The Duke of Hearts – A Regency Romance
I would like to dispel the myth that I, Sarah Archer, the daughter of what is usually referred to as a “minor family”, am in any way inferior to my peers. This is commonly muttered amongst lords when they see how I interact with the “common folk”. That I do not spit in their direction is considered a slight against the most privileged of society. That I, in fact, do not flinch at the idea of sharing the same air space is positively scandalous. Perhaps this is why at the age of twenty-three I was not yet married.
I first saw Francis Seymour in London in 1806 To say I was immediately captivated and intrigued and astonished and beguiled by him would, of course, be unseemly; and yet it is the truth. It was not a planned meeting, and, indeed, no words were exchanged between us, I being in town for a meeting with friends, and he being in town for reasons unknown to me.
We passed mere inches of each other on a thoroughfare not far from Westminster. He carried himself differently to the Dukes I had seen before. His arms were by his sides, like a fighting man, and his steps were not ladylike in the slightest, but heavy and probably “uncouth”. He wore dress far beneath his economic powers, with only the slightest frill and flare adorning his jacket and breeches and boots.
As soon as we passed, I asked my maidservant who the man was, and, she being a surprisingly well-informed source of information of that kind, she told me that he was Francis Seymour, and had recently come into his Dukedom in Somerset. I admit my heart was beating fearfully quickly; I thought it may break out of my bodice. There, I have said two unrespectable things in the space of a few words! This will cause quite a stir if it is even found, I am sure. Perhaps I will arrange for it to be published after my death, but that is morbid and a concern for another time.
Being thus informed about this man, to whom I felt a pull altogether astounding and perplexing to me, I decided without hesitation that I must see him again. This impulsive and unflinching behavior has, on several occasions, caused men to refer to me as “no kind of woman at all”. Several courtships have met swift ends because of it. Hoping that this mysterious man would not be the same, I set in course motions for my arrival at Berry Pomeroy Castle, under the guise of a social visit to coincide with the fayre.
“Are you sure you want to go all that way for a fayre, daughter?” Father asked, in that timid and slightly reproachful way of his.
“Father, I am positively suffocating. My sisters are all off having children or visiting abroad – they are all, in short, engaged in some kind of adventure – and I believe I am entitled to a little adventure of my own. You need not worry. I will keep the breech-wearing and pipe-smoking to a minimum.”
“Sarah!” Father exclaimed, but there was a smile behind his beard, which he grew despite criticism. We were both out of sorts, Father and I.
Charlotte came to my chambers soon later, with a knock on the door. I bid her enter, and she fluttered into the room like a rose petal blown in the wind. “Sarah!” she cried, holding my hands. “He said yes, didn’t he! We’re going to the fayre! Oh, do you think it will be wonderful? I bet it will be wonderful!”
I admit I was taken up with the girl’s enthusiasm, and we talked at length about how wonderful it would be. It was truly an event for her, and it warmed me to see her so moved. My own sisters having long since moved away, and my brother away making his fortune in London, Charlotte was like family to me.
That night I could not sleep for thinking of the fayre, a mere three months away. Guilt broiled within me, warring with the excitement. I was behaving, after all, in a cunning and “unwomanly” way.
But we women are so often the pawns. I thought it was time we played the chess master for once.
*****
Having been acquainted with castles since a young age, I was not befuddled at the sight of Berry Pomeroy, though I had to admit it was grand and beautiful. The three months had passed in much the same way as the three months before; I have often wondered if my obsession with the Duke would have been so intense had not those months elapsed since our accidental and secret meeting.
We arrived just when the tents and festivities were being erected outside the castle. Jugglers and mummers milled around the tents, waiting for their chance to shine. That the Duke allowed this fayre to be held on his land was another sign to me that he was a man, unlike others. To be sure I talked among the mummers and jugglers and common folk for quite some time, with the intention of firstly enjoying their conversation, as they had none of the sickening tightness of lip and sternness of face that is so common among our class; and secondly to see if I could learn aught about the mysterious Duke. No man there would hear of his name being spoken of in any by a flattering light. My instincts thus reaffirmed, I prepared for my formal introduction to him.
We were welcomed into the main hall, in which several lords and ladies stood in tight circles, clutching their chalices and talking softly to one another. I was accustomed to being stared at as a member of that dying family Archer, and so it did not overly bother me. Presently Duke Francis Seymour walked through the crowds and stood before me.
