Sometimes, Michael awoke bathed in sweat, having dreamt of the carnage of battle. His heart would hammer in his chest and fear would assail him until he remembered that he was in bed, safe on a feather mattress under silk hangings.
Pampered, protected, privileged; on those nights, his very existence seemed to him to be an affront to his men, the men that he had left behind to battle on alone.
"I said," Jack's voice, raised slightly, interrupted Michael's thoughts, "Shall I tell Caroline that you will be in attendance?"
"Er, yes," Michael answered, before wondering with confusion, "In attendance where?"
"At the ball I have been wittering on about for these past five minutes," Lord Deverell sounded more amused than annoyed. "The ball that Caroline has been talking to me of for almost a month. I see you have about the same interest in it as I."
Jack grinned at his own joke, though he did seem rather pleased to be playing the part of a hen-pecked husband. Lord and Lady Deverell had been married just last year and the marquess obviously seemed to still enjoy the novelty of married life. Michael could not blame Jack his happiness; he was certain that had he a wife as lovely as Lady Deverell, that he too would be wearing a similar smile.
"Ah, a ball," Michael tried not to sigh with impatience, as he realised for what he had accepted an invitation, "I shall gladly attend, and mother will be overjoyed to think that I am making some efforts at finding a wife."
"Are you?" Jack looked surprised.
"Jupiter, no, but don't tell her that."
Eudora, Dowager Duchess of Elsmore, had spent the last six-months in mourning and now that this period was at an end, she, just like her son, was determined to keep herself busy to stave off the gnawing emptiness of grief. Unfortunately, there was no place in the House of Lords for females and Michael's mother had settled on another task - matchmaking.
She had called on Michael every day this week, dressed in the soft half-mourning colours of dove grey and lilac, with a list of eligible ladies in her hand and a gleam in her eye. Her determination to see Michael wed and producing heirs was so fevered that he suspected he might soon have to tell his servants to inform his mother he was "not at home" the next time that she called.
"You'll have to start thinking on it at some stage," Jack cautioned gently, earning himself a dark scowl from the reluctant duke.
"I'm still trying to adjust to all the other duties that come with a dukedom," Michael protested, "I don't see how adding a brat into the mix would help. As it is, I have so much still to learn that it's possible the Elsmore name will collapse under my guardianship and there will be no need for any heirs to inherit the steaming pile of ashes I leave behind."
His depreciating words were something of a lie; the administrative duties associated with running his many estates were negligible when compared to his labours in the army. Though he knew that the ease with which he had settled into the role was helped by his brother's hard work. Philip had been overseeing the business end of the ducal title for years and had implemented a great many changes which had helped both the estate's tenants, as well as the family coffers.
One more reason why it should have been him and not I, Michael thought sadly, as he recalled his late brother's passion for the family's lands.
"As a happily married man," Jack said, a broad grin upon his handsome face, "I can tell you that of all your duties to your title, the procurement of heirs is one of the more enjoyable ones.
Lud. The smug smile upon Deverell's face was enough to make one want to cast up one's accounts. Adding to that, the knowledge that his friend was clearly excited at the prospect of starting a family elicited an unfamiliar feeling in Michael.
Jealousy.
Once, he had dreamed of starting a family of his own, but those dreams were shattered to smithereens the day that he learned his intended had married another.
"There will be plenty of eligible young chits at the ball to tempt you, I'm sure," Jack continued, then frowned with worry as a thought struck him.
"What is it?" Michael prompted, as his friend tugged nervously at the collar of his shirt, as though it were too tight.
"Well, it's just that Caroline is quite good friends with Lady Atwood," Jack offered, his brown eyes shifting away from Michael's uneasily. "I am certain she will not attend, for I hear that she does not go out much in society, but there is a chance..."
Lord Deverell trailed off uncomfortably, evidently troubled at having even mentioned Lady Atwood's name. Jack was the only person who had known of Michael's intentions towards Katherine, and had been the one to break the news of her marriage to him. By tacit agreement, the two men had not discussed her since then, though it was clear from the marquess' pink ears and flustered appearance that he understood just how Michael felt.
"Her attendance, or lack thereof, does not concern me," Michael replied in an offhand manner, "I have not thought on her in years. In fact, I think I would scarcely recognise her, should she be there."
This was, of course, a bald-faced lie. Michael had thought of Katherine often throughout the years, sometimes with longing, sometimes with anger, but he had never forgotten her, not even for one day. Upon his return to London, he had discreetly set about finding out everything that he could regarding his former love's life, and once he had discovered that she was now widowed, she occupied even more of his waking—not to mention sleeping—thoughts.
Pride would not allow him to act on the wishes of his heart, but that did not mean the wishes were not there. He longed to call on her, to talk with her, to take her in his arms and...
"If you are certain?" Jack murmured, interrupting his thoughts, which had been threatening to turn rather scandalous. Michael pretended he had not heard his friend's concerned tone and instead picked up his glass of brandy.
"I'd best be home," he said, as he finished the rather large measure in one gulp, "I have correspondence that needs attending to."
