Taming the Beastly Duke’s Desires (Preview)

Chapter One

Northumberland, England 

Spring – 1813

“Is this really the way to Ravenwood Manor?” Charlotte Evans called out, pulling down the carriage window and leaning out.

The jolting of the carriage was becoming quite unbearable, and it had been almost an hour since they had passed the last signpost on the northern road, taking any number of ever more obscure turns as they went. She leaned further out as the carriage driver turned and nodded.

“This is the way, Lady Charlotte. I thought you’d been here before,” he said.

Charlotte nodded. She had been there before, but it had been many years ago, when she was only a child. The countryside looked different, somehow–vast stretches of rolling moorland on every side, dotted with the occasional tree or lonely farm. It was unrecognisable now. In her childhood, her visits to Ravenwood Manor had been an adventure, but now, aged twenty-two, and still reeling from the tragic death of her parents, the journey was becoming burdensome. She had left Chatham–her father’s dukedom–almost a week ago, and her journey north had been long and tiring.

“It’s been fifteen years since I was last here,” Charlotte replied, looking out across the moorland for anything remotely familiar.

“We’re coming to the head of the valley now, Lady Charlotte. A few more miles, then we’ll be there. I’ll be glad of a bed in the stables; so will the horses,” the carriage driver said. Charlotte pulled up the window and sat back in the compartment with a sigh.

She did not know why her father stopped coming to his ancestral home all those years ago–a falling out with his sister, Charlotte’s aunt, and then…

“It was such a strange business. He never spoke of it, but it’s been so long. And my aunt…what’s she going to be like after all these years? She was most insistent I come. Guilt, perhaps,” Charlotte said aloud, taking out the letter her aunt had sent her.

It had arrived a month ago, offering Lady Margaret’s deepest condolences on the death of her brother and inviting Charlotte to stay with her in Northumberland. It had been a strange letter–the condolences formal, as though Charlotte’s aunt had shed no tears for the passing of her brother. Charlotte had not particularly wanted to go. Her aunt was now a distant figure and had shown little interest in her since falling out with Charlotte’s father all those years ago. Charlotte’s life was in the south. She had supportive friends there, and the benefits of society all around her. Charlotte’s only family was her aunt. And with no male relative to inherit her father’s estate and title following his death, Charlotte had found herself without any form of income. Her aunt’s invitation had come at just the right time, and Charlotte had rented her father’s estate to the member of parliament for Chatham, before making the journey north.

“You’ll find Ravenwood Manor much the same as you remember it, I’m sure, and it’ll be such a delight to have you here. You can stay as long as you wish. We’ll be good company for one another. I remember just how much you adored the grounds and woods when you were a child,” her aunt had written, and Charlotte now read over the words again, reminded of the happy days she had spent at Ravenwood Manor as a child.

“I did love the grounds, especially the rose garden with its hundreds of perfumed blooms. And the strange wooden door leading through the wall into the woods where the bluebells carpeted the ground in spring. And the sunken ponds, where the air smelled damp and heady, and the rhododendrons grew with their towering mass of flowers. And…oh, it was beautiful, but…it won’t be like that now,” Charlotte said aloud to herself.

The eyes of a child always saw things differently, and it was perhaps for that reason she found nothing familiar in the landscape they were passing. Charlotte had grown up, and Ravenwood Manor now seemed a strange and unfamiliar place to be returning to. She did not know what she would find there. Perhaps only lingering memories and the sense of a past she had long left behind. Both her parents were dead, her father having died within a few months of her mother, who succumbed to a dreadful fever.

But where else am I to go? she asked herself.

The answer was nowhere. Her aunt was the only family she now had, and with her father’s estate now let, Charlotte could do nothing but accept Lady Margaret’s invitation. The carriage was now trundling down a steep track, with hedges growing tall on either side. Trees arched above, creating a canopy of dappled shade, and Charlotte remembered this being the route into the valley, a winding lane, now crossing a river, and following the course of the water. This was the River Raven, after which the manor was named.

“I never understood why it was built so far away from anywhere. No wonder my father bought the estate in Chatham and left my aunt here,” Charlotte thought to herself.

