Miss Dane and the Duke: A Regency Romance Read online

  Miss Dane

  And the Duke

  By Louise Allen

  Copyright © Louise Allen 2018. All rights reserved.

  2nd revised edition 2018.

  The right of Louise Allen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This novel was originally published by Harlequin Mills & Boon in 1997 as “The Unconventional Miss Dane by Francesca Shaw”. This edition is a heavily revised version.

  Cover design by JD Smith Design.

  Requests to publish extracts from this book should be made via www.louiseallenregency.com/contact

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This novel was originally published by Harlequin Mills & Boon in 1997 as The Unconventional Miss Dane by Francesca Shaw, the pen name used when I was writing jointly with a friend.

  This edition has now been completely revised. Despite this, Francesca Shaw novels remain rather ‘sweeter’ in tone than Louise Allen original titles.

  Eventually all eight Francesca Shaw Regency romances will be re-edited and published as by Louise Allen.

  Chapter One

  The stagecoach lurched then, with what seemed infinite slowness, toppled on to its right-hand side, precipitating Antonia into the lap of the portly bank clerk next to her. Clutching wildly at his lapels only served to take both of them on to the floor of the coach, where they were joined by a curate, a basket of apples and a small child who promptly set up a piercing wail.

  ‘Donna?’ Antonia attempted to lever herself upright from the mass of tumbled humanity. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir,’ she apologised, removing her elbow from the clerk’s midriff. ‘Donna, there you are, thank goodness. Are you unhurt?’

  ‘A little shaken, my dear, but otherwise without injury, I believe.’ Miss Maria Donaldson rose into Antonia’s view over the heap of bodies, patting her neatly-coiled hair into place. Her pince-nez were already firmly back in position on the tip of her nose. ‘But I believe we should alight as soon as may be.’ She turned to the red-faced farmer wedged next to her. ‘If you could force open the door, sir, I believe I could climb through.’

  It seemed the best solution. Antonia certainly could not move until someone had enough space to remove their booted foot from her skirts. After considerable upheavals, the farmer managed to boost Donna’s slight frame through the door and on to the sloping side of the coach. Sensing escape, the small child set up a fresh wail and, to Antonia’s relief, was handed up to his mother who followed Miss Donaldson into the spring sunshine.

  Antonia was the last out and joined her fellow passengers. Shaken, bruised, but largely unhurt they assembled on the rutted road to view the wreck of their conveyance. The driver and guard unhitched and calmed the horses, but further useful activity then seemed beyond them. The driver removed a filthy hat the better to scratch his equally dirty hair, the guard helpfully kicked the nearest wheel and the men amongst the passengers stood around sucking their teeth in contemplation of the depth of the ditch into which the coach had fallen.

  ‘Really, my dear Antonia,’ Donna murmured gently. ‘I have never been able to understand why men feel that giving something a sharp kick will restore it to working order.’

  Antonia laughed. ‘It never works, but I think it must make them feel better. We had better see if our luggage is still safely strapped on behind.’

  ‘Your elbow has come through the sleeve of your gown,’ Donna observed as they turned from their scrutiny of the large luggage basket at the rear of the stagecoach and its tumbled contents. ‘Is your pelisse still in the coach?’

  ‘It must be,’ Antonia responded indifferently. She tried twitching together the hole in the threadbare linen sleeve but it only gaped again. ‘It proves I was right to wear this old gown for the journey. I have too few good dresses to damage.’

  She set her straw bonnet straight on her head, tucked in a straggling curl and retied the ribbons under her chin. ‘l think we will achieve little by waiting here until the coachman finally realises he must send for help. The last fingerpost said Rybury was only three miles further on. If we take our pelisses and the small valises from the coach, we can walk and at least wait for our luggage in comfort at the inn.’

  The curate, an energetic young man, kindly climbed back into the coach and handed out their things. He was just scrambling out again when, with a thud of hooves on the wet chalk, two horsemen rounded the bend and reined in at the sight of the shambles in their path.

  ‘Your Grace!’ exclaimed the curate, popping out of the door like a rabbit from its hole.

  A duke? Here? She had never seen a duke before. Antonia put down her valise and prepared to be entertained.

  The curate, who had regained the ground, was obviously on familiar terms with the man who sat astride a tall chestnut gelding. ‘This is Providence indeed, Your Grace. Would you be so kind as to instruct your groom to fetch help to right the coach?’

  ‘Mr Todd.’ The Duke nodded to the clergyman, dismounted and tossed his reins to his groom before striding over to regard the wreck. ‘Has anyone been hurt?’ He turned to survey the ill-assorted group of passengers.

  Antonia encountered the brief scrutiny of a pair of dark brown eyes before they moved on to as swiftly peruse, and dismiss, the small figure of her companion. She found herself colouring with indignation at such a cursory survey. Very well, she was shabbily dressed and undoubtedly not at her best after a long coach journey, to say nothing of being tossed around in the toppling coach, but she was not used to being dismissed with such a complete lack of interest by gentlemen.

