Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke: A Regency Romance Novel Read online

  Miss Honeyfield

  and the Dark Duke

  A Historical Romance Novel

  Audrey Ashwood

  Copyright © 2019 Audrey Ashwood

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are completely fictitious and are in no way meant to represent real people or places.

  Table of Contents

  About this Novel

  Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  ~

  Sneak Peek – The Cold Earl’s Bride

  Sneak Peek – To Steal a Duke’s Heart

  The Author

  About This Novel

  They say he has a black heart.

  They say he is cold, unscrupulous, and dangerous.

  They say he killed a woman out of jealousy.

  Robert Beaufort, the Duke of Scuffold, has returned to the castle of his forefathers. To be seen with him means the ruin of any woman’s reputation. When Miss Minerva Honeyfield stumbles upon the duke in an enchanted glade deep in the forest, it is too late to heed her aunt’s warnings.

  Her indecent encounter is the most exciting event that has ever happened to Minerva – and also the most dangerous one. Despite knowing that the man is ominous and menacing, Minerva is unable to shield herself from her fascination with the Duke of Scuffold.

  While Minerva struggles to resign herself to longing for a man who will destroy her name and possibly even threaten her life, her mother falls into mortal danger – and all indications point to the dark duke.

  Has Minerva truly lost her heart to a ruthless murderer?

  Romantic – suspenseful – mysterious. A new historical romance novel from Audrey Ashwood. Perfect for readers who like their heroes to be daring, and their heroines to be courageous and a little bit adventurous.

  Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke

  Prologue

  The Duke’s Secret by M. H.

  Lady Marianne de Lacey was of exceptional beauty and innocence, which immediately aroused the desire to possess her in everyone who saw her, much as someone would want to call a precious piece of jewellery their own.

  Minerva Honeyfield folded her hands prudishly in her lap and lowered her gaze. Her tea cup sat beside her on a side table, and the tea was cooling almost as quickly as the rather uncomfortable atmosphere in the sitting room.

  Mr Giles Meade sat across from Minerva and her mother, a crumb-scattered plate bearing witness to his enjoyment of her mother’s skills as a host. Mrs Honeyfield loved pastries and fancies, and the household’s cook was a mistress of her craft. Her cakes, tea biscuits and fluffy crème-filled rolls had become quite famous amongst the London crowd. More than one guest had tried to win over their cook – unsuccessfully, as Minerva’s mother never tired of recounting.

  “Minerva,” her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Mr Meade was kind enough to invite us to a concert tomorrow evening. Will you not give your answer?”

  Beneath her mother’s warm tone of voice Minerva sensed a warning she did not dare to ignore. “It would be my honour to attend,” she replied obediently and gave the wealthy young man a smile. If one took into account that he was one of the richest bachelors in London, and that he was someone who enjoyed great popularity amongst her friends, then her words were certainly not a lie. In fact, so far only Minerva’s dearest friend Georgiana Bancroft had managed to show herself off to the Beau Monde seated beside Mr Meade, in his magnificent carriage. Georgiana’s mother had been extraordinarily determined (and rather scrupulous) to bring Mr Meade and her eldest daughter together on that sunny afternoon. Unfortunately, her happiness was only short-lived, as Georgiana had failed to retain Mr Meade’s interest for any longer than the carriage ride had lasted. Georgiana, on the other hand, had told her friend how relieved she had secretly been that the man was not interested in her, since, in a well-hidden corner of her heart, she longed for something entirely different – as did Minerva herself.

  Did it mean something that Mr Meade had taken Georgiana on a ride in his carriage and had invited her to a concert? Perhaps he was testing Minerva’s public suitability as the future Mrs Meade. He could not guess that Minerva had already decided that he did not meet her standard of what a suitable husband should be.

  Both Minerva and Georgiana had agreed about what this mysteriously different thing was that a man must have, in order to qualify as a candidate for marriage. He did not need to have a title, nor was impressive wealth necessary. No, for Minerva and Georgiana a man had to have something much more valuable. Personality – that was the word mentioned most often during their conversations. Every now and again, it would be topped by “charm”. Both agreed that good looks were inevitably associated with those two qualities. A gentleman with charm always looked good. However, both young women agreed that they would not accept a good-looking man without charm. There were too many men in their social circle, a prime example being Mr Meade, who trusted that their pleasant appearance would secure a fitting bride.

  Some of their friends, who were not fortunate enough to be able to see beyond striking, masculine features, also mistook the clinking sound of coins and guineas for personality.

  The most important characteristic that Minerva was looking for in a man had little to do with appearances or money. She believed that the man who would one day earn her heart needed a generous personality, almost to the point of liberality. After all, Minerva did something that – despite all the progress of her time – was considered scandalous for a woman of good breeding: she wrote. Not letters, but novels. And, she was not planning to stop, merely because she married, and her husband would not tolerate it.