As a child, the remoteness of the Ravenwood estate had seemed magical and otherworldly. But now, without the eyes of a child to see through, Charlotte could only think it lonely and isolated. There would be no society here, no friends to call on, no balls to be invited to, and no salons in which to sit and take tea…even though she detested such things as a rule. But Charlotte would only have her aunt for company, and she feared the two of them might not get on.

“I’m going to have to take a lot of walks,” Charlotte said to herself, and she could at least look forward to finding those many places she had played as a child, and discovering new ones, too.

Charlotte was something of a botanist, entirely self-taught, but still an expert on plants and their medicinal uses. In this, she had followed in her father’s footsteps. He had built a hothouse on their estate at Chatham and had collected all manner of exotic plants from around the world in his youth when he and Charlotte’s mother had made expeditions to the new world and the orient. Charlotte had inherited her father’s love of plants, and it had been at Ravenwood Manor where he had first introduced her to the joys of plant collecting.

“Every plant has a use, Charlotte. It’s just a matter of finding it,” he would say, and Charlotte had grown up learning all the different uses of the plants she found in the gardens, both at home and at Ravenwood Manor.

The one saving grace of her move north was seeing the gardens again. Even if her aunt proved less than pleasant company, Charlotte knew she would have the gardens, woods, and moorland to walk about and discover plants both old and new.

“The one saving grace in all of this,” she thought to herself, as the carriage followed the course of the river along the valley.

As it curved, Charlotte caught her first glance of Ravenwood Manor, framed between the tall oaks growing on the riverbank. It had not changed, even in all the years since she had last set eyes on it. The valley had a timeless quality to it, and the house was just the same. It was built of sandstone, with gable ends, and a wing on one side, built as an addition by Charlotte’s paternal grandfather. The roof was steep, with a dozen chimneys lining the ridge, and many of the windows were shuttered.

It must be so lonely for my aunt. She’s a recluse, Charlotte thought to herself, as now the carriage pulled through the open gates and along the tree lined drive, sweeping onto the forecourt, which commanded a view across the garden to the hills beyond.

The valley of the River Raven cut through the moorland, creating a contrast between heather and woodland. The trees grew steeply on the valley sides, rising to make Ravenwood Manor almost invisible until an approach was made. It was like another world, secret and hidden away from prying eyes. The carriage driver jumped down from the buckboard and opened the door of the compartment.

“There we are, Lady Charlotte. Safely here,” he said, as Charlotte climbed down from the carriage.

The air was sweet with the scent of the gardens. It was a damp, earthy smell, and Charlotte could hear the pleasant running of water in the river below the house. The last time she had stood there, she had been ten years old, and her aunt had kissed her with tears in her eyes.

“You’ll bring her back soon, won’t you, Archibald?” she had said, clutching Charlotte’s father’s hand as she spoke.

“We’ll see, Margaret. I’ve got a lot to think about,” he had replied.

Charlotte remembered the conversation vividly. Not because she had understood it, but for the opposite reason. She did not understand why her parents had never returned to Ravenwood Manor, even as her aunt had begged them to do so. But now she was here, a sense of familiarity came over her. What seemed to be another world once again became her world, as though the house and grounds had been waiting for her return.

“It’s a strange place,” Charlotte said, as the carriage driver looked around him with interest.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known a house so remote as this,” he said, shaking his head.

At that moment, the door opened, and the once familiar figure of Charlotte’s aunt’s butler appeared. His name was Collingwood, and whilst he had aged considerably in the past fifteen years, he was still recognizable by his smile. 

“Miss Charlotte, as I live and breathe, you’ve come back then,” he said, and Charlotte smiled.

“Good day, Collingwood. How nice it is to see you again after all these years. I don’t think Ravenwood Manor looks any different to how I remember it. But I suppose we change, don’t we?” she said, and the butler nodded.

“We all change, Lady Charlotte, but Ravenwood stays the same,” he said, glancing back towards the house.

The carriage driver had unloaded Charlotte’s trunks from the carriage, and the kitchen boy now came running at Collingwood’s summons. Charlotte followed them into the house. As she stepped across the threshold, a familiar sound transported her back to her childhood. It was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the hallway. It had belonged to her paternal grandmother, who had always prided herself on it keeping time, or so her father had always told her.

