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  The Duke She Left Behind

  Aileen Fish

  Text copyright by the Author.

  This work was made possible by special permission through the de Wolfe Pack Connected World publishing program and WolfeBane Publishing, a dba of Dragonblade Publishing. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack connected series by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc. remains the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc., or the affiliates or licensors.

  All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.

  De Wolfe Pack: The Series

  By Aileen Fish

  The Duke She Left Behind

  By Alexa Aston

  Rise of de Wolfe

  By Amanda Mariel

  Love’s Legacy

  By Anna Markland

  Hungry Like de Wolfe

  By Autumn Sands

  Reflection of Love

  By Barbara Devlin

  Lone Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 1

  The Big Bad De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 2

  Tall, Dark & De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 3

  By Cathy MacRae

  The Saint

  By Christy English

  Dragon Fire

  By Danelle Harmon

  Heart of the Sea Wolfe

  By Hildie McQueen

  The Duke’s Fiery Bride

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  River’s End

  By Lana Williams

  Trusting the Wolfe

  By Laura Landon

  A Voice on the Wind

  By Leigh Lee

  Of Dreams and Desire

  By Mairi Norris

  Brabanter’s Rose

  By Marlee Meyers

  The Fall of the Black Wolf

  By Mary Lancaster

  Vienna Wolfe

  By Meara Platt

  Nobody’s Angel

  Kiss an Angel

  Bhrodi’s Angel

  By Mia Pride

  The Lone Wolf’s Lass

  By Michele Lang

  An Honest Woman

  By Ruth Kaufman

  My Enemy, My Love

  By Sarah Hegger

  Bad Wolfe on the Rise

  By Scarlett Cole

  Together Again

  By Victoria Vane

  Breton Wolfe Book 1

  Ivar the Red Book 2

  The Bastard of Brittany Book 3

  By Violetta Rand

  Never Cry de Wolfe

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  De Wolfe Pack: The Series

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Somerset England, Summer 1813

  The door to Lady Eliza Clayton’s bedchamber slammed against the wall, waking her in shock. She sat up, heart racing, clutching the bedclothes to her chest. There in the doorway stood her father, his face scarlet with anger.

  “Get dressed and come downstairs.” He stormed away, leaving the door open.

  Eliza blinked, staring at the spot where he’d been. What was wrong? What could have happened overnight to make him so upset?

  “My lady?” Her maid, Fanny, peered into the room.

  “It’s safe to come in, he’s gone. I must hurry. I’ll wear my red day dress and style my hair in a simple roll.” Eliza hurried to begin dressing. Her hands shook as she rolled up her stockings. She poked pins into her hair while Fanny tightened her stays. They finished at the same time and Fanny held the red gown up for Eliza to slip into.

  Pausing to look in the mirror, she tucked a stray lock of her black hair into the bun. Father despised disarray and his temper was already beyond anything she’d seen since childhood. She smiled at her maid. “Thank you, Fanny.”

  “You’re welcome, miss. I’ll say a little prayer for you.” The young woman curtseyed and began to straighten the brush and combs on the vanity.

  Eliza slipped her feet into her half boots and scurried silently down the hall, then trotted down the stairs on her toes to make as little noise as possible. Father abhorred noise. He hadn’t said where to find him, only that she be downstairs.

  Their butler, a wizened older man with pronounced white side whiskers, approached. “Your mother is waiting in the carriage.”

  “Thank you. Where are we going? Let me fetch my pelisse and reticule.”

  “You won’t need them, my lady. Please…” He held his arm out toward the door.

  Frowning, confused at the cloaking of her activity, Eliza walked outside and down the steps where her brother, Walter, waited. “Come.” He took her hand and helped her into the carriage, then sat opposite her and her mother.

  Mama had her head down, but Eliza heard a quiet sniffle escape before she dabbed her nose with a handkerchief.

  “Mama? What is happening?”

  She shook her head quickly, briefly.

  Eliza turned to Walter, who held her gaze with a hard glare so close to their father’s. Clearly, he would answer none of her questions. There was nothing for her to do but watch out the window.

  This was not how the day before her wedding was to go. Fanny should be trying out assorted hairstyles until they found the perfect look. Eliza should be packing her remaining possessions that hadn’t been sent to the Duke of Beckhampton’s home.

  Beck. Were they going to see him? For what reason, she couldn’t fathom, but the idea gave her small hope. Very small hope. In her belly, she knew something was dreadfully amiss.

  She recognized the warehouses to one side of the road and knew the docks lay just beyond. Oh, please, no.

  Throughout her lifetime, Eliza had heard Father threaten Mama with being sent to stay with her sister in Boston. He couldn’t be sending the two of them now. Not right before her wedding. What had she and Mama done to make him so angry?

  If Father wanted her out from under his roof, he need only wait one day for Beck to take her home with him after their wedding. Mama could have come with them to live—Eliza had mentioned it to Mama more than once. She couldn’t think of anything she’d done to upset him enough to send her out of the country.

  Perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps this morning was just another of his tantrums brought on by heavy drinking. Beck might be waiting for them, although the wedding was to be held in St. George’s Church in London.

