The Duke's Timeless Desire

Chapter 2

The "Regency bath," Amelia quickly discovered, was less a luxurious soak and more a strategic logistical operation. Martha, with surprising efficiency, had managed to bathe and scrub Eleanor’s body without Amelia once having to move a muscle. It was an odd, intimate, yet utterly dehumanizing experience. The true horror, however, began with the stays.

"Hold still, My Lady," Martha instructed, pulling a length of cord that felt like a medieval torture device. Amelia gasped as her ribs compressed, her lungs protesting the sudden lack of space. She tried to suck in a breath, but it felt like a tiny, futile sip.

"Bloody hell, that’s tight!" Amelia choked out, her modern sensibilities rebelling violently.

Martha paused, her brow furrowed slightly. "It must be, My Lady, to achieve the proper line. Otherwise, you'll appear quite… slovenly." She gave another tug, and Amelia’s waist felt like it might snap. Her breasts, once comfortably free, were now pushed up to an alarming, gravity-defying height.

"Slovenly? Martha, I can barely breathe! How do women survive this?" she wheezed.

"They are accustomed to it, My Lady," Martha replied placidly, moving on to the petticoats. "One grows used to it with time."

Amelia seriously doubted it. This was going to be a long morning. Once the layers of underthings were on, Martha helped her into the pale blue muslin morning gown. The fabric was soft, the color delicate, but the entire ensemble felt like a costume. Amelia longed for the comforting embrace of her softest cashmere sweater and a pair of jeans.

“There, My Lady. Quite fetching.” Martha beamed, stepping back.

Amelia glanced at her reflection. The woman staring back was indeed "fetching." Elegant, poised, and utterly unlike Amelia. The gown was modest, covering everything from neck to wrist, yet somehow made her feel more exposed than a bikini ever had. She still couldn’t quite reconcile the image with the person she knew herself to be.

With a final, surreptitious deep breath that only partially filled her lungs, Amelia squared her shoulders. Time to face the music – and the leech. She descended the grand staircase, the rustle of her skirts foreign, the click of her delicate slippers alien on the polished wood. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to find a fire exit, but there were no such things here.

The small dining room was bathed in the soft morning light, and a rotund, florid-faced man sat at the head of a gleaming table laden with a lavish breakfast. His gaze, shrewd and calculating, fixed on Amelia the moment she entered.

This was the Duke of Penhaligon. Lady Eleanor’s guardian. Her academic nemesis in the flesh.

"Eleanor, my dear. You keep us waiting," he boomed, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes plastered across his face. "A tardiness I trust you will endeavor to correct during the Season. Punctuality is a virtue highly prized in prospective matches."

Amelia forced a pleasant smile, channeling every bit of charm and artifice she’d ever seen in period dramas. "My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. I found myself rather... lost in thought this morning." A safe, vague response.

She took the seat Martha indicated, across from him, and immediately regretted it. The food was overwhelming – kippers, bacon, eggs, various breads, jams, and even a small roasted fowl. Her stomach, accustomed to a quick coffee and toast, felt queasy.

"Lost in thought? A dangerous habit for a young lady of your station, Eleanor," Penhaligon scoffed, spearing a piece of ham. "Especially with the matters at hand. Your Season is upon us. And as your guardian, it falls to me to ensure your... future." He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Or rather, the security of my own investment in your future. These gowns, the chaperons, the invitations – they do not come cheap, you understand."

Amelia's jaw tightened. Investment. He saw her as a commodity, an asset to be leveraged. It made her blood boil, but she kept her face carefully neutral. "I am most grateful for your generosity, Your Grace." Like hell, I am.

"Indeed. And I trust your gratitude will manifest in a suitable marriage," he continued, leaning back. "Lord Ashworth expressed considerable interest in you last night. A man of significant means, if a touch… portly. He is due to call this afternoon."

Lord Ashworth. The "portly" baron she’d read about in Eleanor’s sparse historical records. A chill snaked down Amelia’s spine. It was unsettling, this merging of academic knowledge with lived experience. She tried to push the unsettling thought away. Focus. Penhaligon was speaking.

"Now, we must be practical, Eleanor. Your family's coffers, alas, are quite bare. A dowry, small as it is, will barely tempt a man of true distinction. We must rely on your... other assets. Your beauty, your accomplishments." He paused, his gaze raking over her, making her feel like a prize mare. "And your ability to present a suitable demeanor. No more of those... flights of fancy. No more scandals."

The word hung in the air, heavy and loaded. Amelia’s hands, hidden beneath the table, clenched into fists. Scandals. The historical whispers. The tragic end. This was it. This was where Eleanor’s story began to unravel.

"What scandals, Your Grace?" Amelia asked, her voice surprisingly steady. She had to know. She had to understand the path she was now on.

