inform you that there has been a tragedy. Your father, the Baron, has passed away.”
CHAPTER THREE
“What?” Francesca’s voice was barely audible. “W-what are you saying? My father is dead? How? When? But he was just—”
Mr. Campbell gave her a sympathetic look and hurried forward to grab hold of her shoulders.
“A carriage accident on his return from Town,” he told her in a gentle tone, guiding her to her father’s favorite armchair in front of the desk. “He was on his way across the Smalling Hills when the driver lost control upon a ridge road. The carriage was overturned and your father was tossed… Forgive me, my lady. I should not be telling you the details.”
Francesca’s head began shaking in disbelief as tears streamed down her cheeks. She clutched Mr. Campbell’s hand as she released a heart-wrenching sob. The solicitor did not object, nor try to pull from her grip. He merely stood in silence, patting her gently on the back as she wept, feeling her heart shrivel and die.
“No, no, this can’t be happening,” she whimpered. “He cannot be dead! Please tell me this is just another of my terrible dreams. Please!”
“My lady, I wish I could tell you otherwise,” Mr. Campbell murmured. “Oh, I am truly sorry, my dear.”