“She’d wind it up every morning at nine o’clock and stand here listening to it chime,” he had said. Now it chimed, just as it always had.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Charlotte stood listening to the familiar striking of the pendants. She smiled as the butler turned to her.

“Her Ladyship winds it every day,” he said, reinforcing Charlotte’s memory of her father’s words.

“Is my aunt here?” Charlotte asked, for she had seen no sign of Lady Margaret, as now she looked around the familiar hallway, unchanged in all the years she had been away.

The walls were lined with the same portraits. Her father and aunt when they were children, sitting with long forgotten dogs on the lawn behind the house, ancestors whose names had disappeared into obscurity, and a portrait of Henry VII. He had been monarch when the house and lands were gifted to Charlotte’s family for their siding with the king during the civil wars which ended the Plantagenet dynasty. 

“She’s resting, Lady Charlotte. I’m to make you comfortable, though,” Collingwood said, but Charlotte had no desire to rest.

She had been sitting in the carriage for most of the day, and she was keen to step out into the gardens and be reminded of that same familiarity she had now experienced in the house.

“I’ll go out, I think. I won’t be long. But I want to…well, I want it to feel familiar,” Charlotte said, and the butler smiled.

His hair was grey now, and he walked with a slight stoop. But Charlotte remembered when he would carry her on his shoulders around the house or lift her up into the apple trees to pluck the ripest fruits from the branches.

“It’s good to have you back here, Lady Charlotte. The house…it’s missed you, though I’m surprised you don’t arrive with a young man in tow; if you’ll pardon me for saying so. I always imagined seeing you married,” he said, blushing a little, as Charlotte smiled.

“No, Collingwood. I don’t think I’ll be getting married,” Charlotte replied, shaking her head as she thought back to some of the disastrous reasons why marriage was not something she was immediately considering.

Her parents had tried to introduce her to eligible young men, but more often than not, the expectations of these would be suitors did not match her own. There had been the time she had spoken lyrically and with great enthusiasm to the son of Lord and Lady Ashby about the various merits of snake venom. Suffice to say, he had not called on her the following day. Then there had been the disaster with the Duke of Brentwood’s son, Oliver, whom Charlotte had insisted the giant water lily pads in her father’s hot house could support his weight. He had ended up floundering in the pond, soaked through, and had caught a cold from which he had barely recovered. Charlotte had not heard from him again, either. She was, by her own estimation, not like other women, and whilst she tried her best to feign interest in balls and soirees, Charlotte’s true love lay in botany and the natural world. She was fascinated by it and would use any excuse to share her interest with others. Her audience did not always enjoy or appreciate her thoughts on botany, though.

“Oh, but perhaps…I’m sure you will, Lady Charlotte,” Collingwood replied.

But Charlotte was eager to be outside, and now she hurried to change her shoes and turn up the folds of her skirts, intending to make the once familiar walk through the gardens and into the woodland before returning to greet her aunt later on. Calling out her goodbyes to Collingwood, Charlotte stepped out into the garden, breathing in the fresh, damp air, and making her way around the back of the house.

It’s just as I remember it, she said to herself, delighting in the resurgence of memories.

There was the tree her father had attached a swing to for her when she was six years old and there was the pond by which she and her mother would sit and picnic. The garden was in bloom, and everywhere she looked, flowers and plants were bursting into life: rhododendrons, roses, lilies, coneflowers, iris, lavender, in every colour imaginable. Pinks and purples, deep shades of reds and oranges, yellows and magentas. The scent was heady and intoxicating, and as Charlotte made her way further into the garden, it was as though she was stepping back in time to a moment when she was not yet grown up, not yet bloomed, and every possibility lay before her.

I hadn’t realised what I was missing, she said to herself, feeling as though she, too, was blooming like the flowers in the garden.

 

Chapter Two

“No, damn it, not like that. I can’t do it myself, tie it tightly,” William Sinclair exclaimed, as his servant, Rupert, tried to lace up his left boot.

“I’m sorry, your Grace, it’s just…you need to move your foot this way,” the servant replied, indicating the easier position.

William gave an exasperated cry.