“My lady,” he said, bowing before me. His eyes were pale blue like ice and his face was kind and strong. He took my hand in his and, before everybody in the room, and brought it to his lips. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he murmured softly, the warmth of his kiss still upon my hand.
I confess I was at first stunned by this display. I had never met this man and had no thought of his ever showing me any affection. I almost wrapped my tongue upon itself in trying to reply, but then I recovered some of my poise and smiled at him, as charmingly as I was able. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” I replied, withdrawing my hand.
“Meet me later, in the gardens,” he whispered, so only I could hear.
I should have been outraged by such a proposition. It is no kind of thing for a lady to agree to. And I am sure my peers will think me incredibly dishonorable for entertaining such a sordid idea. But the Duke’s voice did not allow for hesitation, and I admit I was beyond curious at this point. I have him the slightest of nods, at which point he began to talk with other guests, leaving me shocked and excited: leaving me broiling with feeling.
*****
The word “later” being somewhat ambiguous, the first task handed to me was trying to work out what time, exactly, Francis wanted me to arrive at the gardens. There was no way to know for definite, so, wishing not to appear over keen, but also wishing not to miss him entirely, I waited until the sun had reached its noonday peek and began to descend for two hours before casually mentioning to Charlotte that I wished to stroll the gardens. She was taken up with the jollity of the fayre, and I bid her stay and enjoy herself. Thanking me, she freed me and allowed me to walk unescorted to the gardens.
I knew what I was doing to wrong and socially unacceptable, and yet I couldn’t forget this man. It is no way for a woman to behave, it is true, and yet I couldn’t just walk away and pretend that I had never seen him. I felt as though there was an affinity between us; I felt as though his ice-blue eyes saw past whatever element it was that ever men seemed to find so repugnant in me. Other men, after talking to me for a few minutes, will often make some excuse and flee to some quieter girl. Perhaps this has something to do with my habit of reading “unwomanly” literature, or my penchant for walking alone on the grounds around my father’s home. Whatever it is, I have been called intimidating by men, and now I take that as a compliment.
I did not think it likely, however, that I would intimidate the Duke. He had a fine, muscular build, his jacket and breeches word tight to accentuate his form. His face was strong and kind, with a solidity that was only heightened by his ice-blue eyes. He had the overall appearance of a wind-besieged mountain range, wild and dangerous and strong. I was more than intrigued. I was enthralled.
The main festivities having begun at the fayre, the garden was empty apart from one or two wanderers that presently made their way to the far end and disappeared in a sea of blues and reds and pinks and purples. I sat in a shadowed corner, fanning myself, partly because of the heat, and partly as a mummery to anyone who wished to spy upon me. How could they object to a lady taking a break from the heat? Looking around anxiously, I thought I caught sight of the Duke many times only to be disappointed. Flowers that drooped and flowers that stood proud, at every disturbance, had me craning my neck to see the Duke, who was, I was sure, the man who had caused them to rustle. But there must have been some critters in there, for he was not there.
After ten minutes, I was about to leave. Color has risen in my cheeks and I felt distinctly ill, like someone had just fed me some nasty toxin. Perhaps the Duke was toying with me, I thought; and perhaps he has told the partygoers that he has tricked me into waiting for him in the garden. If that is the case, I will be ruined and so will father. There will be no coming back from this. “How could I be so foolish!” I whispered fiercely. “How could I be such a fool! There will be consequences for this! Brutal consequences! All hell will be unleashed! Father will never be able to show his face again! Ah, what have I done!”
I almost began to weep, which further heightened my anxiety. I hate to weep, hate to appear like those heroines in popular fiction that are rendered incapacitated by tears. Somehow, I managed to hold the tears away, to firm myself up, and was about to stand and make a swift exit from the grounds when there was yet another rustling amongst the rainbow-colored flowers. Despite myself, I turned, and saw the Duke walking confidently toward me.
My heart gave a skip, leap, jump within my chest. I forced myself to retake my seat, lest it appear that I was eager to see him, which I was, but which would be silly to show him. He looked around and, upon seeing me, smiled at strolled over to the bench on which I sat.
“My lady,” he said. “May I sit?”