  He is a duke, she reminded herself as she watched the tall, rangily elegant figure as he stood, hands on hips, regarding the stage coach and the ditch. Doubtless dukes do not find the common herd as fascinating as we find them.

  He was unconventionally bareheaded, the light breeze ruffling his dark blond hair which was, she decided, in sore need of his barber’s attention. He might appear careless of his dress, but cut and cloth were of the finest and the burnished leather of his long boots spoke of a man who need not, unlike lesser mortals such as herself, watch every penny.

  Mr Todd the curate trailed after him, explaining the circumstances of the accident and the fortunate fact that no
one had been injured. The groom nudged his own hack forward. ‘Shall I ride to the village for help, Your Grace?’

  ‘No need, Saye. We passed Shoebridge and Otterly hedging the Long Meadow back around the bend a few minutes ago. Fetch them and we will have enough men to right the thing.’

  As the groom cantered off, the Duke turned to the coachman and guard who shuffled to attention, recognising authority when they saw it. ‘You – hitch the horses up on long traces, and you two, fetch cut poles from that pile there.’

  ‘Which duke is he?’ she asked Mr Todd.

  ‘Marcus Renshaw, Duke of Allington,’ the curate whispered back. ‘I had heard that he has decided to oversee improvement works at his estate here and to hold a house party at Brightshill. Normally he visits one of his other country houses at this time of year, so it is quite a novelty for us to have him here for long.’

  Antonia watched Allington take command, organising and ordering until the male passengers were marshalled into an obedient team, some levering up the wheel, others with their shoulders to the rear of the vehicle. With the addition of two sturdy hedgers and with Saye at the horses’ heads, the stranded coach began to teeter upright, then stuck again in the soft soil of the bank top.

  ‘I fear we cannot do it, Your Grace,’ Mr Todd gasped, brushing hopelessly at the mud smearing his clerical black. ‘We must summon more help from the village.’

  Without reply, the Duke stripped off his buff coat, rolled up his sleeves, and applied his shoulder to the coach. Either he was very strong, Antonia mused, or the sight of a duke exerting himself galvanised the other men. Whichever it was, when he said, ‘Now!’ they strained themselves to the utmost and heaved. Seconds later, with a shuddering crash, the vehicle once more stood on four wheels.

  The coachman and groom re-hitched the team, the grateful passengers picked up their luggage and began to climb aboard and the Duke, fending off the flustered attempts of the curate to brush down his coat, remounted and rode off.

  ‘How very gratifying to have the leisure to ride round the countryside setting we lesser mortals to rights,’ Antonia remarked waspishly, pausing on the step of the coach to regard his retreating back.

  She caught the sideways glance Donna gave her. Sometimes her companion reverted to the governess she had once been. ‘His Grace appears to have ruffled your sensibilities, my dear,’ she murmured with a hint of reproof. ‘He is a local nobleman, by all accounts,’ she continued calmly. ‘We must be travelling through his lands. And you will concede, Antonia, that it was fortunate that the Duke had the leisure to rescue us today.’

  Mr Todd, must have caught the tail-end of that remark as he handed Donna into the coach. ‘As I think I mentioned, the Duke’s estate is Brightshill. His is of an old Hertfordshire family and he owns all the land on this side of Berkhamsted to the crest of the Downs.’

  Antonia settled in her place. ‘Not quite all, Mr Todd. You forget, do you not, the Rye End Hall lands?’

  ‘One hardly regards those any longer.’ The curate shrugged dismissively. ‘The lands and Hall are sadly neglected, as one might expect after the scandalous behaviour of the last owner. But I shall say no more of that in front of ladies. It will be a good thing if the rumours are correct and the Duke does intend to add them all to his own estate. They will then be subject to the good husbandry which characterises the Brightshill lands, and the tenants will be employed. There is too much want in Rybury.’

  Antonia opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and stared out of the window, trying not to let the curate’s words worry her. It was probably just local gossip, people liked making things seem worse than they actually were.

  Donna said, low-voiced, ‘Did you never meet the Duke when you still lived at Rye End Hall?’

  ‘Hardly. It is twenty years since I left there. As a four year old I don’t think I noticed anything or anyone outside the walls of the garden. Great Aunt snatched me away to live with her in London and I have never been back to Rye End. It must have been this man’s father who owned Brightshill when I was a child, I suppose. I doubt my father or brother were on visiting terms.’

  ‘No, dear, I suppose not,’ Donna murmured, tactful as always.

  Antonia repressed a grimace. From what she had heard of her late and unlamented father, Sir Humphrey Dane, normal social intercourse with his neighbours would not have figured large either for himself, nor for her deceased brother Howard.

