The Pirate's Duchess: A Regent's Revenge Novella (2 page)

“But now we
can
swim,” Chloe said, leaving out the horrific way they’d learned to do so. “I’ve been telling you for nigh a year now that Pierce has chased the
Fury
out of the quay, down the Exe River, and into the Lyme Sea and never once caught it. He calls it a ghost ship manned by demons.”

Prudence shivered. She wasn’t comfortable talking about ghosts.

“The Black Regent,” Chloe said breathlessly, eyes wide, “is as real as you and me, and thankfully so.”

“How naive you are. The brigand is an elaborate sham conjured by free traders to cover up their own tracks. Or worse, he’s been invented by your brother to veil his inability to catch the marauder preying upon my future father-in-law’s assets.”

“Do you really think my brother would be so cruel?”

Prudence arched her brow and cast Chloe a meaningful glare.

Chloe picked up her reticule with a soft huff, shoved her book inside it, and hugged the bag tightly to her just as the door to the room creaked on its hinges. She stepped forward expectantly as the gray-haired clergyman reappeared.

“Apologies for the delay, Your Grace,” he said. “We are ready for you.”

The old wooden door creaked more as it moved farther outward on its hinges, casting shadows on the wall beside it. Her father, Cyril, Marquess of Heathcote appeared. “The time has come, daughter. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She nodded, determined to put the Black Regent and Lord Underwood’s financial difficulties out of her mind.

She and Chloe exchanged an emotional embrace, despite their quarrel. “Do not worry. It will be wonderful, Pru.”

“Indeed,” her father added. He took hold of Prudence’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm, glancing down at her with genuine affection. “We mustn’t keep your young gentleman waiting any longer.”

“No.” The thrumming wings in her stomach dissipated at the thought of Basil. She’d been through hell and looked forward to spending the rest of her life with a loving friend.

He patted her hand. She leaned her head against his shoulder and squeezed his arm.

They followed Chloe toward the rectory, and as the chapel doors opened, Chloe flashed them one more smile before she disappeared through them.

Prudence stood at the threshold with her father, looking out into the chapel. The pews were radiantly lined with flowers in shades of white and green, all leading up to where Basil patiently waited. His handsome face was eclipsed, his thick dark hair illuminated by fragments of light shining through the stained glass.

Father patted her hand again and gazed down at her fondly. “Shall we do this, my dear?”

She nodded. “Yes. I am ready.”

Her father wasted no time guiding her to the altar, past faces she’d known long and well, servants devoted to her as a child and, since her husband’s death, Blackmoor’s tenants, as well as notable gentry.

“It’s been two years since the duke’s passing,” someone whispered to her left.

Prudence pressed forward, past rightful members of the
ton
seated near the front.

“Imagine being a widow at three and twenty,” another voice said softly.

Tobias’s face momentarily replaced Basil’s, and her slipper caught on the hem of her gown. Father’s quick reflexes kept her from falling flat on her face before Basil, God, and their guests.

He squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Do not listen to foolish hen prattle, my dear. The earl is waiting for you.”

Straightening her shoulders, she focused on Basil’s handsome face and light-blue eyes that glinted like Blackmoor silver, twinkling, promising years of fidelity and conveying assurances that all would be well. Tall, lean, and clothed in simple black and white, Basil gave her a pleasant smile that lured her to him, and warmth swept through her.
He
was her future now. No more sleepless nights lying awake, feeling helpless and alone. No more nightmares or thoughts of what could have been.

Her father stopped just before the altar and placed a kiss on her brow. “Your mother would be so proud of you if she were here. You are strong, my girl.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she whispered, her heart filled with gratitude.

He turned her toward Basil, who sketched a bow, then lowered his hand and helped her step up to the altar. When she finally stood beside him, he raised her hand to his lips, kissing the amethyst ring on her right hand before clicking his heels together with practiced ease.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear as he removed her veil. “No regrets?”

“None.”

“I promise you’ll never have them.”

“I accept your challenge,” she replied, returning Basil’s smile.

Together, they turned to Mr. Leyes, who stood like a rotund badger in front of his den, a book held open in each hand. He nodded to Prudence and Basil, then began reading from the first book, a copy of
Fordyce’s Sermons
.