“Of course,” I said.
He sat closer to me that was strictly proper, his thigh touching mine. I had never been so close to a man, and especially not so close to a man which provoked such feelings within me. He shifted his leg, with the express purpose, I believe, of rubbing my thigh with his. I blushed but I did not move away. The sensation was warm and pleasant, and it was not outwardly ignoble. To any spectator, we were just two people sitting upon a bench.
“I have seen you, in London,” the Duke said.
I had to bite my lip to stop from screaming.
He observed me for a moment, and then went on: “It was a while back. I was in town for some boring business or another. You were with your maidservant, the woman who accompanied you today, I believe. I cannot say precisely why I was so taken with you the first moment I saw you, Miss Archer, except that you have a face not at all rose- or doll-like. You have the face of a strong woman who is not at all confined by the archaic ideas of our ancestors. I believe that a countenance can tell much. Furthermore, I believe that yours speaks of a spark of intellect usually quashed in a woman. Am I correct? Do you read, Miss Archer?”
I wished to take a moment to recompose myself, but the idea of fleeing this meeting was unacceptable to me. Here was a man who not only recognized that I was unlike my peers, but seemed to respect it! This was a strange development in my own perception of the human condition, as I long ago had concluded that all men, at heart, would rather see a woman dashed upon the rocks that read any kind of serious book. And yet here was the Duke, asking me if I read books, and with a hint of pride in his tone!
“I have taught myself Greek and Latin and read the few classics Father has managed to procure for me. I also read the natural arts and history. These are all unwomanly subjects and if you were to tell no me I would be absolutely ruined.”
“I will not tell on you,” the Duke said, and turned to me. He looked down form my face to my neck, and then further down, in the most dishonorable way. His eyes romped over my body, but I did not stop him. Then they returned to my face. “You are a beautiful woman, in both mind and appearance. My lady, I wish to hold your hand.”
“Here?” I said, uneasily. If somebody spied us holding hands, we would be more or less engaged, less an outrage was to be caused.
“Here,” the Duke said carelessly. “I wish to feel your hand in mine.”
He held his hand out. I looked at it for a few moments, heart thundering now in my chest. I knew it was wrong and yet I wanted very badly to have my hand in his. “I will hold your hand,” she said. “But we must be sure to retract them quickly if somebody ventures into the garden.”
He nodded and then took my hand in his, placing both hands upon my thigh. This was the zenith of improper behavior. I was aware of that then and I am aware of it now. Yet I was disinclined to take my hand away because the warmth and the closeness were intoxicating. We said nothing for a few minutes, just sat there and shared each other’s warmth, and then he turned and faced me with ice-blue eyes that seem to look into me. To say that they looked into my soul would sound melodramatic. However, that is what it felt like at the time.
He smiled, and his strongly made face opened to me. “I have sought this for a long time,” he said.
“What is that, Duke?”
“Somebody with whom I could sit and hold hands and not have it be a cataclysmic event. Somehow I knew when I saw you in London that you were not like other women. It was in the way you carried yourself. You walked through the city, not like a star-struck woman, but almost like a man.” He winced. “That sounds monstrous, doesn’t it? I do not mean to call you manly. I merely mean to say that you, as far as I can tell, have shunned much of the extraneous womanliness that encumbers so many.”
I knew I could take offense if I wished, but I also knew exactly what he meant. Almost involuntarily, I squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I knew what you meant,” I said. “You do not need to worry.”
He smiled at me again. “I want to see you again, after today,” he said. “We must contrive a reason for you to stay. I have guest quarters where you and your maidservant may abide for a time, if you wish.”
This idea was glorious to me. I could stay within his proximity. I could be with him for a longer time. The obstacle was Father. He was under the impression that I could be back on the morrow. “I would have to send word to Father,” I said.
“I could do that,” the Duke said. “If I were to contrive some party or gathering. Yes, that is what I will do. I will throw a grand party five days from now. If I write to your father personally, I do not see how he can object. I am, after all, a Duke.” He said this with none of the condescension or social pretentiousness which is so common in this sphere. He merely spoke the truth. “I would send the missive by messenger,” he went on. “Your father would learn immediately, and so any social missteps would be alleviated. If he wishes for your return, of course you must go. But I do not think he will. What is your answer, Sarah? Please, say yes!”