“Damn it, Rupert. I can’t do it myself, can I? If I could, I wouldn’t have you crouching on the floor. It’s not my fault I can’t lace up my own boot, is it? If it wasn’t for that bloody Frenchman, perhaps I wouldn’t have to rely on you. Lace it up, quickly. Now, I want to go out. If I don’t move the damn thing, it’ll seize up,” William snarled, and the servant hurried to tighten the lace.

“There we are, your Grace. It’s done now. Shall I help you? You can lean on me if you wish,” Rupert said.

“The day I lean on you, Rupert, is the day I accept defeat. I know you’re only trying to help me. You’ve been my loyal batman all these years, but I’ll do it myself. Do you understand?” William replied.

The servant straightened up, stepping back and nodding.

“Yes, your Grace,” he replied, as William took a deep breath and allowed the weight on his legs to balance.

He clenched his teeth, breathing through the pain on setting his left leg equal to his right. It had been a war wound he got on the Iberian Peninsula fighting against the French. William was a decorated officer, but the injury at the hands of a French skirmish had brought his distinguished military career to an end. Ever since, William had lived with the pain of his injury, sustained from an errant gunshot during a skirmish, and every day he battled through the pain, insisting on walking on his injured leg, despite the advice of others not to do so.

“You’ll only make it worse, William,” the army surgeon had said, but William was adamant.

He was a stubborn man, used to getting his own way, and having retired to his Northumberland estate, William was now something of a recluse. Rupert had been his batman, his servant, his right-hand man, on the Iberian Peninsula and he, too, had returned to England following William’s injury. He was loyal beyond all expectation, and whilst William would not openly admit it, he could not do without him, the pain in his leg growing progressively worse with each passing day.

“I’ll be back later. Have something ready for me to eat,” William said, and Rupert nodded.

“Yes, your Grace,” he replied, as William hobbled across the hallway.

He had lived at Raven Grange for the past five years, becoming something of a recluse in that time, and living without staff or servants, apart from Rupert, in the glorious isolation of the Raven Valley. His nearest neighbour was Lady Margaret Sweeting, a recluse in her own right, the two of them having barely met, save on a couple of occasions when their paths crossed in the woods, or William rode past her carriage on the track by the river. That was how he liked it, for William had no desire to make friends. He lived with his memories, still with that same discipline he had known in the military and determined not to allow his injury to get the better of him.

“You’ll have to help me on the steps,” William said, for he refused to use a stick, and now Rupert stepped forward, taking William by the arm, and helping him down to the door.

Raven Grange was a sprawling house, built at the head of the valley in the sandstone matching other dwellings on the moor. From the door of the house, William could see down the full length of the valley, across the woodlands, and above the chimneys of Ravenwood Manor. Smoke was rising from the chimneys, and William wondered what would become of Lady Margaret when she was too old to manage the isolation of her valley dwelling.

If I could get rid of her, I’d have the whole valley to myself, William thought to himself, as he walked across the flagstones at the front of the house, taking his usual path through the trees.

William was too stubborn to admit the pain his injury gave him. He did not even walk with a limp, preferring to endure the pain through gritted teeth, and refusing to show any sign of weakness, except in private to Rupert.

It’s not getting any worse. If I can do this walk each day, I’ll never admit defeat, he said to himself, taking the familiar path through the trees and following a stream leading to the river below.

It was the same walk every day, approximately three miles in length, and taking William just over an hour to complete. He enjoyed the solitude, the peace of the woodland, and a chance to reminisce about old times. He was thirty-three years old and resented the fact of his injury. William should still be fighting battles and leading men to victory. He did not relish his life as it was, even as he had no choice in the matter, and lived as a recluse to avoid the awkwardness of explanation. In this, he was content, or so he told himself. Solitude, peace, reminiscence; that was what he wanted, and that was what he had. He had never married, nor did he court friendships of any kind. Rupert was his companion, and William spent his days reading and writing his memoirs in the study at Raven Grange. Apart from his walk, he did not go out, and he could not remember the last time he had encountered anyone but Lady Margaret in the valley.

“And let it stay like that,” he thought to himself, as he made his way down the familiar path by the stream.