  None of this explained why Walter escorted them like a jailor. Her brother never took his eyes off her, never softened his harsh, frowning glare. None of her “perhaps” situations could explain his presence.

  Tall masts came into view over the buildings and sea gulls’ cries battled the shouts of men. A knot grew in Eliza’s throat. “Walter?”

  Surely there must be an ounce of love inside her brother’s heart that would force him to explain. Even to give a hint of what was happening, some small words that would relieve Eliza’s growing terror.

  Beck, I love you. Please come after me.

  Walter waited at the base of the gangplank while Eliza and Mama boarded, their hands clutching each other so tightly the blood couldn’t possible reach the tips of her fingers. He remained, stiff and unflinching, when Eliza stood on the deck watching him.

  When a seaman took Eliza and Mama to the small cabin where they would spend the next few weeks, the pain finally burst out. Eliza sank to
the floor in the corner of the room, buried her face against her knees, and cried until she had no tears left.

  Beck, I love you. Please come after me.

  A footman rapped on the doorway of Gabriel, Duke of Beckhampton’s library, entering only once Beck commanded. He handed over a note addresses to Beck.

  My dearest Beckhampton,

  I fear I’m unable to marry you. I know how these words will hurt you, but I cannot live my life as your wife. Please do not come look for me. I wish for no contact from you.

  Yrs.,

  Eliza

  He read it three times and in none of those readings did the words sound like Eliza’s. Firstly, she never spoke so concisely. She would have poured her heart into a three-page missive, tears would have blotted the ink in places, and her reasons for breaking their engagement would have been explained clearly.

  Something was horribly amiss. He stood so quickly his chair fell over. “Who brought this letter?” he asked his footman.

  “One of Lord Dalcliffe’s servants, your grace.”

  Beck didn’t know why he’d expected—hoped for—any other answer, but this confirmed his suspicions that this wasn’t Eliza’s choice. “Have my horse brought around,” he commanded as he left his library.

  The moment his horse arrived at his front steps, Beck galloped away to Dalcliffe’s town house. He didn’t wait for a servant to hold the reins, but left the horse standing as he strode to the door. When the butler appeared on the other side, Beck demanded, “I must speak to Dalcliffe.”

  “His lordship has given strict instructions not to allow you in, your grace.”

  Beck threw out his fist to push the door open. “I will be seen.”

  The old servant stood his ground. “Lord Dalcliffe is not receiving callers. I beg you to go.”

  Something in the butler’s voice showed fear, although he did a good job at remaining authoritative. The old man didn’t deserve Beck’s anger. Turning away without a word, Beck mounted his horse and rode away.

  Maybe Eliza’s friend Marjorie would have the answers he sought. The two young ladies were as close as sisters, so if anyone knew what had happened, she would.

  If he could just speak to Eliza, he could remind her how much he cared for her, how deep their love ran. They belonged together, and Beck would do everything he could to make certain they spent the rest of their lives as husband and wife.

  Chapter One

  London, England, Spring 1817

  Standing in the entryway of Hartshorne House in Mayfair, Lady Eliza Clayton prayed her friend had meant what she’d written so often in the four years that Eliza had been in Boston. Marjorie, the Duchess of Hartshorne, would never let on if she were dismayed at the surprise visit, of course, but Eliza wanted to cause as little stress as possible to as few people as possible with her impulsive decision to sneak back to England. Poor Mama stood beside her looking bone-weary after their voyage from Boston followed by the carriage ride to Marjorie and Hart’s home. Her back was straight, head held high, but her exhaustion was plain in the deep lines beside her mouth and the crease between her eyebrows.

  They’d traveled as quickly as possible just in case Eliza’s brothers, Walter, Earl of Dalcliffe, and Peter, learned of their escape. Oh, they hadn’t been physically held captive, but when Walter—like their father before him—commanded something, everyone obeyed. No one argued, not even Aunt Wilhelmina, Mama’s sister in Boston. There’d been no mention of coming home. Her mother and aunt had argued with her for two weeks when Eliza first suggested the time had come to go home.

  Not home. That could never be. Dalcliffe was no longer home to her. Eliza now needed to find a husband, or she’d become a burden to Marjorie. Mayhap she could summer with Marjorie and winter with their dearest friend Lady Phoebe Basingstoke. Then she’d only impose on each for half the year.

  The butler returned and Mama released a long sigh. He motioned toward the staircase. “Come with me,” he said.

  A wave of giddiness and relief swept over Eliza at finally seeing her friend again. Until she saw Marjorie in person, part of her feared Walter would step out from a doorway, grab her arm, and carry her off to parts unknown. His anger at the Duke of Beckhampton knew no bounds.

  When they entered the conservatory, they found Marjorie sitting in a large, comfortable-looking chair brightly lit by the sun flowing through the windows. Marjorie jumped up when she saw her friend enter, her book landed noisily on the floor at her feet. “My dear Eliza, it’s been so long! At times, I feared I’d never see you again.”