"How riveting our lives are. I too feel the urge to attend to the duties of my title," Deverell answered, his expression so innocent that Michael could not discern if he had intended the double entendre.
The two men stood to leave, crossing the room silently. As they neared the doors, a particularly loud shout of laughter went up from the table of young blades, and Michael could not help but overhear their conversation.
"Twenty pounds, Appleby?" one young man crowed, "Are you so certain of your chances with the lovely lady that you'd wager that amount?"
"Certain," Appleby drew himself up to his full height, which was not so high but was made more impressive by his width, which was considerable, "Why I'd wager my estate on it, if it wasn't entailed."
Michael bit back a laugh, for it was clear that Appleby was all bluster. His amusement, however, soon disappeared as he realised just whom the rotund was certain he would seduce.
"A woman of Lady Atwood's beauty, just freed from the dusty clutches of an ancient viscount, must surely be seeking the prowess of a young man to entertain her after so many arid years," Appleby cast his audience a smug smile, as the buttons of his waistcoat strained against his paunch. "Just yesterday, amongst the shelves of Hatchard's, her ladyship did cast me a most inviting smile. Believe me, lads, I shall bed her within a sennight. And what a boon, there will be no brats to support from our union!"
"That's enough."
Michael's commanding voice cracked like a whip against their licentious laughter, which immediately fell silent upon the sound of his ire. Several pairs of eyes shifted uncomfortably toward the duke, perhaps aware that even had they not been discussing a lady of the ton, they should not have been discussing any lady so publicly in such vulgar terms.
"Your Grace," Appleby's florid face bloomed even redder as he realised who had taken offence at his words. "I do beg your forgiveness if I have offended you, it was merely some fun between friends."
"If you had been speaking of any female so loudly and in such disparaging terms, I would have taken offence," Michael
answered coolly, as a primitive beast stirred in his chest, "But as you were speaking of a lady whom I have a particular interest in, you may consider me doubly offended."
"Ah," Appleby's face now turned pale and his mouth formed an "O" of surprise, before he finally managed to coax it into croaking out a reply. "You must forgive me, your Grace. I did not know that you had a special interest in Lady Atwood."
"Now you know," Michael replied, without hesitation, though he knew well the repercussions of his answer. The beast in his chest roared with triumph; if Appleby put it about that the Duke of Elsmore had staked a claim on Lady Atwood's affections, then no other man would dare attempt to seduce her. A primitive satisfaction overtook him, so strong that it drowned out the quiet voice of rationality, which tried to query his intent.
With his piece said, Michael gave a cold nod to Appleby—who looked rather relieved not to have been called out—and swept from the room.
"La! What the devil are you about, man?"
Deverell caught up with him at front door of the club. The marquess cast a glance at the footmen who stood in attendance and lowered his voice before he spoke again.
"You have just publicly declared an interest in a woman you—just moments ago—professed to never think about."
"Just because I do not think about her does not mean that I am comfortable hearing men discuss her in such a manner," Michael countered, assuming an air of piety.
"Well, if you were so offended, you could have expressed a brotherly interest rather than a romantic one," Jack replied, his reasoning deflating Michael's self-canonisation. Deverell knew him too well to mistake Michael's actions as those of a man with saintly aspirations. "You're a duke, for heaven's sake. One word from you and every man in the ton would have left her alone. Now you have implied that you—that she—"
Michael looked at the marquess expectantly as he floundered for the right words.
"Now you have implied that you either wish to marry her or that you wish make her your mistress," Jack finally said, his expression grave. "Given her condition, you cannot make her the former, and though she has slighted you, I know you are not so base as to think of making a lady such as she the latter."
"Well, I have halted anyone else from thinking they might do the same," Michael replied churlishly, his friend's summation of his actions prickling at his conscience. "I will find a way to make it right, Deverell. Until then, I am safe in the knowledge that no one else will seek to malign Lady Atwood so publicly again."
He bid his friend a stiff goodbye, before making his way toward his waiting carriage.
He may have made a mess of things, that he knew, but he could not at that moment regret it. For the primitive beast within his chest was now purring with delight at the thought that he had made Katherine his—even if only in the eyes of others.
Chapter Three
Hatchard's in Piccadilly was by far Katherine's favourite place in London. The large bookshop was a mecca for bibliophiles, stocking every book written on any subject one could possibly wish for. Her visits to Hatchard's were never disappointing; the shop had two floors, with a sweeping staircase at its centre, and its patrons were an eclectic mix of high-society and the egalitarian set.
Katherine adored perusing the labyrinthine rows of shelves, often losing herself for hours at a time, as she thumbed through the pages of this book or that. There was something hypnotic about the scent of so many books; a heady mixture of leather, ink and paper, which filled Katherine with a sense of hope.
Of course, she did not often purchase much, given that the price of buying a book was exorbitantly expensive, but sometimes, when she had read a novel borrowed from the circulating library that she knew she would enjoy again and again, Katherine opened her purse strings and allowed herself a treat.
