Regency Romance Omnibus 2018: Dominate Dukes & Tenacious Women

"You'll be mine, you harlot," he hissed down at her, eyes like rumbling storm clouds, "and if you don't - you'll come to regret it more than you ever will the debts you owe to Lord Brighton."

Lady Duskwood's eyes burned in defiance as the dining hall doors creaked open, and shut. She heard through the wooden panels the muffled sounds of his lies - the Duke of Thrushmore, presenting himself as personable; respectable, a gentleman, to Deaton, who waited just outside the door. Lady Duskwood wouldn't allow herself to be seen in this kind of position. She scrambled to her feet, smoothing the ruffles in her gown; she fought away tears still streaming from her eyes, composing herself with a cold dignity in her eyes. She wiped away the moisture and she straightened her hair and she took a deep breath, exhaling sharply as she heard the duke's voice echo through the halls, back towards the front door of Isobel's decrepit manor. Relieved to finally hear him leave, she grasped the doors, pulling them open and swirling with furor into the main hall.

"M'lady! Did you..." Deaton cried out; Isobel kept her head high, not willing to listen to more lies.

"I'll be departing in the morning, Deaton. The Duke of Thrushmore has made his choice, as have I," she stated simply; vaguely.

"But m'lady—" Deaton chased after her, ever-harried by what he saw as a lack of business sense. "If you—"

"That's the end of it, Deaton," Isobel's cracking voice squeaked. She had begun to understand the difficulties that her father must have faced - and she understood why he had avoiding letting the estate fall in to debt to the Duke of Thrushmore. Perhaps an improper, scurrilous philanderer was preferable to a venomous, lying viper like Eugenius.

Isobel sighed. What a choice to have to make.

CHAPTER NINE

"So y'said you're only staying temporarily, m'lady?" Mr. Trevingham's voice carried with it a stark wariness; he had asked the question more than once on the trek across the countryside, back up the steep, rocky hill to the Norbury estate. As the horses clopped to a slow stop in front of the foreboding, shadow-wrapped manor, Isobel kept a cool demeanor; the sting of the Duke's slap still in her head, she had felt utterly helpless - squirming between hell and something worse. While her time had been so enthralling with Lord Brighton, she still hated herself for liking it - and she hated the duke for his crass nature, taking advantage of her compromised situation for his carnal, base needs.

Now, she had little choice - she simply hoped to never se

e the vile Eugenius again.

"Yes, Mr. Trevingham," Isobel answered plainly. "Temporarily. I'd... also appreciate your discretion in this particular matter, Mr. Trevingham," her voice fluttered quiet and weak. "The servants, the people in Upton... they worry for me, and I don't want to trouble them too greatly."

"I worry too, m'lady. When will you need my carriage again? Shall I return this evening?" Mr. Trevingham asked, his voice defensive.

"Not that temporarily, Mr. Trevingham," Isobel smiled and sighed. "I shall send a message to Upton when I require you to return for me."

"The bandits haunting the woods are a mite dangerous, m'lady. Perhaps I ought to stay, and watch the roadways up to the Norbury estate," Mr. Trevingham offered, his voice determined and serious.

"No, no, Mr. Trevingham, truly, your services are needed back in Upton. I'll send for you," she sensed how defensive her driver had grown over her, and while it flattered her, she had business to attend to now.

"As you wish, m'lady," he responded, not enamored with her response. He watched the shadow creep along the carriage as he swung around the rough cobblestones, leaving Isobel at the front door. She stepped out, watching as the sun fell behind the towering estate hall, its facade dark; the same as her feelings about its occupant. She had brought little with her, only a single black trunk - for in truth she had very little to bring. The family's debt had struck hard, and she couldn't even afford a newly tailored gown for the trip. Instead, she wore her simple black dress, stockings and heels.