  Eliza returned the hug, holding her friend tightly for an extra moment or two. The safety she represented brought much-needed comfort. “I feared the same thing. Mama still is uncertain we’re doing the right thing, but I couldn’t stay there any longer. With father dead I shouldn’t have to.” She cringed at the coldness her words carried but didn’t take back her words. She felt no sense of loss with him no longer running her life.

  “Have you spoken with your brothers?” Marjorie asked.

  “I’m afraid to,” Eliza replied. “I don’t know how determined my brother, Walter, is to follow Father’s orders. Peter would allow me to follow my heart, but Walter is as cruel as our father was.”

  Mama had always said that Walter was playing their father’s game, having been created from the same mold. Cold-hearted, power hungry, only willing to follow someone else’s suggestion if it benefitted the earldom. Yet for all his self-centered dealing, the Earl of Dalcliffe had fewer properties and less income from those properties than most of his peers.

  Releasing Eliza from her embrace, Marjorie hugged the countess. “Lady Dalcliffe, I’m delighted to have you stay. I’m assigning a maid to you. Her name is Susan. Anything you need, she’ll see to it. Now, come sit, ladies, while we wait for tea. Or should I allow you to refresh yourselves before we visit? I never even considered how tired you must be, Lady Dalcliffe. When the footman brings our refreshment, I’ll have him show you to your room.” Marjorie spilled her words nonstop. Her excitement was plain to see.

  “Your grace, you’re too kind to allow us to visit without an invitation.” Mama’s voice was barely above a whisper, as always, but in the still room she could be understood.

  “But I did invite you,” Marjorie said. “It might have come after Eliza said you were coming back to England, and might not have arrived until you’d left, but the invitation was always there. And please, call me Marjorie like you always have.”

  After they chatted for a short time, the footman arrived to serve their tea. Mama turned down the offer of a cup preferring to go to her room. She left with the footman, leaving Eliza and Marjorie to themselves.

  Waiting just long enough to be certain Mama was out of hearing range, Eliza set down her cup and saucer. She leaned forward to speak conspiratorially. “Has he married?”

  “By he, I assume you mean the Duke of Beckhampton? By all reports, he is still single, but no one has seen him since you left.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Eliza said as her heart clenched in sympathy with the agony Beck must have suffered. “I wanted to write. To apologize. But Mama said no, it wasn’t proper. Not proper, no less—can you believe it? How proper was it for my brothers to kidnap me on the eve of my wedding?”

  Tears welled at the renewal of the pain she’d endured for the first year of her time in Boston, or Exile, as she called it in her letters to the duchess. To think of what Beck must have suffered on her account…it was unbearable to even imagine. The humiliation of his bride disappearing on the eve of their wedding. How did he bear it? Clearly not well, if he avoided all contact with his friends.

  “Has Hartshorne not called on him in all this time?” she asked.

  Marjorie took a sip of tea and stared at her cup for a moment before answering, as if she were searching for the correct words to explain. “We’ve written often to inform him of our news, however trivial it might have been, in hopes he’d at least reply with a similar letter,
but he hasn’t even responded to Hartshorne’s letters. Basingstoke called on him at his estate but was told he wasn’t at home. I’ve wondered if he was simply not receiving callers or was truly away.”

  A painful lump swelled in Eliza’s throat. “I will never forgive my father. Mother doesn’t even know why he refused the marriage, after having allowed the planning of it. The marriage settlement had been agreed upon and was quite generous. There was no scandal circulating the gossip mongers to cause my father to change his mind.” She didn’t add that any consideration of Eliza’s well-being or happiness wouldn’t have affected his choices. Having his only daughter married to a duke was more than enough to keep him happy.

  “As I said, we have no knowledge of what Beckhampton knew or didn’t know.” Marjorie suddenly stood and smoothed her skirt. “Enough of this sad memory. You are here now and we’ll do what we can to make certain he knows of it. I’ll have Hartshorne send him an invitation to our little gathering next week.”

  “Oh, you’re having guests? I don’t wish to be in the way.”

  Marjorie tittered brightly and pulled Eliza to her feet with both hands. “You’re the reason for the party, silly girl. I didn’t know it when I sent the invitations, but this is perfect timing. If Beckhampton doesn’t join us, he’ll surely hear word of your arrival through someone who does.”

  A band tightened around Eliza’s chest making it difficult to draw a breath. “Do you really think he’ll come?”

  Marjorie palmed her friend’s cheek and offered a gentle smile. “I believe when he hears word of your return, he’ll move heaven and earth to find you.”

  Hearing hoofbeats approaching his home in rapid staccato, Gabriel, Duke of Beckhampton, rose from his desk and stood at the window overlooking the long drive in front of the house. Both the horse and the man’s clothing were too fine to be a messenger. Yet who would call on him? Hadn’t everyone accepted the fact he didn’t desire company?

  As the rider drew near, Beck recognized his friend, Hart. The duke knew him well enough to know better than to call on him, so some urgent errand must have brought him there. Beck stopped a footman in the hallway. “Tell Wheaton to show Hartshorne into my drawing room.”