It gave her a thrill to think that she was building a library propria persona, that she would enjoy for however many years she had left upon this earth. It was a small thing, but to know that the library in thirty-seven Tilney Street was hers, and hers alone, gave her a feeling of pleasure she had not thought possible.
Small pleasures had, since her arrival in London, become the things which Katherine treasured most. Not just material objects, but moments too. Like when a knock came upon the door and she did not jump with fright at the thought that it might be Charles. Or when she crept under the covers of her bed at night, safe in the knowledge that her sleep would not be disturbed by the demands of her uncaring husband.
Even breakfast, which had always been a taut affair with Charles, who liked to set the tone of the day over his morning coffee, was a daily miracle.
Hot-chocolate and brioche buns were what Katherine now looked forward to, rather than cool silences or false accusations from her volatile husband. Her appetite had returned so much that even Mary had commented on it, telling her that the rosy bloom had returned to her cheeks.
All in all, life for Katherine had changed for the better, and now that she had discarded her mourning black, she felt as though she had cast the shadow of Charles from her life completely.
That day, as she wandered the aisles of Hatchard's, she was dressed in a light-wool walking dress of lilac, under a dove-grey Spencer jacket. Her half-mourning outfit was hardly the height of fashion, but it allowed her to mingle more discreetly with the other patrons than the severe blacks that she had been consigned to the past few months.
The clerk, who had intuitively sensed that she was not a big-spender, had directed her to the Ladies' Interest section rather than escorting her there himself. Here, novels from Minerva Press filled the shelves and Katherine noted that most of the other people browsing the shelves were ladies at least a decade younger than herself.
At her age, she knew that she should be reading more serious texts, but the pull of the Gothic Romance was too strong. Katherine adored anything set in far flung lands, with a feisty heroine and a strong hero who loved her. Corporeal men still frightened her somewhat, and she did not think that she would ever marry again, but when safely confined between the pages of a book, the male sex were thoroughly enjoyable. She truly believed that romance novels were a wonderful invention, allowing one to desire and love a man, then close him up when you were done.
After a few minutes of searching the shelves, Katherine finally laid her hands upon a copy of The Fugitive's Daughter, a gripping work by Emma D'Ilse. She plucked her chosen book from its resting place, thumbed through the pages, and checked that the binding was of adequate quality, before she turned to make her way back to the counter to pay.
She was quietly strolling through the Botany Section, when a voice—like an echo from long ago—stopped her dead.
"I am searching for something on rose gardens, for my mother."
There was no mistaking Michael's voice, even though a decade had passed since she last heard it. He spoke with typical Etonian inflections, but his voice was gravelly and deep and thoroughly masculine. The sound of him sent shivers down Katherine's spine—ones of both longing and fear—and she closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself.
"Of course, your Grace," an unseen clerk replied, confirming Katherine's guess that it was the new Duke of Elsmore whom she had heard. "If you would be so kind as to follow me to the Botany section, I shall show you a number of works on the subject."
The shock of hearing Michael's voice was quickly replaced by terror, as Katherine realised that he was headed her way. She was not ready to see him now! Not whilst she was dressed so drably and unattended by any servants; her appearance was so pathetic that it was almost a caricature of what most men would think an impoverished widow looked like. Katherine's eyes flew open and she stuffed the volume in her hand onto a shelf, before turning on the heel of her half-boot and racing to the end of the aisle. It was only when she had turned the corner—into Ancient History—that Katherine slowed down.
The sound of running footsteps might draw attention, she reasoned to herself, and if she went too far...well, then she would not
be able to sneak a peek at Michael.
It was such an infantile desire that Katherine almost laughed aloud at her foolishness. Imagine if anyone was to see her—a woman of nearly thirty—hiding like a child wishing to spy on the grown-ups. Luckily, the Ancient History aisle was deserted and the only person who would witness Katherine's actions was she herself—and she did not have the strength to resist the temptation to catch a glimpse of her old friend.
Katherine could scarcely breathe as she heard two sets of heavy footsteps make their way down the aisle from which she had just fled. Her heart beat so loudly in her chest that she was certain they could hear it and she barely dared to exhale lest they realised she was there.
"Here we are, your Grace, I have several volumes on roses, including a new work by Joseph Edwards. Allow me to show you," she heard the clerk say pompously.
Much discussion thus ensued between the two men about the merits of the volume they were examining and whilst the clerk pontificated on the author's botany credentials, Katherine decided that now was the most opportune moment in which she could steal a glance at her old friend. She tip-toed to the end of the aisle and, with bated breath, peered around the bookshelf which divided them.
Gemini!
The hardship of war and the ravages of time had not had any effect on Michael's good looks. His hair was still ebony black, without any hint of grey, and his face—while more mature—was still sinfully handsome. He held himself differently, however, to when Katherine had known him. Now, he stood taller, his broad shoulders and erect posture conveying a sense of pride and power.
A part of Katherine wished that he would turn, so that she could see his eyes clearly, but he remained engrossed in conversation with the clerk. Blue as the sky on a cloudless day, there was no sight in the world which could match that of Michael's eyes smiling down upon her, but she knew that she was lucky he did not turn to look at her, for she would have expired with mortification.
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