Throughout Leyes’s literal depiction of a woman’s character, Basil held her hand in his, gently rubbing her knuckles with his thumb as brilliant light filtered through the windows behind the vicar’s back, bathing them in prisms of color.

Leyes paused, then said, “Is anyone present who can justifiably object to the joining of this man and woman in holy wedlock?”

Someone cleared his throat, and Prudence’s breath hitched. When the vicar craned his head to find the instigator, the room fell silent. Then Leyes nodded, smiling confidently at Basil, who turned to take hold of both her hands and gazed into her eyes.

“Basil Halford, Earl of Markwick, do you take Prudence Denzell, Duchess of Blackmoor, to wed?”

The doors to the chapel slammed open.

“I d—”

“He does
not
,” came a deep, angry voice from the back.

That voice! It can’t be . . .

Prudence’s body tensed. Surely she’d heard wrong.

She turned away from the vicar and Basil to see a cloaked man standing in dark silhouette, holding a silver cane. There was something ill-omened about the way he stood and angled his head. Her heart clenched, then raced.

“What is the meaning of this?” Basil asked, anger rolling off him in waves. “How dare you interrupt our wedding?”

“
No one
is going to marry
my
wife today.”

TWO

SPAWNED from zealous violence, the BLACK REGENT is a formidable sojourner, a BLIGHT upon DEVON. Revenue officers report to
Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post
that the PIRATE darkens the sanguine HOPES of our fathers, administering WRATH against the whole lot of us with no provision for the LAW or mere mortals.

~
Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post
, 4 May 1808

A collective gasp filled the sanctuary.             

Tobias, the Duke of Blackmoor, ignored everyone but the couple at the altar who had turned to stare at him in shock and disbelief. He focused on Prudence’s face, a face he’d thought he would never lay eyes on again. As her wide honey-brown eyes sliced through him and recognition dawned, momentary panic seized his chest.

Forgive me!

“Tobias?” Prudence asked, stepping toward him, reaching out a shaky hand. “Is it really you?” Tears filled her eyes, and a hesitant smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Surely, I must be dreaming.”

Was she actually glad to see him? Had her heart yearned for him as much as he had ached to see her, to touch her one last time? It made no difference now. The intelligence he’d received of her recent discovery of his father’s map marked her for death. And by the man she nearly made her father-in-law, no less. Now that Underwood knew there was copper ore at Blackmoor, the scheming lord would do anything to get it. Tobias had cast all caution to the wind, even braved Prudence’s hatred, to reach her before it was too late.

“The Duke of Blackmoor? Here?” Lady Chloe Walsingham emerged from the other side of the chapel. With her typical dramatic flair, she thoroughly inspected him, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I don’t believe it,” she said, swiftly moving to Prudence’s side. Chloe’s knuckles whitened on something she clutched to her chest. “Impossible! Isn’t it?”

Prudence, wobbling slightly, clasped Chloe’s arm. “I don’t understand.” Her voice cracked. She let go of Chloe and woodenly attempted to maneuver the altar steps toward him like a marble goddess descending on human legs. “You are not supposed to be here. I . . . buried you.”

“Come,” he said. Her confusion and shock were expected. “We must leave this place.” He struggled to keep his voice calm and soothing. His heart thumped madly in his chest like dozens of cannon volleys in close confines. The sound deafened his ears as he stretched out his hand, flicking his index finger toward her, and waited for her to join him. “Come with me.”

Basil grabbed her arm, impeding her progress, igniting a deep-seated fury inside him that needed only a spark to be unleashed. But not here. Not now. He stood his ground, preferring not to frighten Prudence or her guests any more than necessary. Yet, they had only minutes to get away.

“Let her go.” The order was sharp and clear, brokering no disobedience. Lord Underwood hobbled into the aisle and took up his son’s defense. “Be gone, imposter. The Duke of Blackmoor has been dead a good two years. Nothing is left of him but bones. No one believes you are who you pretend to be.”

Prudence drew in a ragged sob.
She knew.
Pain and grief distorted her face.

Tobias withheld his fury. “The fifth Duke of Blackmoor rests in peace,” he said, only because he’d avenged his father. “Be careful whom you choose to bury, Marquess. The sixth Duke of Blackmoor is not so easily slung from beneath your muddy boots as those you’ve ruined and led to the grave.” His threat clear, Tobias arched his arms wide, sending his cloak fluttering behind him. “Behold, I am alive. A living witness of this man’s treachery.”