  The coach finally rumbled into Rybury and pulled up before the only inn the village boasted. The host of The Bell walked out to greet the passengers as they flocked in, clearly all only too pleased at the chance to sit in comfort and drink his ale while exclaiming loudly over their recent misadventure.

  The coachman and guard lifted down the ladies’ luggage and Antonia looked round. She suspected that Rybury, neat rather than picturesque, was looking at its best in the spring sunshine with primroses on the green and children fishing for tiddlers in the Rye Brook. Her vague memories of that were of a wide river and she smiled at how childish eyes differed from the adult view. The turnpike road cut across the green and a by-road led over a bridge to a straggle of cottages on the edge of a fine stand of woodland already showing new foliage. Try as she might, she could not remember it.

  ‘Would you ladies be requiring the use of a cart?’ She jumped a little, lost in the mists of the past. The landlord waited, wiping his hands on his apron.

  ‘Yes, thank you. We will need these trunks taking to Rye End Hall. Is there a carter who can help?’

  ‘The Hall, is it?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Our Jem can help you, ma’am, just as soon as he’s finished serving the coach passengers. It’s a nice clean cart for you ladies, better than that old thing.’ He nodded towards the stagecoach. ‘Would you care to step into the private parlour and take some refreshment while you wait, ma’am?’

  As he ushered them into a rather dingy front room, he chatted on. ‘Going to be staying at the Hall, then? That’s been empty this last six months since Sir Humphrey and Master Howard were both carried off within a fortnight of each other.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I wonder if it weren’t a judgement on the pair of them and the wicked life they led.’

  Donna cleared her throat in a meaningful manner and he darted a quick glance at her rigid profile. ‘Begging your pardon, ladies. You did know what had occurred.?’

  ‘Sir Humphrey was my father, Mr Howard Dane was my only brother,’ Antonia said. There was no point trying to hide the fact, the villagers would know soon enough.

  ‘Oh. Ah, sorry, ma’am, if I’ve spoken out of turn. The coach is just leaving now, I’ll get young Jem out directly.’ He hurried away, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘I can see the local people held my father and brother in as high regard as Great Aunt did, Donna,’ Antonia remarked, pacing up and down the rather lurid Turkey rug before the fire. ‘Goodness knows what we will find when we finally get to Rye End Hall.’

  Young Jem, a skinny little version of his father the landlord, soon appeared with a cart drawn by a placid cob, and set about loading the baggage and trunks.

  Donna, after a sharp glance at the narrow seat, began to climb into the back. ‘I can sit here on the trunk, my dear.’

  ‘I shall not hear of it, Donna,’ Antonia protested. ‘You sit up here in the front with Jem. Jem, which way is the Hall on foot?’

  ‘Over yonder, ma’am. ’Bout a mile as the crow flies.’ He gestured towards the woods.

  ‘There, just as I thought from looking at the maps.’ She had been studying them since she realised that this was now going to be her home. ‘I will walk there. I have a headache coming on, and it is only a mile, after all,’ she added as Donna still looked unsure.

  Antonia followed the cart across the green and past the cottages, pleased to find, after a few yards, the beginning of a footpath heading in the right direction. As she picked up the hem of her skirts and hopped over the frequent muddy patches in her stout boots, Antonia she thought how strange
it felt to be coming back to a home she had no recollection of.

  When her mother died her father had embarked on the course of drinking, gambling and philandering which ruined the family fortunes and would soon corrupt her brother. She had no recollection of things being wrong, other than the fact that her mother was gone, there were no more hugs and cuddles and everything seemed empty and cold.

  As soon as rumours of her father’s conduct began to reach polite Society, her great aunt, Lady Honoria Granger, had descended and borne her off to Town. From the little Great Aunt had said about the situation she had expected some opposition from her niece’s husband, but Sir Humphrey had been apparently been only too pleased to be spared the trouble of bringing up a daughter.

  It had been fortunate that Lady Honoria had been left well-provided for by her late husband and had been able to afford to educate and then bring out Antonia, for Sir Humphrey, with her off his hands, had shown every sign of forgetting he had ever had a daughter.

  Antonia stopped every few yards to pick primroses, her headache easing now she was out of that wretched, stuffy, stage coach. She had been right to wear her old gown, she thought, seeing the chalky mud spatters around the hem.

  Whilst she had lived with her great aunt, she had wanted for nothing, but as the old lady had finally become frail she had gone to live under her grandson’s roof. Antonia’s cousin, mindful of his own inheritance, had wasted no time in pointing out to her that she could expect no more support from that quarter.

  Antonia had been under the misapprehension that she had been living on income from her mother’s legacy to her, but Cousin Hewitt had soon, and with smug satisfaction, put her right. Not only would she now have to manage without Great Aunt Honoria’s beneficence, but he had also made it pretty plain that she and her companion, Miss Donaldson, must find alternative accommodation. Immediately.