The Secret Duke Read Online Free PDF Page B

for her brother, she didn’t care a featherweight whether Augustus loved her or even liked her. She disliked him, and had done so all her life. But his coldness came closer to hatred, and she had no idea why. She could only think it was because he thought her shame cast a shadow on his spotless reputation.
    He, like everyone else, believed she’d run away with a man four years ago and then been forced to flee back home, ruined, when she was abandoned. She’d then made her situation worse by refusing the husband hastily found for her.
    Reason for anger. Reason for disgust, especially in a person who put such store in virtue and propriety.
    But hatred?
    Four years ago she’d thought her incarceration a temporary penance, that even if her family didn’t think her worthy of a normal life, they’d tire of being her jailers. But instead, the terms of her imprisonment had grown harsher.
    Her father had not only deprived her of money—he’d forbidden her to order anything without permission. She’d been expected to beg for new gowns and stays, and even for shoes or gloves. Before her abduction she’d adored pretty garments in the latest style, and so they’d expected her to grovel, but some spirit lacking in her before her abduction had broken free to require that she never, ever beg.
    She’d learned to patch and mend her clothing, and to pretend to be happy with the result. As for shoes and gloves, as she rarely went anywhere, they hardly mattered.
    After a while, that same dogged spirit insisted that if she had to repair her clothing, she would learn to do it well. From mending, she’d progressed to refurbishing, and then to improving garments with needle lace and embroidery. Rather than beg for supplies, she’d scavenged. The attics of Carscourt held a century’s worth of castoffs, both faded furnishings and discarded fashion. She’d unraveled material and unpicked threads, often also finding beads, braid, and lace.
    Her family had found her desperate devices satisfying, so Bella had hidden her growing enjoyment of her treasure hunting and ingenuity. Pretty, frivolous Bella Barstowe, the greatest flirt in Oxfordshire, would never enjoy such lowly and tedious tasks.
    Somehow, Augustus had realized. When he’d become head of the family, he’d had the house cleared of most of what he called “rubbish,” and locked up the rest. Over the past year, Bella had become miserable enough to satisfy even his warped soul.
    “I hear voices,” Lucinda declared, rushing to the mirror to check her cap. “Augustus is bringing someone here!”
    Did she imagine the guest might be a suitor? At twenty-six, Lucinda was past her last hopes, but here she was, eyes bright, color high.
    Bella devoutly wished Lucinda would marry. That would have to create a change in her own situation, for she couldn’t be left here alone. It would be a dangerous roll of the dice, but at this point the gates of hell would be tempting, if only because they would take her away from Carscourt.
    The door opened and Augustus ushered in a rotund, cloaked gentleman. He quickly closed the door behind him. It was April, but still cool apart from the few rooms that had a fire.
    Bella’s bedchamber was not, of course, one of those. Under Augustus’s rule, she hadn’t had a fire even in the depths of winter. She’d been tempted to start burning furniture.
    Henry, the first footman, had come in behind. He helped the visitor to unwind a long, thick scarf and shed his cloak, revealing a genial gray- haired gentleman with a drip at the end of his nose. As Henry carried the items away, the guest dug out a handkerchief and blew.
    Lucinda had risen excitedly, but Bella was still seated.
    “Stand up, Isabella!” Augustus commanded.
    Someone of his saintly reputation should be thin, but though not fat, Augustus was always slightly puffy, and he had a small mouth that pulled in so tightly when he disapproved that it looked like the mouth of a tight-drawn purse.
    As