Chapter One
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April, 1820
The spring washed in like the tide, advancing confidently with warmth and white sunshine one day and retreating the next. On some days the new vibrant hues of the pansies and daffodils were bathed in tepid air that encouraged them gently, on others the wintry wind gusted fiercely - demanding a return to the bitterness of the months before.
The previously denuded branches offered their wands of tight green bud to the brilliant rays of spring. The wind had lost its bite, it had become ambient, congenial, blowing branches and tousling the hair of pedestrians - but no longer stealing their warmth. The only clouds were fluffy, white and quite dispersed, there would be no rain today.
On the plains there were years in which old man winter refused to give up without a fight. Spring would ride in on a gentle breeze, unhindered by any hill. This April air would soothe the embattled flora with its sweet promise of the warmth to come, only to be pushed back by bitter gales and hail.
But the spring was patient, always returning in the calm between each storm and each time expanding until it had ebbed out the frigid blasts entirely. Then for some months it rained down both water and soft heat. Some days could still be a blanket of cloud, like the season passed, but mostly they were sporadic and sparse - allowing the brilliant light to strike the fields unhindered.
The journey down from Scotland to Langley Manor seemed to be taking forever. Alexander Randall, Duke of Daventry, could not help feeling as if the world was holding him back somehow, keeping him from his life and his love.
It was a splendid day. The winter cold was now banished and the finally the sun’s warm rats reached the soil rather than being halted by clouds. The spring breeze was quite refreshing with the touch of the pleasant smell of the trees and flowers. The place was so peaceful, the sun was shining bright and the cool mountainous winds caused all the small plants to dance along, it seemed that the mountains sang a song and the trees danced to its melody. The scent of the flowers was very soothing and stimulating. The hills were very attractive; the pleasant place was an attraction for those who desired peace.
Randall had spent the last six months staying in a family property just outside Edinburgh. It was a private residence, and one which had not been lived in since Alexander’s father had been but a young boy. However, Alexander’s father had never forgotten the time he’d spent in the home of his mother as a child.
It had been a most bittersweet time for Alexander Randall. Bridget’s letters seemed to have grown shorter and shorter, and the time between the arrival of each one seemed to grow larger and larger.
The last of her letters had been a brief yet perfect account of an afternoon buffet at the home of one of her friends. There was nothing in her letter about Bridget herself, and nothing to say that she missed him at all.
Worse still, that letter had arrived more than six weeks beforehand and, despite numerous missives of his own, it seemed that Bridget was not inclined to respond any further.
Not a day had gone past when he hadn’t thought of her; her blonde hair the colour of straw and her eyes so blue that even the sky of a summer’s day could not compete. Bridget was the most beautiful woman Alexander had ever known and, at three and twenty years, she was certainly ready to marry. Alexander had courted her since she had been twenty and had assumed that they would soon be married. It had been a very long time since each had declared their love for the other, and it had only been the gap of almost ten years in their ages which had made Alexander a little reticent.
As each day passed without a letter, Alexander began to regret his thoughtfulness in that regard. He had begun to wish that he had simply proposed to her within their first year and married soon after, making her his irrefutably.
But surely Bridget had been true to him, despite the fact that they had made no public announcement of their intentions. Alexander had never considered a need to do such a thing, believing the bond between them to be strong, and the need for such pronouncements unnecessary.
Surely they were going to marry; surely that was something that they had both understood.
Alexander looked at the beauty of Langley Manor, an aged stone house. He saw water of the lake flickering nearby. A profound feeling tranquility overcame him as he stared at the expanse of blue that lay before him. Rays of light moved gently over the water, birthed from the morning sun that made the view all the more beautiful. ?
The windows of the house were oversized, mullioned and almost cathedral-like. The chimneys worked busily puffing smoke from the cozy interior to the cool morning. Its large oak door was double wide and was sheltered under a wide porch supported by stone pillars. The driveway was grandiose, sweeping into a wide circle in front of the dwelling with an ornate fountain in the center.
The stone path was punctuated with weeds after every stone. The dishevelled, un-manicured lawn was more moss than grass and was over shadowed by huge weeping willow flowing down onto the dank and squishy ground. Clusters of defiant daffodils reared their golden heads amidst the gloom and there were smatters of fuchsia along side the scarlet and saffron hued primroses.
He was the master of it all now, and yet it seemed to mean nothing to him. He knew that he would have given anything to have remained the son of the Duke the rest of his life.
Alexander’s attention was drawn to some movement at the front of the hall when he saw the great door opening inwards. For a moment, there was a tiny frisson of joy when he realized that it was very likely Bridget waiting for him.
He had written to her, of course, to let her know that the worst had happened, and he was now ready to return home. She had not written back, although he had assumed that to be because her letter would pass him on the road home, and he would never see it.
Alexander jumped down from the carriage and swallowed hard, clearing the tightness and pain in his throat. If anybody could make it right again, it would be Bridget. He would marry her as soon as she would agree to it, and they would be the Duke and Duchess of Daventry, living out life happily in the home his father had bequeathed him.
Alexander strode purposefully towards the door, racing up the stone steps, taking them two at a time. However, before he was but halfway up, he could see that his visitor was not Bridget, but his best friend, Henry Thorne, Duke of Damerell.
“I really am most terribly sorry, my dear fellow,” Henry said, placing a heavy and comforting arm around Alexander’s shoulders the moment he was inside.