He gazed into my eyes imploringly. I nearly reached out to touch his face, but I restrained myself. All around us life was happening, and yet I felt utterly disconnected from it all. Life was no happening out there; it was happening here.
“I will stay,” I said. I hastened to add: “But you must write to Father this instant. Make it clear that it is for the party, and stress the social benefits.”
“I shall,” the Duke said, releasing my hand. “I shall write to him this instant. Will you come with me, Sarah? I will go to my study, and there are books there that I think might interest you.”
At the mention of books I had stood as though by rote. “I will come,” I said, as naturally and unexcitedly as I was able.
The Duke nodded and began to walk. After a moment, I followed, not so close as to cause murmur, but not so distant as to be strictly proper.
*****
The main body of the guests still being occupied with the festivities, the library was a private meeting place for the Duke and me. He led me into a chamber a Greek philosopher would be happy to stand in for a time. It was not so much the architecture of the room that provoked a profound response within me, but the character of the room. Everywhere one looked, books lay upon the shelves, hundreds and hundreds of them. I have never seen so many books in my life. I felt my mind turning, as though twisting around in a foolish attempt to see all the books at once.
The Duke walked before me, and then turned and smiled. “It is acceptable?” he said.
“It is—” I could not form words that would properly explain the glory of this room. Only a low light filtered in through slatted windows at the top, dusty with the age of books. It was every romantic dream I had ever envisioned in my youth. So rarely do we humble creatures get to really live our dreams.
The Duke laughed softly and walked through the library as carelessly as if such grandeur were the norm for him; and, I reflected, it must be. After a breathless moment I followed him to a large oak desk and chair, upon which he sat and began to write a letter. He wrote it quickly, and then handed it to me to read. It was simple and plain and undeniable. He, a Duke, wished to keep the Archer daughter here for a time. It was a great honor. I knew right away that Father would agree. I handed him the letter back and he nodded and sealed it within an envelope.
“I will send it this very day,” he said. “We will not have a reply until tomorrow, but I am sure you will stay until then?”
“Yes,” I said, far too quickly. I was finding it harder and harder to hide my eagerness.
He rose from the desk and offered me his arm. Looking around to ensure that we were not being observed, I took his arm. He led me around the library, allowing me to look more closely at some of the more interesting tomes. There were the missing volumes of Homer’s Odyssey. Upon seeing my excitement at holding these volumes, he pushed them into my hands. “They are yours,” he said.
“You cannot mean it,” I whispered, staring down at the books.
“I do,” the Duke said. “It is worth it to just see a woman who gets excited about books. Most women would rather be out there, at the fayre, but I see you are made of different material. I expect that your design has been a hindrance to you for most of your life.”
“It has.”
“That is a great dishonor to Man,” the Duke said vehemently. “I would say you are the kind of woman whom a man needs to treasure, but that would unworthy; I do not think you are any kind at all. I think you are simply Sarah Archer, a beautiful anomaly.”
I had never been flattered so endlessly. The effect it had upon me was jarring. I felt my mouth falling open like a village idiot’s, and yet I was powerless to stop it. I was in awe of this man and his words. I placed the books on the shelf, lest I drop them, stood still for a few moments. Soon he put his hands on my shoulders, gripping them firmly, and turned me toward him.
“I wish to kiss you, Sarah,” he said.
Men are not as honorable as they would have us believe, and I had had this offer thrust before me many times before, with the full knowledge that it would be my downfall if the man was a rascal. For that reason, and the reason that I had never felt an overwhelming inclination to succumb, I had never kissed a man before.
“You wish…”
“To kiss you,” the Duke said firmly. “Will you allow me?”
I stood on the edge of a cliff, the wind whipping at me. One way there was ecstasy, the other was oblivion. What if I succumbed to this man and he was rascal? What if I was one duped woman in a line of duped women? I looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of duplicity, but all attempts to read him were lost in the solid ice-blue of the deep pools of his irises.
Then I tossed intellect aside, a rare thing for me, and consulted my heart. The consultation did not last long. I wanted this, I realized.
“I must not last long,” I said hurriedly, “lest somebody come in and find us.”
“Yes, my lady,” the Duke – Francis – said.