Underwood’s face reddened and his knuckles whitened on his silver-headed cane. “How dare you accuse me of wrongdoing? If you are who you claim to be, you are the one who has done the duchess a terrible injustice by pretending to be dead.”

“Lady Blackmoor is
my
wife.” Rage swept through him. If it hadn’t been for Underwood’s assassin, none of this would have been necessary. The attempt on his life had forced him to abandon his wife. “Your son will not be marrying her today.”

“No?” Underwood raised his cane and motioned to several men strategically positioned along the chapel walls. They reacted, moving in unison. “We shall see about that.”

“Enough!” Markwick put up his hands and brought them to a halt.

Good man.
Tobias nodded to his old friend. “It is not
my
wish to fight. But I will if forced.”

Underwood jabbed a finger toward Tobias. “The duchess loves my son, and a fight is what you’ll get. Whoever you are, you’re too late.”

“No, Father.” Markwick reached out and touched Prudence’s cheek softly. “Blackmoor is just in time.”

“Are you men going to continue to speak in circles around us?” Chloe asked. She leaned close to Prudence and whispered something in her ear. Prudence shook her head, reasonably speechless, then after a few suspenseful moments, nodded. Formidable strength reflected from her eyes as she raised her face. Was he a fool to stop her from marrying Markwick, to believe his wife would ever forgive him for allowing her to think he was dead?

Delusions weakened men, after all, and he’d destroyed her trust. What he’d done—assuming a false identity, as a pirate no less, in order to prevent Underwood from ruining any more men connected to Tobias’s father—would haunt him for eternity. He’d unforgivably hurt Prudence in the process, too. If only she knew he’d done it for her own good, to keep her safe.

“Blackmoor?” Underwood asked, his shock wearing off. His rage was palpable as he stepped forward to exert his authority. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Tobias scowled at the bitter old man. “Surprised?” Underwood thought he’d succeeded in his scheme to absorb every estate in the county in order to deepen his pockets.

The wicked marquess cackled with practiced ease. “At my age, nothing surprises me.”

Tobias bit back a scoff.

“It surprises me,” Prudence’s father, Cyril, Marquess of Heathcote stated angrily.

“Did ye hear? Lord Blackmoor is alive!” a wedding guest cried out.

“How can this be?” Lady Barrow, Markwick’s aunt, asked in confusion. Feigning the vapors, she fanned her face until she collapsed against Lady Osgood, a clever woman who frequented events for one thing only—gossip—then shared her knowledge with
Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post
.

“Someone has been keeping secrets,” Lady Osgood snapped.

An older woman blurted out, “Mark my words. His Grace has come back to haunt the poor duchess!”

Two women swooned immediately, causing a stir in the pews. Wood grated loudly and a shuffle to help them began.

A chorus rose among Blackmoor’s loyal tenants. “Lord Blackmoor is alive! Hip, hip, hooray!”

Prudence clung to Chloe, all the while staring at Tobias like a trapped mouse. Aye, she should be afraid. Her life, her soul—their love—was at stake. Underwood wanted his father’s map showing the location of a large source of copper and tin on the estate. When mined, the cache would provide a vast source of income, knowledge that Tobias’s father had protected for heirs of the mineral lords in his mining corporation. But now the map had been exposed and Underwood knew it was in Prudence’s possession. Her usefulness would only last as long as her dowry was ripe for the plucking, which it no longer was now that Tobias had returned. He could keep her safe, though. He
would
keep her safe.

In the ensuing chaos, Tobias surveyed the chapel. They needed to get around the guards quickly and out the main entrance of the church where he’d strategically left his horse. Underwood wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything in full view of witnesses there, and Tobias counted on it. The bastard was more likely to send out a party to secretly hunt them down as soon as they departed. Tobias had but one chance to get the upper hand.

Ignoring the commotion around him, Tobias moved swiftly toward Prudence. They had no time to lose.

Heathcote stepped in front of Prudence and Chloe, however, blocking his path. “I don’t know where you’ve been or why you allowed my daughter to believe you were dead, but I warn you, Blackmoor. I will not stand by and allow Prudence to be hurt again.”