  “Please do excuse me, I think it is time I took my leave,” Mr Meade announced and rose rather laboriously from his chair. Of course, her mother had offered him the most comfortable seat in her eyes but did not realize that the Lord was proportioned differently than she was.

  Sighing internally, Minerva allowed Mr Meade to sketch a kiss onto her fingertips, before he took his leave. He also gave her a look from beneath his lowered eyes, which he probably considered a very soulful one. Minerva watched him through the parlour window, as he left the house. His bouncing stride and his posture spoke of success and expectation. His next step, following the concert, would be just as obvious as today’s visit, which had not been made to assure himself of Minerva’s qualities, but rather to win her mother’s favour. Immediately after the concert, she knew, he would request to speak to her father, to discover, discreetly, just how much her dowry might be worth. He would have heard the rumours already – her father was a successful and wealthy man and she was his only child. Mr Meade was not at all different from all the other young (and not so young) men who had asked for her hand in marriage. For all of them, marriage seemed to be a mere business transaction, one that had to be successfu
l right from the start, since it was impossible to change (or step down from) the negotiations once a certain point had been reached.

  As soon as Mr Meade had departed, her father joined the two women in the parlour. “I hear that the young gentleman came to visit you and pay his respects,” he said while looking at his wife questioningly. Minerva’s mother nodded and made a noise, which could only be considered a happy sigh. To draw out the inevitable, Minerva picked up her cup of tea and pretended that she was drinking. In truth, her throat felt tight, and she found it hard to breathe.

  As certain as she had been just a short while ago, she now felt more fearful. It was one thing to review a marriage candidate and to be absolutely sure that she would never give the man her hand in marriage. It was a different thing to communicate this fact to her parents.

  “He is such a pleasant young man,” her mother began. “His manners are magnificent. He is so very polite… and modest.” She was probably thinking, as Minerva was, of the previous candidate. His manners had been far too intimate and familiar, even for her mother’s liking, whose despair seemed to have blinded her to the faults of the courting gentlemen.

  Her father had not yet given up hope, as his next words showed. “Marvellous. Then I assume that we can look forward to a wedding quite soon.” He opened the newspaper noisily and hid behind it, hoping that there was nothing more to say regarding the subject of marriage.

  “I will not marry this man.”

  There, she had said it.

  The spoon clinked softly in her mother’s tea cup. Her father’s newspaper rustled almost accusingly, as he held the pages with more force.

  “Yes, you will,” she heard him say from behind the protective paper wall.

  “I cannot marry him,” Minerva objected.

  How was she supposed to explain to her parents that Mr Meade would never ever allow her to write her novels? And even if he did lower his standards to the point where he would allow her quirky little “hobby”, then a mere toleration of her passion was far from what she desired in a husband. She needed to write in the same way as she needed air to breathe! Imagining stories, creating people, and sending them into bloodcurdling and dangerous situations – all of that was so much more than just a pastime like knitting or embroidery. “I do not love him.” Her parents understood this argument better than any other thing she might have said about things that were denied to women.

  Her father’s reaction was to grip the newspaper even tighter. Her mother looked at her anxiously and raised her eyebrows as if to warn her.

  “You will learn to love him,” Chester Honeyfield grunted. “When your mother and I married, there was no talk of any sentiments. Now, we are as happy and content with each other as anyone could ask for after twenty-one years of marriage.”

  She avoided looking at her mother and focussed solely on the loud throbbing of her rebellious heart.

  “Mr Meade does not love me either,” Minerva said, acting as if she had not heard her father’s argument. “He sees me as nothing more than a pretty little bug. He is looking for a woman who will run his household and sit by his side and smile whenever he is at a social event.”

  The newspaper sank into her father’s lap and revealed the face of an outraged man, who had reached the end of his patience. For a moment, Minerva almost wanted to give in, just so her father would calm down. However, they were talking about her life! She was not willing to give up so easily. “He doesn’t love me, but rather the image he has of me.” Instinctively, her hands smoothed her hair. Her long pale-gold hair showed its natural curl, even when tied back as now, and when unbound, it reached down the entire length of her back. Her face was delicately proportioned and her skin creamy and without blemish. Her well-defined cheek bones prevented her face from looking overly perfect, so that the effect was not that of a porcelain doll, but of a living, breathing woman. In fact, anyone who knew Minerva well also knew that the slight set of her jaw was a good indication of the independent mind that dwelt within. Her eyes reflected her nature, as their unusual light blue-violet colour was tinted here and there with a steely grey, which seemed to change with her moods, just as a blue sky changes from bright to forbidding at the approach of a storm. Her previous suitors had not only praised her eyes, but her immaculate complexion, and her gracious movement, which never seemed to lack in elegance. One of them had even complimented her on her feet and the daintiness of her limbs. At least her mother had agreed with her on that one’s unsuitability.