He touched my cheek with his hand, and then leaned forward and placed his lips upon mine. I had been afraid that I would not know what to do, but it felt as natural as walking. Our lips brushed as though they were old companions, and his tongue snaked into my mouth. This was most scandalous, and yet I opened my mouth in return and allowed our tongues to dance.
We kissed for longer than was agreed upon, and would have kissed for longer had not there been the clapping of shoes behind us. We both turned swiftly just in time to see Charlotte enter.
“Miss, I feared something had happened to you!” the poor girl exclaimed.
“The Duke was just showing me his books, Charlotte,” I said. “You did not have to worry.”
“Yes, Miss,” Charlotte said. “Would you like to come outside now?”
The Duke stepped forward. “We shall all go outside and join in on the fun.”
The girl’s face lit up like a fire at that. Then she clapped out of the room. The Duke turned and stared into my eyes. “One more,” he said.
I nodded.
Our lips, our tongues, even our teeth: all of it mashed together in a dance of unearthly pleasure.
*****
It had been three nights from the date of the fayre. I lay awake around three in the morning thinking over the previous three days. Apart from a short stroll around the grounds on the second day, upon which event Charlotte was also present, the Duke and I had not spent any time together since the first day. This was mainly due to exterior events in London, which I will not bore the reader by delving into now. But late on the evening upon which I lay awake, waiting, the business in London had concluded and the Duke’s advisors had left the Castle.
And so our romance could resume.
For the sake of our closeness, the Duke had arranged for Charlotte to have her own room down the hallway. This was agreeable to me, because it made nights like tonight much easier. The Duke was to visit me tonight. We were to spend some time alone together. My nerves were aching with anticipation at this point, and I had already decided that if he didn’t arrive tonight I would return home. There is only so much a woman can take, exterior factors or not.
I watched the moon make its passage across my bedroom wall, the shadows of trees dancing in the pale blue hue. I had been reading the books the Duke had gifted me until early in the morning, but now I was eager to recommence my affections with the Duke. It is unwomanly to say so, but if he had walked in right then and kissed me without permission, I would not have objected.
I must make my state of mind clear, as a defense of sorts, because already the men among you are judging me, calling me unwomanly, perhaps even witchy. For the longest time Father had been trying to get me to marry, as was proper, and I do not blame him for it. If I could only attach myself to a prosperous family, I might elevate the Archers out of the rut they had been stuck in for generations. But my father was too soft-hearted to push with too much insistence, and I was allowed, for the most part, to form my own character.
I chose the character of a book-dweller, spending most of my early adulthood among books, neglecting my “social obligations”. And whilst Father did not hinder me, neither did he approve. So at the point of meeting the Duke, I was afloat in a sea of unrecognition. I desperately wanted somebody to recognize me for what I was, not for who I was supposed to be.
And then came the Duke. His words in the library, his beautiful words which I shall always remember, resounded in me, multiplying each day and increasing in force. The Duke, I was sure, recognized me. And there was something else. There was a bodily reaction, also; my body called out for him, and the taste of his lips on mine was still fresh.
I was his, mind and body, from the second we kissed in the library. I believed with my entire soul that I had found my equal in life. But if he left me now, to wait all night… If he did not come—
Then there came a knock at the door, a secret, soft knock.
I rose and crept to the door, being careful that my steps did not made too much noise. Upon opening it, I saw that it was the Duke, dressed only in britches and a shirt, without any of the adornments that befit his station. He smiled and nodded to his clothes.
“I do not need to dress ceremoniously for you, my love?”
“Of course not,” I said. In fact, it made me feel closer to him that he felt comfortable appearing before me in this fashion. I opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
He came into the room; and before long we were in each other’s arms.
*****
I wish to tell this tale of a poor Archer girl and a Duke with the utmost honesty and openness. To that end I will describe the next section in a detail many of you will find scandalous. It thrills me to recount it, but it may not thrill the more prudent among you: the more “stuck in the past” among you. For the Duke and I, two unmarried persons, made love this night. We made love and I am not ashamed if the world knows it. If I am strung up for a hussy upon publication of this account I will still hold my head high with pride. Those that would string me up no nothing of real love, with their pretense and boundaries and guidelines.