But as he came to the bottom of the hill, where the stream joined the river, William was surprised to see a woman, her skirts pulled up, her feet bare, stepping gingerly into the water. It surprised him, and he stared at her in astonishment. She had not yet seen him, and now she began to sing, her words familiar to him from his childhood.

 

How many kinds of sweet flowers grow
In an English country garden?
We’ll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss you’ll surely pardon
Daffodils, heart’s ease and phlox
Meadowsweet and lady smocks
Gentian, lupin and tall hollyhocks
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, forget-me-nots
In an English country garden

 

I wonder who she might be? She’s on my land as soon as she steps into the water, William said to himself, still watching, as the woman stepped gingerly down from the bank.

His eyes narrowed, watching her, and wondering what to do next. William did not take kindly to trespassers, and having never seen her before, he decided to scare her off.

***

Charlotte had been wandering in the gardens for over an hour, exploring all the familiar places she had once known, and delighting in the happy memories of that beautiful place. The door through the garden wall had taken her into the woodland, where tall trees grew above the mossy floor and ferns grew in abundance. A path led down to the river, and Charlotte had remembered the place her father had taught her to swim when she was a child. There was a pool at the confluence between the river and a stream, deep and clear, its waters invitingly blue, and reflecting the dappled sunlight streaming through the canopy above.

Isn’t it beautiful? Why did we stay away for so long? she asked herself, taking off her shoes and stockings, and intending to wade into the water.

She had a mind to swim, though she thought her aunt would disapprove if she returned wet through to the house. As she had walked, Charlotte had hummed a tune her mother had taught her when she was a child. It was all about the garden, and now, as she stood at the water’s edge, she sang the words as best she remembered them.

 

How many insects come here and go
In an English country garden?
We’ll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss you’ll surely pardon
Fireflies, moths and bees,
Spiders climbing in the trees
Butterflies drift in the gentle breeze
There are snakes, ants that sting
And other creeping things
In an English country garden.

 

The words reminded Charlotte of her mother, and she smiled at the thought of all the happy memories she had of Ravenwood Manor and the valley. The water was icy cold, but pleasantly so on a warm day, and Charlotte waded a little further into the depths, contemplating whether to launch herself fully into the water.

I could just say I fell in, she thought to herself, but as she took another step forward, a shout from the far bank caused her to look up in alarm.

The noise echoed through the trees, causing a flock of birds to rise into the sky. Charlotte saw a man, a tall man with a powerful physique. Muscular and handsome, with dark brown, almost black, hair, watching her from the opposite bank. His appearance was alarming. Charlotte had not expected to see anyone in the valley, and now she stared at him fearfully, as he shouted at her again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“I…I’m not doing anything. It’s a hot day. I took my shoes and stockings off to wade into the water. I’ve been coming here since I was a child,” Charlotte replied, feeling suddenly defensive.

If anything, her question to him could be the same. The valley belonged to her family, and she had every right to be there.

“Is that so? Do you mean you’ve been trespassing since you were a child?” he demanded.

Charlotte shook her head. This was extraordinary, even as the man appeared livid with rage.

“I’m not trespassing. This is my family’s estate,” she retorted.

“Not when you step into the water, it’s not. The river marks the boundary between my land and Lady Margaret’s. You’re trespassing. Now get back, or do I have to make you?” he cried, advancing towards the riverbank, and taking a step into the water.

Charlotte fancied she detected something of a limp in the way he was walking. Whilst she felt certain she could outrun him, the thought of him catching her filled her with terror. He was nothing but an unpleasant bully, and Charlotte was certain she would ask her aunt all about him as soon as she returned to Ravenwood Manor.

“We always swam here when I was a child. Why do you care so much?” Charlotte replied, retreating to the riverbank, and pulling on her shoes and stockings as the stranger continued to watch her from the opposite side of the river.

“I don’t care who you are, or what you used to do. This is my land, and I’ll keep you off it, if I wish. Do you understand me?” he demanded.

Charlotte nodded. There was no point in arguing. He was nothing but an arrogant bully, and she wished to have nothing more to do with him. His appearance and angry words had sullied the pleasant memories she had of the river. Now she retreated up the bank, glancing behind her, as the stranger continued to watch her.

“I’m going to tell my aunt all about you,” she called out, once she was a safe distance away from him.