Penhaligon let out a dismissive wave of his hand. "Childish indiscretions. Unsuitable company. Nothing that cannot be swept under the rug with a good husband and a sharp tongue from your guardian. But you must be careful, Eleanor. These gentlemen of the Ton... have long memories of foolishness." He narrowed his eyes. "Especially when that foolishness involves certain powerful families. Like the Devereaux."

Amelia froze, her breath catching in her throat. The Devereaux. The very name that had resonated in her own mind as she researched Eleanor's fate. Her mind leaped to the formidable Duke of Blackwood, the man so intricately woven into the tapestry of Eleanor's life and her eventual demise, according to the scant historical record.

A new, potent realization dawned on Amelia. She wasn't just here to rewrite Eleanor's tragic personal history; she might be here to uncover a far larger truth. The truth about The Devereaux, and perhaps, about the powerful figure who was to become her central obsession.

The fight had just begun.

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Amelia watched Penhaligon rise from the breakfast table, his satisfied sigh a crude exclamation mark at the end of his pronouncements. "I have affairs to attend to, Eleanor. Mrs. Higgins will ensure your wardrobe is suitable for the evening's assembly at Lady Jersey's. And do endeavor to cultivate Lord Ashworth. He has a considerable estate." With a final, dismissive wave, he lumbered out, leaving Amelia alone in the sudden silence.

She gripped her porcelain teacup so tightly her knuckles whitened. Cultivate Lord Ashworth? The man looked like a walking, talking butter churn. And his conversational skills were on par with a particularly dull spoon. Amelia, who had spent her life debating historical interpretations and dissecting complex political texts, was now expected to simper and flirt with a glorified pig farmer for the sake of an "estate."

"This is not my life," she muttered, her voice low. "This is a bad dream. A very, very elaborate, historically accurate bad dream."

Her academic mind, however, was already buzzing, categorizing and analyzing. Okay, data points:

1. Guardian from hell: Duke of Penhaligon, avaricious, views her as a commodity. Check.

2. Impending doom: "Scandals" and the "Devereaux." Double check. Eleanor's tragic end was always linked to that family in her research.

3. Marriage trap: Lord Ashworth. Clearly, the first sacrificial lamb for her "prospects."

4. Fashion is pain: Those stays. Dear God, the stays.

"Right," she exhaled, standing up. The dress, though restrictive, was exquisitely made. She smoothed the muslin over her hips. Fake it 'til you make it, Amelia. It's a performance. You've got this.

Her survival depended on playing the role of Lady Eleanor Vance. But which Eleanor? The shy, demure debutante Penhaligon expected? Or the sharp-tongued, spirited woman history remembered, the one whose rebellious nature had intrigued Amelia in the first place?

"Definitely the latter," she decided, a mischievous spark in her sapphire eyes. "But with a healthy dose of 21st-century strategic thinking."

Her academic studies of the Regency era were no longer just theoretical. They were her literal guide to survival. She knew the societal rules, the unspoken protocols, the dangerous pitfalls. She also knew that women in this era were not entirely powerless. They wielded influence through subtle social maneuvers, through wit, through charm. And if those failed, Amelia had a lifetime of modern assertiveness to fall back on.

She wandered out of the dining room and into what appeared to be a rather grand, if slightly faded, drawing room. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. A grand piano stood silently in one corner, and shelves lined with leather-bound books beckoned.

Books. Actual books. She hadn't seen proper physical books in what felt like forever. Amelia's fingers itched to pull one down, to lose herself in its pages, to find some familiar comfort in the written word.

But her gaze snagged on a small, delicately carved wooden box sitting on a side table. It was exactly the kind of piece a woman might keep for her most private correspondence. Or perhaps, a coded message. The ledger. Seek out the serpent in the wood. The cryptic note she'd read just before... the incident.

Eleanor’s memory had been oddly cooperative so far, supplying names and basic contextual information. But specific details about her life, her thoughts, her secrets? Those were still mostly Amelia's academic knowledge.

She walked towards the box, her heart thumping a little faster. Was it possible Eleanor had also been searching for something? For the truth about her father? The thought was strangely comforting. She wasn't just a random body-snatcher; she might be continuing Eleanor's mission.

Her fingers reached for the lid. It was locked. Of course, it was locked. What was she expecting, a convenient "open sesame" sign?

"Right now, I desire a lock-picking kit and a strong coffee. In that order," Her inner monologue was proving to be her most loyal companion.

A sudden, insistent rap echoed from the front door, followed by the hushed tones of a footman. "Lord Ashworth, to see Lady Eleanor Vance."

Amelia's breath hitched. Ashworth. The prize pig. The first hurdle in my new, ridiculously corseted life.

She felt a frisson of pure irritation, quickly followed by a jolt of determination. This was it. This was the opening act. If she was going to play the role of Lady Eleanor, she needed to embody the woman who could navigate this world, even if it meant charming a man whose only discernible passion was livestock.

Amelia smoothed her dress, a determined glint in her sapphire eyes. "Showtime," she whispered, and a small, dangerous smile touched her lips.