The Duke and I lay upon the bed, having fallen there in mutual reverie when he entered. His lips were on mine and my hands, as though hungry themselves, roved over his body. There was an oppressive and yet not unpleasant warmth in the room. It was as though the two of us were kissing and touching within a stove. I let out moans of pleasure, throwing myself wholly into the moment, something I rarely did. My hands moved down his body, down to that part of a man’s body I had only heard whispers of, but had never seen, let alone touched.
I moved my hands down, down, down, and grabbed that part of him. It was rock-hard to the touch, and I felt my body respond immediately. So, I thought, this is what is meant by lust between a man and a woman. He let out a low growl when I touched him there: a growl filled with pleasure. I rubbed it up and down, up and down, and was glad to hear his growls intensify. My own privates were very wet and hot now.
He moved his hands down my nightclothes and then touched my private area. It was like small flames danced at the end of his fingertips. I bit my lip to stop myself from screaming the Castle down. He rubbed my private area harder and faster, and I became wetter and hotter. Neither of us was overly capable at this sort of thing – neither of us had been with a person before – but instinct led us on. I forgot the judgment that this act caused, and the moment took me up in a rush of euphoria.
Before I knew it, we were tearing at each other’s clothes, ripping them apart like animals unleashed from long captivity. Soon my nightclothes lay in a heap upon the floor, and his shirt and britches presently joined them. The light was low, but I was able to see the contours of his muscular body, the muscles straining hard. A thrill went through me and I placed my hands on his chest.
“I want to make love,” I whispered, unable to stop myself.
Tenderly, he laid me upon my back on the bed. There was some fiddling as we both adopted the right positioning, and then he thrust himself inside of me. There was aching pain at first, and then he pulled himself out and thrust in again, and again. The pain lessened with each thrust, and after a few minutes it was totally gone, replaced by pleasure. I grabbed onto his muscular back as he thrust into me, holding my legs up and moving with his motions.
I had what is referred to as an “orgasm” then. It was a shocking, beautiful feeling. He thrust harder and harder, and I was so focused on his moans, and his muscles, and the deep white-hot heat between my legs, that I did not sense it approaching. Suddenly, wave after wave of pricking, hot pleasure washed over me. I was utterly in its control. It pulsated within me, permeating my whole body, burning, tingling. I let out a scream, and he let out a long moan.
Then he rolled to the side. We were done.
We lay together until the sun began to rise, my head on his chest. At intervals we slept, but then we awoke and talked in low whispers, giggling together like children. I know that men would want me to regret what the Duke and I had just done. They would call me a whore for enjoying it, but I did enjoy it, and to this day I do not regret it. All the horrible stories I had heard – stories full of feelings of remorse, dishonor, and worthlessness – were proved to be false. I only felt content.
After the sun had risen, but still an hour before the house would be awake, we made love again. This time was slower, as we became more acquainted with each other’s bodies. Afterwards, the Duke had to leave, as to not arouse suspicion amongst his staff.
He bid me to meet him in the gardens later that day, and I readily agreed.
*****
There was nothing strange about my meeting the Duke for a stroll through the gardens, so I did not need to lie to Charlotte. I did, however, tell her that I was strolling the grounds alone, leaving my exact course vague just in case she decided to come and find me. I thought that unlikely anyway, seeing as she was quite taken up with the gossiping and minor politics of the servants of the Castle.
It had just passed noon when I walked into the garden, the scent of the glowers heightening my overall feeling on momentousness. I seated myself on a bench in a secluded corner and sat there for a time, looking hither and thither for the Duke. Soon enough, he emerged from behind one of the bushes and approached me. “My love,” he said, clasping my hands. He brought them to his lips and kissed them. “I dreamt of you this morning,” he went on, holding her hands tightly and leading her through the flowerbeds. “I was exhausted from out time together, so I collapsed into my bed when I returned to my chambers. I dreamt that you were with me, in my arms, and we were laying in a field looking up at the stars. I know I am no poet. I wish I could capture the beauty of it for you.”
“Do you like to look upon the stars?” I said. I had an interest in this myself, and had often wished for a tutor to help me learn their proper configurations.
“No in any academic sense,” Francis said, perhaps sensing my motivation. “I just find them peaceful.”
“They make me feel small,” I said. “But in a good way. I like to feel small in the presence of the stars. Many people hate it.”