“If I catch you here again…” he replied, his words hanging menacingly in the air.

Charlotte turned and hurried up the bank, slipping in her haste and going over on her ankle. She looked back, clutching her foot in pain, but the stranger was gone, and feeling suddenly terrified, she fled, hobbling through the woods, and not stopping until she reached the door through the wall into the garden. She was breathless, looking back over her shoulder for any sign of pursuit. But the woodland was quiet, and her encounter with the stranger seemed almost like a dream.

How horrible, she thought to herself, for it was as though the child innocence of Ravenwood Manor was shattered, replaced by the fear of a stranger, and the threat of what might come next.

***

William watched the woman scrambling up the bank, shaking his head, as he turned and pushed his way through the undergrowth and back to the path. She had been terrified, and whilst there might have been a time when William felt a modicum of guilt for having scared her, now he felt nothing but indifference. She had been trespassing, and he had warned her off. She would think twice before bathing in the river again. Whether she was who said she was or not.

I didn’t realise Lady Margaret had a niece, he thought as he continued along his way.

But in truth, William knew nothing about his neighbour, nor was he particularly interested in her, either. He kept himself to himself, as did she. But the arrival of the stranger could upset the peace and tranquillity of the valley, and that was why William had been so forceful in his anger towards her. He wanted that peace. He craved it. It was safety for him and far from the prying eyes of the world.

I’ll be glad not to see her again, as pretty as she was, he thought to himself.

The sight of the young woman with her skirts hitched up had been alluring, with her dark red hair and willowy figure, standing in the flowing water. She was pretty, even in her anger at being challenged, her cheeks flushed red and her bright eyes glinting in the dappled sunlight. William was not used to seeing women, apart from the charwoman who came once a week by horse and trap to bring provisions from the nearest village and take his washing to be laundered. But she hardly counted. She was a wizened old creature in whom William took no interest. But the sight of Lady Margaret’s niece was different, and William smiled to himself at the thought of seeing her in such an innocent state.

If I’d been but a few moments later, perhaps she’d have been wearing nothing, he said to himself, shaking his head, even as the thought was a pleasant one.

It was a pleasant one, but William dismissed it out of hand, reminding himself of the danger of allowing others into his well-ordered world. The woman was not welcome. No stranger was welcome, and William would deal ruthlessly with anyone found trespassing on his land. He walked slowly back up the hill towards Raven Grange, pausing to look back across the valley, and wondering if the woman was even now informing her aunt of the beastly man she had encountered in the woodland.

“I hope she does, and I hope Lady Margaret makes a point of reminding her niece of the necessity of keeping out of my way,” William thought to himself, knowing just what he would do if he found the woman trespassing on his land again.

---

“Taming the Beastly Duke’s Desires” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

The fiery Charlotte Evans never expected to return to Raven Valley, but when an unexpected invitation arrives from her aunt, she finds herself drawn back to the place where her love of plants and flowers was first kindled, a place of mystery and memories. Yet, amid nature’s breathtaking charm, she becomes enmeshed in the enigma spun by her neighbour, the tempting Duke of Whitmore. When circumstances bring them scandalously closer, and a mystery unfolds…

Will Charlotte find a different side to the devilish man who at first called her a trespasser?

William Sinclair is a man with a secret past, and a desire to be left alone. Yet, when he encounters the alluring Charlotte trespassing on his land, his reclusive intentions are tested, and he finds himself at odds with burning thirst for solitude. As events take a dramatic turn, William discovers he can no longer rely solely on himself, and in Charlotte’s enticing company, he begins to realise he does not have to.

Can his forbidden desire bloom entwined with the malevolent blossoms of his past?

As Charlotte and William face their unexpected challenges together, can they put their differences aside, and find common ground, no longer as trespassers on one another’s land, but as trespassers on one another’s hearts? Against the backdrop of the secluded valley, where passion blooms on every side, Charlotte and William find an unexpected blossoming of sinful romance. However, will their lust’s fragrance overpower the ghosts of yesterday and make what at first seemed impossible, possible? Or is it doomed to wither in time?

“Taming the Beastly Duke’s Desires” is a historical romance novel of approximately 60,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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