  “For once and for all – I will not tolerate my daughter marrying a man who will spoil her. You need a firm hand and not some aesthete who will tell you everything you want to hear. You need a man who will teach you obedience and refinement – qualities you are currently lacking.”

  “But…” she began.

  She had actually wanted to tell him that he was right in regards of the aesthete. Of course, her future husband should also be smart, educated and eloquent in his use of words, but by no means should he be a man who would agree with everything that she said.

  Her father laid down his newspaper and rose from his chair.

  “I will ask you one last time. Will you marry Mr Meade?”

  She shook her head and immediately searched for her mother’s clammy hand to reassure her.

  Her father was not only angry – he was completely outraged. Now she would have to muster up all of her courage and remain as steadfast as she could. “I would rather die than to take this oaf as my husband!” Her words did not sound as certain as she would have hoped.

  “In that case, I shall take you by your word,” Chester Honeyfield replied. “You will marry Mr Meade, or…”

  “But he is so incredibly boring!” The words burst out of her, uncontrollably.

  Her father looked at her with a shrewd gaze and smiled. “Oh, so that is the reason why.” He looked strangely satisfied, which scared Minerva even more than his rage had. “I will show you what the word ‘boredom’ really means. Tomorrow morning, I will send you to your aunt in Scuffold, and you will remain there for as long as I see fit. The only books you will be allowed to take with you are those two over there.” He nodded towards the reference books for female behaviour. The advice found in those manuals constantly left Minerva feeling unworthy, as if she were some imbecile – and this only because she had been born a female. So, she had limited her reading of the two books to a necessary minimum and preferred to indulge herself in other books that were much more exciting. She remembered very well the moment she had opened “The Castle of Otranto” for the first time and read the first few pages. Even her memory of it caused her to shiver, half with anxiety and half fascination, as she thought of the events and adventures that had befallen the innocent heroine.

  Her mother placed her teacup back on its saucer and almost simultaneously, Minerva and her father looked over towards her, to see how she was taking the surprising news. Minerva realised, disappointedly, that she would not receive any help from her mother, who only looked at her husband with an expression of surprise on her reddened face, before she rose from her chair. “I shall call for her things to be packed immediately,” she said and swept out of the room.

  Minerva swore to herself that she would never become like her mother, who obeyed everything her father commanded mindlessly and never objected to anything he said. She had to try to persuade him, one last time. “Papa, please do not forget that the season is not over yet. How am I supposed to find a husband if you send me out into the country now? Nobody will be there!” That final sentence sounded more pleadingly than she cared for. For a short moment, it seemed as if her father could be softened, but then he shook his head and buried it behind his newspaper.

  He had rendered his verdict and Minerva would have to follow his orders. She promised herself that she would never marry a man whom she did not love. She really would much rather travel out into the country in the midst of the season and, once there, die a miserable and lonely death.

  Chapter 1<
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  Lady de Lacey had lost her husband in a tragic way, and with it, she had also lost all of her wealth.

  Minerva had never been to Scuffold before, and she had only met her aunt two or three times, when her father’s sister had visited them as she travelled through London. In Minerva’s memory, she was a heavily-built woman, almost half a foot taller than her husband, who had always brought Minerva a small gift when she had visited. The older Minerva had grown, the less fitting those gifts had seemed. The last one had been a glass jar of honey, and Aunt Catherine had enthusiastically praised its healing qualities. She had even gone as far as describing the very last detail of her own various illnesses and the amelioration through the sticky juice, until Minerva had felt herself taken ill from the alleged suffering.

  What could she expect at Scuffold?

  Minerva straightened her bonnet. She longed for someone to talk to, but despite the jostling motion inside the carriage, her mother had managed to fall asleep. The further away from London they drove, the more the roads worsened, and even the extremely good suspension of the carriage seemed to not be able to handle such rough jarring. At her mother’s continued urging, her father had agreed to allow them to travel in the comfort of their family-owned carriage. Only a clear hint from her mother about the dangers which a young woman in the postal carriage would have to face had led him to change his mind.

  Minerva had begged her father to let her maid come with her, but that request had been denied flatly. “Your aunt and uncle have everything you will need,” he replied, and his voice had thundered like that of Zeus, the Greek father of all the gods. “You will need to learn to live with what you have got. A bit of simplicity and humility is exactly what you need.” For a moment, Minerva had wondered if her father was right. The fact that other people saw her as a spoiled young woman was not exactly pleasant. She blushed and decided to talk about this problem with her friend the next time she saw her.