by Stacy Reid
She hugged an arm around her waist. There was a ball to prepare for, and she must not dawdle.
When the news had appeared in The Scruntineer, she had found the gumption to visit one of London’s reigning modistes and ordered three new ball gowns and most delightful riding habits for herself and Anna. Then she’d suddenly been offered a considerable discount on the bill and found that they were able to add some new day outfits as well.
Being the duke’s fiancée had more than one advantage.
That night she had cried in her pillows, for her heart had been heavy with uncertainty at using the last of the monies Papa had left. Come winter, they wouldn’t have two shillings to rub together.
Now a line of credit was being opened at the most famous shops in London. She would have to be very careful not to make any purchases, even if the situation became dire. While she would borrow the man’s reputation and connections, taking money felt sordid and far too nefarious. But what was she to do about the town house? Kitty fretted as she made her way from the parlor, down the small hallway, and up the stairs to her bedroom.
I will pay him back every penny, she vowed.
Several days later, Kitty strolled through Hyde Park with Ophelia. The day was quite dreary for a spring afternoon. The morning had dawned cold; intermittent rain had fallen in a listless, icy drizzle.
That had not prevented numerous callers from descending on her newly occupied town house.
Her mother had been beside herself at the duke’s generosity, even though such a gesture stretched… more like shattered the bounds of propriety.
Her mother had sniffed and declared that it was not as if the duke intended to reside under the same roof. And he was the soul of kindness and gentlemanly honor to be so concerned with their welfare. “Of course, no man of his stature would have his fiancée’s family living in Cheapside!” her mother had declared, marshaling them to pack their few belongings like a general.
Still, Kitty had not expected the bevy of nosy bodies who had descended a few hours ago. Her mother had basked in the attention and had taken to her role as hostess quite effortlessly, managing cakes and refreshments adroitly and keeping the conversation surrounding the mundane and light gossips, skillfully deflecting all questions pertaining to the duke.
A suffocating dread had risen inside her. The success had felt too surreal, too alarming, with unalterable consequences stalking her, promising ruin and scandal. Kitty had mumbled some nonsense and had escaped as if the devil had been nipping at her heels.
Grabbing her bonnet and parasol after donning sensible walking shoes, she had made her way from the house. A carriage had paused by her several minutes later; she had been quite glad to spy Ophelia, and her dear friend, sensing her turmoil, had suggested a stroll through the park despite the inclement weather.
They walked along a winding path, and Kitty was grateful the park was not overly crowded. Dear Ophelia appeared resplendent in a fetching dark green pelisse and a walking dress a shade lighter, but there was a bit of forlornness about her eyes.
“Are you well, Ophelia?” Kitty asked softly. “It has been several days since we last spoke.” And it made her wonder if Ophelia was perhaps hatching her own daring plan.
“I believe we should call a meeting of our group soon. Perhaps a saloon of sorts? There is much I would like to discuss with everyone, and I can sense that you are troubled.”
“Oh, we shall,” Kitty declared, truly wondering how everyone fared. “There is much to discuss.”
Ophelia slid her a considering glance. “And can your troubles wait until then?”
Kitty sighed. “I never imagined such success with my ruse. It is frightening.”
A wide smile lit her friend’s face and her eyes glinted with mysterious allure. “But it is wonderful to be so daring, yes?”
“I daresay it is. There are times I thrill in being so positively wicked and bold. Only a couple days ago, I rode your horse astride in Hyde Park. I declare I am not the first lady to do so, but the scandal sheets were agog with my daring, and Mamma almost had the vapors.” She laughed, delighted with the reminder of how indecent and free it had felt. “Kitty Danvers must be very devilish to keep the interest of the papers and society. I want them hungry to know me, to be shocked by and attracted to my audacity. Invitations to even the most exclusive balls and events will come in more.”
“Then I declare that is where you should direct your attention wholeheartedly, Kitty. I assure you, if you let only the doubts and fear in, you will falter and possibly miss something wonderful, and quite different than the humdrum that can be the expected life of a lady,” Ophelia said with aching sincerity.
Kitty had always thought that of all her friends, Ophelia could have been married if she wished for a union. She was terribly pretty with a small, determined month, a button of a nose, and sweetly curved lips, and she had the most beautifully haunting singing voice Kitty had ever had the privilege to hear. Despite being the daughter of a marquess who was lauded in parliament for his reforming efforts, for the last few seasons only one man had made an offer for her—Peter Warwick, the Earl of Langdon. And Olivia had rejected him, for she had an artistic temperance and sensibility…and a secret identity no one could ever discover.
She was Lady Starlight, revered and worshipped as a masked and bewigged songbird.
“How glad I am we ran into each other,” Kitty said with a light laugh, brushing aside all feelings of misgiving. “I shall not falter in my thoughts anymore.”
A faint shout had them pausing and turning around. A man in a dark tweed coat hurried toward them, a notebook clutched in his hand, a briefcase dangling in the other. They shifted to the side of the path to allow him to pass, but quite alarmingly, he stopped in front of them. Kitty narrowed her eyes and gripped her parasol, not in the least afraid to slap him with it should he accost them.