"Who's 'at, then?" Isobel heard Mr. Trevingham comment over her shoulder; she turned her gaze to the steep path leading up to the manor, and beheld a carriage that put her rickety cart, truly, to shame. Its accouterments nearly as opulent as the manor before which she stood, fine wood painted in blue and white gleamed in the sunlight, windows of glass painted with finely-filigreed gold. A pair of snow-white steeds led the carriage ahead; with a black suit and a heavy hat laid down over his eyes, the driver expertly guided the snorting horses to the front of the manor, the supreme luxury of the vehicle bearing down on shabby Isobel as she stepped back. The driver looked up from his steeds, and she saw something deep, dark in his eyes; a sunken green gaze, beneath a head of long and messy straw-blonde hair, a chin marked with stubble and a deeply disturbing smirk.

"Move," he commanded to Mr. Trevingham, in a voice as darkly vexing as that snakelike smile on his lips. Mr. Trevingham offered no protest and only a simple, scared nod to Lady Duskwood, his carriage bouncing along the pathway, its axles creaking under the weight of the crumbling wood and rusting metal. Still wide-eyed at the luxury of the newly-arrived carriage, Isobel's chin hung open in terrified awe.

"You, too. M'lady will be returning soon. Move," the chauffeur grunted, motioning to one side with his finger. Isobel felt compelled to obey; something ghostly about the man touched at the very core of her.

"Your lady?" Isobel asked, gawping.

"Is that any business of yours?" he cut back at her roughly. "Are you a new maidservant? I've not seen you before," the carriage-driver croaked. Isobel blinked, huffing.

"M-maidservant?" she retorted. "I'm—I'm the Lady Duskwood," she explained, half-swallowing her words.

"A lady, eh? Dressed as you are?" the driver scoffed.

"I'm... yes, I'm the Lady and administrator of Upton," she blustered. She felt anger in her blood, but the ice-cold and dangerous stare of this wisp of a man shook away all her righteous rage, leaving her sputtering and weak.

"Y'don't strike me s'much of a lady," he retorted simply. She couldn't figure out what to say, and stood in the falling sun in awkward silence. It then occurred to her - if the driver was waiting for a lady, who could it have been - and what business did she have with Lord Brighton? Jealousy suddenly seared in her blood. Jealousy - and she hated herself for it. How could she feel any sense of jealousy about this man, this man who had crassly used debts she owed to him as reasoning for an improper liaison? Isobel gripped her hands into tightened fists, her teeth gritted, her breaths harder.

"Wh-who is your lady?" she asked, her voice fiery.

"I ain't ever heard of a Lady of Upton," the driver cut back at her with his growling, coarse tone. "Where's Upton, anyway?" she bristled, but the courage to respond fell out of her when his ghostly gaze pierced her once again. She felt humiliated; ashamed. Ashamed of her jealousy; ashamed of her outfit. Ashamed of this entire, sordid situation.

"Upton is—" she thought to interject, when she heard the creak of the manor doors behind her. Eyes popping wide she spun around, expecting to see the Lord Brighton. Instead, breezing past her with an inimitable sense of unperturbed grace flowed a woman dressed in a gown more expensive and elegant than Isobel had ever seen; thick and long and flowing behind her, a gown of gossamer baby-blues and whites in the exorbitant, Parisian style. Embossed with bows and ribbons, she moved with her back straight, her head held high, unaffected by anything in the world around her; not Isobel's gawking, not the ghastly gaze of the driver; not the burn of the sun or the bluster of the wind. Her skin was nearly as pale as the gossamer-white of her dress; hair of blonde lay braided down her back, with not a stray strand to mar the perfect image of an angelic woman strutting undeterred across rough cobblestones.

"M'lady," the driver tipped his hat to the woman, and Isobel froze, watching the elegant young lady approach the carriage. She moved silently, and when she finally spoke, her voice came out as soft as the silk of her dress; refined, perfectly appointed, but at the same time... icy. Uninviting - and steely in its resolve.