“You are not many people, my lady,” the Duke said. “Shall we walk into the woods?”
I agreed, and we set our course for the wooded area that surrounds the Castle. I took his arm without it being proffered, and perhaps that is another “black mark” against me. But he did not object, and placed his hand over my arm, as though securing me in.
Soon we were in the woods, and it was a most reassuring experience. It was just the two of us and nature; all around we were surrounded my flowers and shrubbery and wildlife. Once, a squirrel darted across our path and looked up at us quizzically, tilting its little head. The Duke made to pick the creature up, but it fled before he had the chance. At length we found an overturned log, and having been walking for almost two hours we sat upon it to rest.
“I wish we could just sit here forever,” I said, as I was feeling sentimental. “Wouldn’t that be grand? We could just sit here, and the world would pass us by.”
“That would be a gift,” Francis agreed. “Far too often life is wasted in the preparing of it. This, right here...” He took my hands in his, and stared into my eyes. “This right here,” he went on, “is what life should be about. Not the nonsense that most people fill it with. Sarah, I wish I had known you sooner. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
“I agree,” I said. “But we need not rush, my love. We are both young yet.”
He touched my chin with his hand, and turned my face toward his, and then moved forward and touched my lips with his. I breathed in the scent of him, the tingle of his lips on mine even more inductive to a feeling of imbalance and intoxicating than the roses that serenaded our kissing. He moved his hands over my body; and I moved mine over his.
After our breath foray into passion, we resumed our walk. If there is a woman reading this tale, she will no doubt be thinking: “But were you not terrified that he would desert you and leave you ruined? Many a woman has been ruined in very similar circumstances! How could you be so foolish! How could you be so brash!” You are not wrong. I was brash, and perhaps I was foolish in my conduct, but the heart is not some hound to be leashed whenever one pleases. The pleasures of the body are trained pigeons to be called back at a moment’s notice once they have taken flight.
All of us, as persons with humane bodies, are subject to passion and love and closeness. I did not think of being deserted; I only thought of what I had with me now.
We had walked most of the day, and the two of us were tired.
Before we returned to the Castle, the Duke asked me if I would join him for dinner in his chambers the following night. I agreed – how could I not? – and the date was set.
*****
I was so excited for the dinner that I could barely sleep the night before. I lay awake all night going over and over the events of the past few days. Though it had only been a few days, I felt sure that more time had elapsed. Perhaps it was because the turning of events was so awesome. In the space of a few days I had found love, shrugged off social propriety, and “dishonored” myself. There was no going back for me now. I didn’t even think Father would understand, would I ever to tell him. I had crossed a definitive and clear line.
Finally, after a few hours of intermittent sleep, the morning came. Mornings are easier than nights to wait through, I find. There are people around, with whom you can pretend that everything is not reaching a climax: with whom you can pretend life is chugging along as it always has. Charlotte and I went for a walk in the gardens before breakfast, and then ate a light meal before I wandered in the library by myself, occasionally reading, but mostly just being amongst the books.
I watched the course of the sun with a more avid interest that I normally would, and indeed I was afraid some eye strain may result from it, which forced me to close the curtains in the library and read my candlelight. When substantial time had passed, I returned to my quarters and awaited the Dukes summon. The Duke had generously supplied me and Charlotte with clothes, as we only brought enough for a day visit and nothing more. Going through these clothes, I found a floaty, almost ethereal dress woven of blue silk the same color as the Duke’s eyes. I donned this, as well as some earrings I had brought in a small pouch.
Standing before the looking glass, I found myself staring at a handsome woman whose cheeks had reddened with emotion. I looked more vital than I ever had. Love will, I had discovered, make even the most deathly pallor beam with vibrant life; and my pallor had always been on the youthful side of the scale.
Just after I finished dressing, Charlotte came charging into my room. “Sorry, Miss,” she breathed. “It’s just that I walked into the Duke by accident, and he has asked to see you. You see, I was with some of the servants who were setting up the dining room. It is beautiful, Miss, and I was wondering who the Duke was dining with, and then he asked me to fetch you. Not fetch, Miss. I didn’t mean fetch.”
“Relax,” I said, trying to soothe the girl. “I will go to him at once. That will be all, Charlotte.”