Not that they had too much to worry about with Ophelia’s footmen within shouting distance. Intelligent brown eyes landed on them. “The Honourable Katherine Danvers, I presume?” he gasped out.
“And who is asking?”
“I’m Robert Dawson, a reporter from The Morning Chronicles. I have some inquiries about your engagement to His Grace, the Duke of Thornton. May I be permitted a few questions, Miss Danvers?”
Mr. Dawson’s eyes were watchful, curious with a hint of slyness.
Kitty glanced at Ophelia and saw the message in her golden gaze. Be daring. Be bold. And be more wicked.
So she did.
* * *
Chapter Three
Perthshire, Scotland, McMullen Castle
“I hope I am not overstepping, Your Grace, when I offer my sincerest felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.”
Those murmured words from Thomas Biddleton, Alexander Masters’s most trusted steward, arrested him as nothing had ever done. Well, except for the sight of his sister chasing a pig through the woods only a week ago, screaming for it to run and be free.
The pig had been recaptured later that day, but he knew better than to tell her so.
The memory pulled a ghost of a smile to his lips, and the other men gathered in his study shared a speaking glance. Except he did not understand its language. Did they ponder the nature of his smile or the beastly mien that must have been highlighted in stark silhouette with that small movement of his lips?
As it were, the taut skin marring his left cheek down to his neck ached at the movement. There had been little reason to exercise those scarred muscles of late. Even his sister’s wild antics rarely managed to bring levity to his heart, when before a simple hug from her had made him feel whole. The echoing emptiness had become somewhat of an enigma to Alexander, for he did not perceive its purpose. He’d long accepted his fate and no longer roared his anguish at his misfortunes, yet he was also inexplicably aware of the heart of darkness that lingered within him.
He was lonely.
The stark reality of it had been a crack in the belief that all he need
ed was his sister, Penny. But he’d decided to send her to England for the necessary social polish and a season. She would not like it, but he would not allow her to bury herself in the wild moors of Scotland forever when the possibility of happiness might await her.
“Please forgive my impertinence, Your Grace,” the man hurriedly said at his lack of response.
Positioned in a high wingback chair by the fire, Alexander swallowed the last of his brandy, schooling his expression into impassivity. “My nuptials? To whom?”
Startled owlish eyes cut into his, and Mr. Biddleton seemed lost for words. “Miss Katherine Danvers, I believe she prefers to be called Kitty…is she not your betrothed? Everyone has said so.”
“Then it must be true,” Alexander said caustically, dismissing yet another intrusive rumor into his life.
In the ten years since he had withdrawn from society, he had heard it all—the exotic French mistress he had to throw off a cliff, that he had perished in the fall that had broken his body, then damn his black heart, he had done away with his heir presumptive.
Those were the rumors that had reached him in his cold corner of Scotland.
Mr. Biddleton’s furtive glance cut to the three solicitors seated around a massive oak table. They were meticulously packing up reports in the proper order for his perusal later. From the stiff manner in how they held themselves, he surmised they were discomfited. Perhaps they dreaded the invitation for dinner he would extend, as was his custom. They were too afraid to refuse him, and they were aware he knew their discomfiture.
Something ugly scuttled across his thoughts, a black awareness that he was lonely and had only these retainers resembling obsequious cockroaches who sat without spine, bowing to all his whims because he was the duke.
Mr. Pryce, a new addition to the law offices, and who was aiming to leave his mark on the world, cleared his throat. “I had the privilege of finding a suitable town house for Miss Danvers when her late father’s lawyer was unable to do so, Your Grace.
Miss Danvers was quite pleased with the house in Portman Square.”
Alexander was momentarily transfixed. A member of his team had seen and spoken to this creature?
Then a peculiar stillness settled over his mind. It seemed this was more than gossip crafted from the silver tongues of boredom and spiteful pettiness.
It was quite astonishing. He took a few minutes to assess the strangeness of not having his mind darting in several directions, calculating profits, or penning some inflammatory letter to Britain’s parliament.
“Was she?” he murmured in a deliberately disinterested tone.
The pup, evidently eager to please, and dismissing the cautioning look from his superiors, hurried to extrapolate. “Miss Danvers has been declared incomparable, Your Grace, and the story of your courtship is splashed in every newspaper and scandal sheet. They do admire her for her charm and kindness.
The story of your meeting and secret courtship has become a sensation. You…you’ve become the rage…”
Mr. Pryce’s voice left him as he became aware of the heavy disapproval beating down on him from his two senior lawyers.
None of that mattered to Alexander, as for the first time in years, a pulse of raw, vibrant emotion stirred beneath the controlled surface he presented to the world. A young lady had deliberately claimed to be his fiancée; she had either been struck with madness or ingenuity.
He felt an unfamiliar twist of curiosity.
He turned the crystal brandy glass slowly between his hands, absently tracing the puckered scars dissecting his thumb. “This meeting is over, and I will see you all next month.”
Mr. Pryce and his senior lawyers stood, bowed, and made their way from the study.
“Not you.”
