The Contract Duchess, a Regency Romance: Key To My Heart Book 1

Chapter 18 - Derrick

It was a combination of cold and fatigue that made his hands shake, Derrick told himself as he unfolded the single piece of paper. Surely it could not be nerves, or the rage that was bubbling a little brighter with every moment that he was still confined in this blasted cellar. He bent the folds of the paper back to make it as flat as possible before turning the surface to the flickering light of the ever-shorter candle.

To his relief, the handwriting on the page was legible, though clearly the same as that of the journal he had been unable to decipher. He began to read, his stomach twisting into tighter knots with each line.

Dearest Derrick,

I know you must be feeling terrible by the time you read this, but a little separation is needed, that I may make the arrangements for us to be together, as we always planned. I must dissolve that awful marriage you were forced into, as well as some hindering connections of my own.

I apologize for the accommodations, but I could not be sure of your feelings, and I wished that our plans would not be thwarted by your faulty memories, or by any sense of duty you may feel toward that woman you were coerced to wed. I assure you, when I come for you, you will be able to assume the role of Duke within the hour and take your proper place by my side as lord of my heart.

I am sure you remember as clearly as I the day we pledged to marry each other once your father died. There in the shadows of our little hiding place in your manor's garden, we blew on the same dandylion, swearing that nothing could tear us apart. I have longed for the day when we might fulfill that promise, and finally it is almost here.

Our meddling fathers are no more, perishing within a few days of each other. Your father was a good man, though past his prime; my father skulked back here only to soothe his own conscience, and his death is nothing I regret or mourn. I would have preferred him to pass on before your own father, so as to have renewed our relationship as peers before your own father's death, but perhaps it is better this way.

It may take me a day or two to join you here, at my family's country estate, but rest assured you have all you need to endure the heartache of being parted from me. There is food aplenty stored in the deeper parts of this cellar, and the wine and ale in the barrels should be more than enough to slack your thirst. With this letter you will find my journal, begun the day I was propelled from your side by villains so long ago. May its contents renew the flame of our love in your heart and ease any concerns you may yet harbor for our future.

Until we meet again, my love, never again to be parted,

Marian Winchester

Marian. Seeing the name sent a shudder through his body. He remembered her, but the faulty memory was her own, not his. There had been a time when they had been friends, such good friends that they had indeed spoken together of their dreams of the future, in the way children do when they have had no hardships to dim the brilliance of their optimism and enthusiasm.

He remembered not only their conversation about marriage, but also where he was when he heard the news of her misfortune. His tutor had just set him to work copying a long Latin passage when he heard his mother sobbing in the hallway and the deeper murmurs of his father's baritone, attempting to soften what could never be forgotten. His curiosity compelled him from his desk, and against his tutor's scolds, he burst out into the hall to see what could make such a pleasant woman lose her composure.

His father had intercepted him as he dashed toward the sounds of his mother's distress, and in few words conveyed that his friend Marian would not be coming around anymore, her family carriage having been waylaid by a group of ruffians who had left her and her mother bruised and broken, both in body and spirit. It was not long after that he had met Angie and eventually allowed his attachment to Marian to fade into the background of his memory.

Over the intervening years, he had heard little of her fate, only whispers that she had never recovered enough to be introduced to society and that her family had despaired of her ever being able to live independently or make a successful match. With his wife a cripple and his daughter now hampered by nightmares and scars, Lord Winchester retreated to the questionable solace of his cups.

Last year, the scandal of her father's gambling trouble had been the talk of the Season, and the rumors of his ill treatment of his wife and daughter and subsequent escape to the Continent had pricked Derrick's conscience. He recalled the aching despair and dingy walls that greeted him when he sought the Winchester women at the workhouse, and his sincere pledge to help better their situation, a pledge soon forgotten in the flurry of his own father's sudden decline and death.

He had never considered that her mind may have been so damaged as to latch onto him as her only hope of a happy ending, and there was little he could do to right the situation from this hole. When she returned, he would have to convince her of her errors; perhaps her father yet lived and could talk some sense into the lady, if he could be found. There had been rumors that Lord Winchester had come slinking back to sell off some of his holdings and thus refill his coffers, but no news of a nobleman selling his family's heritage had yet made the rounds. Derrick knew finding the man would not be easy, but perhaps Marian could be distracted by the search.

Derrick's belly chose that moment to let out a gurgling growl, and he pushed thoughts of Marian from his mind in favor of finding satisfaction for his hunger. The note had mentioned food and drink to keep him comfortable until she could come join him, and he thought it would now be a good idea to see what he could find. After a few minutes of exploring the space, he returned to the box near the only door empty handed. It was very clear that no one had been in this estate recently, for the only food stores had either long since rotted or were now so dry and withered that they were inedible.

While he had indeed discovered barrels of wine and ale, the two he had uncorked had revealed contaminated liquid that helped to take away his appetite with their odor, but did nothing to slake his thirst. He had the best fortune with a barrel that had been placed near the back wall to catch occasional drips of water from a cracked bit of masonry near the ceiling. The barrel was dark with algae, but the water did not taste too awful. He allowed himself to drink only a swallow, in any case, not wanting to tempt illness.

He inspected the one door more thoroughly, disappointed to find that it was heavy and the lock in good order, despite the obvious neglect of the room's contents. The only part of the room that showed signs of recent disturbance was the box and its contents, and the lock on the door. Clearly, he would not be breaking out of here by himself. Noting that the candle had burned down by nearly half, he decided to wrap himself in a heavy wool blanket that had been left to molder in a corner and rest if he could. The pounding in his head lessened as soon as he blew out the flame, and a few minutes later he descended into a dream of talking with Angie while holding her close to his chest on his bed.