“That is not why I’m here,” he said.

Markwick joined Prudence’s father. “Where have you been? Why have you allowed Prudence to think you were dead?”

Tobias flexed his fingers. He and the earl had experienced many things during their lengthy friendship, but a familiarity with his wife hadn’t been one of them.

This is what I get for standing up for what I believe.

No, that wasn’t fair. Tobias was grateful Markwick had taken it upon himself to watch over Prudence in his absence, and for that he owed the earl a debt he could never repay. It was ridiculous of him not to forgive a man like Markwick for falling for his wife’s charms. Prudence was an intriguing woman and a beautiful, challenging duchess. He’d left her behind, vulnerable, it was true, but only because he had been sure he would be killed while avenging his father, never able to return. But he had
survived
.

Now that he was home again—for good—Markwick’s assistance was no longer necessary, especially since Tobias didn’t know whether or not he could trust the earl.

The sins of fathers trickle down to their sons.

Aye, Tobias had been betrayed once before, brutally cut to the bone. In order to survive, he’d killed his would-be murderer, the man who’d set the stable aflame, and left his lifeless body to be discovered in his place. Defeating a man like Underwood involved a deadly game of cat and mouse, an awakening and acceptance of darkness hidden in the depths of a man’s soul. His disguise had enabled him to seek revenge, but given all that he’d already sacrificed, he couldn’t afford to lose the one thing that truly meant anything to him—Prudence.

Tobias ground his teeth. The sight of her paired intimately with his friend before an altar of God in Underwood’s chapel sickened him. Rage coursed through him, and he fought the urge to pulverize Underwood into a heap of bloodied flesh. Here. Now. On the altar stairs. In front of God, Prudence, her guests. But no, that would alienate her forever. After what he’d put her through, he couldn’t widen the chasm between them.

Prudence withdrew from Chloe’s arms, then moved out from behind Markwick and her father. Tobias drank her in as she moved forward hesitantly and parted her lips to speak. His heart swelled to unparalleled proportions at the very thought of hearing her say his name again, of kissing her full lips . . .

“I can’t believe you’re . . . alive.”

Yes, my dove,
he wanted to say
.
I’m alive. I’ve finally come home.
But words wouldn’t soothe her now. Only time would heal what he’d done to her heart. Self-loathing burned deep in his chest. He’d duped her,
allowed
her to believe he was dead, an act that made him no better than the man who sought to use her.

She stared at him wide-eyed, her pale skin contrasting the delicate green flowers arranged in her upswept blond hair. Long seed pearl earrings dangled from her ears toward a white ruffled-lace fichu spanning her neck. He followed the dip at the center of her bodice to his mother’s seed pearl brooch, pinned above a green gown overlaid with the same color gossamer tied at the sleeve with more tiny pearls. His breath caught. She was the most breathtaking, beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And something inside him, a fractured piece of humanity long since forgotten, provoked him to beg for her forgiveness for the pain he’d dealt her.

Words escaped him. “My lady.”

She swayed on her feet, and Tobias quickened his strides to catch her just below her arms before she fell and knocked herself senseless. At the exact moment they touched, his body reacted, sparking to life in ways he’d not allowed himself to think about over the past two years. How had he denied himself the privilege of seeing her face, of touching her for so long? How could he have forgotten how glorious their marriage had been?

Her intoxicating lavender scent drove him wild. He fought the urge to wrap his arms around her and claim her lips before everyone present. God knew he’d already humiliated her enough.

Prudence regained her senses, swiftly changing her demeanor. She glared at him boldly, her chin raised. No longer was she the demure woman he’d left behind, but a warrior.

“I do not need
your
assistance,” she snapped. “I—”

“Never should have entertained the notion I was dead,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. He slipped his arm behind her and pulled her toward him, hating himself for sounding so cruel and being so forceful. “It’s time to go back where you belong.”

She placed her hands on his chest, then looked up into his eyes. “I
buried
you.”

“Not me,” he said, mere inches from her face. He paused a beat. “Not me,” he repeated, lowering his voice so close to her ear that only she could hear him. He inhaled her scent, savoring her nearness.

She pushed him away. Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks as she beat on his chest. “Why? Why? Why?”