Somehow sensing that it was he, the young buck faltered. “M-me, Your Grace?”
“Yes.”
Everyone else shuffled out, the last one closing the door to the study quietly.
“Tell me, Mr.…”
“Adolphus Richard Pryce, Your Grace,” the young man hurriedly answered.
Alexander could feel his uncertainty and did nothing to put him at ease. “You’ve personally met Miss Danvers.”
The man hurriedly explained how he had found the town house for her and had tried to open a line of credit with the best dressmakers and milliners, but she had refused.
How interesting. A charlatan who was not interested in his money? Who are you and what do you want?
The lawyer’s voice droned on in his eagerness to please. Certain phrases caught at the sharp edges of Alexander’s mind; others he dismissed as he stared into the flickering flames. The scarred half of his face throbbed, as it always did whenever he looked upon the force of nature that had caused his greatest pain.
The ton is fascinated…
Everyone is amazed at how indulgent you are…
It is a love match…
A winter wedding…
A duchess at last…
It was simply too outrageous to be believed.
“I task you to ensure that every newssheet that has mentioned Miss Danvers is delivered to me immediately, and all that mention her moving forward should be sent to me posthaste with no expenses spared.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. Pryce murmured, pleasure rich in his tone. “I am happy to serve.”
“You are dismissed.”
The man bowed, a spring in his step as he made his departure.
Silence once more blanketed the massive study like a shroud. He stood, gripping the head of his cane, absorbing the pain winding across his back.
The doctors recommended he try to operate without his wheeled chair for at least an hour each day.
Alexander had ignored them, and no less than three hours was spent on his legs every day, despite the agonizing discomfort.
He made his way along the hallway, which was redolent with the scent of lemon wax and flowers.
The large hall echoed with memories of a life long forgotten, a time when his sister had shrieked without decorum as she ran down these hallways, the servants smiling at the unlikely picture of his mother, a duchess, chasing her child. His sister’s presence had never allowed him the luxury of being overly maudlin.
She’d needed him more than he’d needed darkness to hide away in.
Each step jarred him, the pain at times making his steps falter. But he did not call for his bath chair or his manservant. He made his way down the winding stairs, past the drawing room and the grand ballroom, to a private room that had been designed solely for his use. Gripping the handle, he opened the door and entered the only paradise he allowed himself—his library.
A room where shelved walls of books and scrolls and stone tablets rose in three stories of splendor.
It was decorated in antique gold and blue, with six soaring windows facing the rolling expanse of the green castle grounds. It was a room fit for a pasha, overflowing with antiques and unique items he had collected before his accident.
There had always been a deep-seated need inside him to study human culture and the different civilizations. He had toured the continents, locating precious gems and stones, revered scrolls, miniature sphinxes and statues of exotic animals, rare vases from the Ming dynasty, and books; he had hoarded them like a dragon protecting his lair of treasure.
During his recovery, he’d hired a team of archaeologists, lawyers, and hunters of exceptional and unique things, and each year something more precious, more unique had been brought to him. He felt as if he collected the great beauties and wonders of the world, yet he had never been fulfilled. He touched his latest acquisition: Emperor Kublai of the Mongol Empire immortalized in the cold jade of the statue.
It brought him no pleasure.
The void was not filled; there was no rioting need to immerse himself in the rare books that accompanied this and each acquisition. His mind did not reach toward the abyss where he could submerge himself in another exotic world and be free.
Fo
r his desire to collect suddenly burned with a furious need to add another object to his growing trove of treasure.
Miss Katherine “Kitty” Danvers.
But once they came behind these massive oak doors, his treasures did not leave. An unusual interest pulsed through him at the notion of this daring creature in his castle.
“Finally, your meeting is over!” a muffled voice filled with annoyance exclaimed.
He smiled, moving farther into the grand library and around a wall of bookcases to another open area to see his sister sprawled indecorously on the dark green oriental carpet, her peach day dress already showing signs of smudges. She had been in one of his crates.
“I surmise you have been waiting long?”
“At least two hours.” She shot him a quick smile, her turquoise eyes filled with excitement. “Look what has arrived, Alexander. A sacramental vessel from the Temple of Seti. Isn’t it glorious? I believe Mr. Cook has outdone himself with his latest acquisition.
There is a book of hieroglyphic—” Penny pushed to her feet and fisted her hands on her slim hips. “You seem out of sorts! Should I summon Dr.—”
He waved aside her concern. “I’m quite well. I simply got a bit of unexpected news.”
She shot him a birdlike look of inquiry. “Is it news from the doctors?”
“No.”
Relief lit in her eyes. “Is it good or bad news?”
“It depends on your outlook on—”
“Please spare me any more philosophical lectures and tell me,” she cried with endearing frankness.
Alexander chuckled, recalling their spirited debate this morning as they had rowed on the frigid loch waters. “It appears I am engaged.”
She gasped and sank into the well-padded cushion of the sofa. “You are to be married?”
“So it seems,” he said with droll amusement.
“But how? I cannot credit it or perceive if I should be delighted or pity the poor lady who will have to withstand your eccentricities,” breathed Penny, looking eagerly up at him.