Charlotte left, and I made my way through the Castle to the dining room. The chandelier glittered with the light of the torches that burned in sconces along the walls. The curtains were drawn, and the Duke sat at the end of the long dining table. He stood upon my entrance, and I walked over to his end of the table. He pulled a seat out for me, and together we sat.
We said nothing to each other until the servants had brought our food, which they did soon after I sat down. When the food and the drink was brought, the Duke dismissed the servants so that we could be alone. The wine was a magnificent red; I felt as though Spain was on my tongue. The Duke held up his glass, and we clinked them.
“Do you like it?” he said.
“I do,” I replied. “It is beautiful to behold.”
“You are beautiful to behold,” he said impulsively.
I thought about chastising him for his hasty speech, but we had long since passed the point of proper etiquette, and so I took the compliment striding. The Duke was wearing his most elegant and becoming finery, which accentuated his handsomeness. The Duke stared down at his hands for a moment, and then looked swiftly into my eyes.
“Do you believe in attachment, Sarah?”
“How do you mean?” I said.
“Do you believe that it is possible to form strong attachments – the kind of attachment that exists between man and wife, say – without actually having gone through the traditional routes? What I am saying is, do you think it is possible for a man to love a woman without having properly and openly courted her? Many men and not a few women would have us think that it is impossible, that it cannot be done. And yet I sit here and look at you, and I know that I love you. If the word ‘love’ means anything, then it must apply to how I feel about you. I am struck with anxiety oftentimes. My heart beats frantically, and a cold sweat comes upon me, and I never know why. Most times there is nothing to be overly anxious about. But with you I do not feel that way. With you I feel as though a vital part of myself has been restored. I am like an amputee who has had his arm restored after a long absence; or a blind man who has regained the ability to see. Ah!” He slapped his hand down on the table. “If only I could make you feel what I feel, Sarah, so you could know!”
Seeing that dear Francis was in quite a state, I laid my hand upon his arm. He clasped his hand over mine and looked at me gratefully. “Don’t you see, Francis?” I said. “You do not need to make me feel anything; I already feel as you do. I care not that we do not do things the proper way. I have lost all meaning of what ‘proper’ means, anymore. All I know is that when you took me into the library, into the gardens, into the woods, when we were together in my bedroom I was happier and more content than I have been in all my days.” I stopped, breathless. My words were far too forward to be ladylike. Any man would shun me after such openness.
But not Francis.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a glistening ring. It winked at me in the torchlight. “I had to estimate your measurements,” he said. “I hope it fits.” He took my hand and slid the ring onto the third finger of my left hand. “There we go,” he beamed happily. “I knew it would fit!”
I stared down at the ring, bemused. “Look how the light catches it,” I muttered. “But Francis, what ever is it for? You do not need to buy me gifts.”
“It is no simply a gift, my love,” the Duke said, his hand upon my shoulder. “It is a symbol. A symbol of my love for you. A symbol of my commitment to you. We are to be married, if you will have me. My family will hate it, but to hell with them! I love you more than I have ever loved a single thing on this earth, and if the sky were to fall now I would have you, and no other, in my arms. Marry me, Sarah.”
Perhaps a nobler woman would have contemplated the position he was putting himself in. Perhaps a nobler woman would have sincerely thought about declining his proposal, to save the regard others had for him. But I was, and I am, a love-driven woman.
I said yes, and he jumped across the table and brought me into his arms, cradling me like a child.
Postscript
It is the night before we tell our families and friends and associates as I write this: tell them of mine and the Duke’s love. I have written this account so those who find it – whoever they turn out to be – will know the story of the unusual courtship of Sarah Archer and Francis Seymour, the Duke of Somerset. Undoubtedly there are those among you who would have him discredited. All I can say to that is, why? Why discredit a man who married a woman he loves? Far more deserving of discredit are the men who marry women they despise, and spend the rest of their lives making her miserable.
Only the Duke and I know of our marriage; tomorrow that shall all change. He has arranged a meeting. Father is to be there. I wish I could say the meeting gladdens me, but in truth the only gladness I feel is at the thought of Francis visiting me in my rooms tonight. I have worn this quill out completely and I do not think I can write anymore. When I began the sun was rising; now it is deep in the night.
I would write more, but there is a knocking at my door.
He whispers my name. It is Francis.
I must go.
I must be with my love.
*****
THE END