She could not even fathom why the duke had brought her here. She’d thought... Well, her thoughts had turned out to be incorrect, hadn’t they? The man she’d known as Edward probably didn’t even exist. Probably, for some reason known only to him, the duke had decided to toy with her, to create the fiction of a friendship between them, and he’d brought her here for some jape she’d yet to discover.
Or…maybe it hadn’t even been him who wrote her. Maybe it was someone on his staff, signing his name and making her think...making her believe...
Wrenching herself upright, she rubbed her eyes with her hand and ignored the wetness she found there. Focusing on outrage, she rubbed her temples. It was so unfair. She could not protest, for Lord Beecham would snatch her employment from her without a moment’s hesitation and she needed her position. Her parents relied upon the income she sent them. She was beyond fortunate to obtain this employment, which was both well-paying and in the industry she loved. She had not thought to be able to work in law; had thought the limitations of her gender would again keep her from something she loved. However, somehow she’d stumbled into this work and she would not lose it over this.
Maybe it was she couldn’t protest her presence here, but she would damn well do something about her sleeplessness. Damned if she was going to toss and turn like a fool when there was a whole study full of books downstairs. She didn’t care if it was the duke’s private domain. She didn’t care if she was trespassing. She would go there, find a book, maybe even read it in his hallowed room. Besides, he’d be abed by now, and it was the one room in this whole creaking monolith she knew.
Throwing back the covers, Gwen shoved out of bed. Grabbing the lamp set on the dresser, she stormed from the room.
As she stalked through the halls, thoughts whirled about her head. How dare he write her those letters, those beautiful, meaningful letters, and then act as if they did not know each other? As if they were nothing? He’d looked right through her, discounted her wishes or opinion, and treated her as if...as if she were a servant. Well, if he wanted to act that way, who was she to argue? She was happy to pretend they’d never corresponded, that she’d never shared her fears with him, that he’d never told her of his scars. She was glad to not have to converse at such depth with him.
Wiping at her cheeks, she looked around her. Somehow, she’d remembered the way to the study, and now she stood before the huge oak doors. The door bowed to her will, swinging open obediently and allowing her entry.
A fire burned low in the fireplace, casting strange and terrible patterns on the walls. Unease skittered along her spine, bringing with it a chill. Setting her jaw, she lifted the lamp higher. She refused to by cowed by the dark. The bookcase beckoned, and she went to it, examining only the books illuminated by the light, not the shadows that lurked behind.
Her eyebrows rose as she read the titles before her. Rows upon rows upon rows of Gothic novels. From what surely must be every novel Mrs. Radcliffe ever published to titles by Lewis and Walpole. Mary Shelly’s mad scientist novel was represented as well as a whole raft by someone named Poe. She frowned. Those volumes looked newer than the rest, the spines barely cracked, while those by Mrs. Radcliffe had the look of having been read hundreds of times.
She picked one, sliding it from the shelf to turn it over in her hand. She’d not heard of it, but then the publisher’s mark read only last year. If nothing else, she would have fear as the reason for being awake rather than anger.
A loud, sudden bang rang through the study.
Dropping the book from a suddenly nerveless hand, she, through some miracle, kept hold of the lamp. Heart racing, she whipped around. The light threw the shadows into chaos, but nothing leapt out at her, no beastie set upon devouring her whole.
Telling herself to calm, she knelt to pick up the book. It had most likely been the wind beating at a shutter somewhere. Forcing her breath to an even keel, she turned her attention back to the book in her hands. A reluctant smile took her as she read the overwrought text of the first page. If nothing else, this would take her mind from her troubles with its sheer ridiculousness.
Closing the book with a snap, she raised the lamp to look at the other titles.
Another noise, this one closer, quieter.
Her heart pounding, she stared at the titles before her. It would be nothing again, though it didn’t sound like a shutter. No, it sounded like a footstep, one muffled to disguise its tread.
She shook herself. Gwendolyn Parkes, stop being a ninny. It was nothing, and she would not entertain the notion it was more than that by looking... Oh criminy, she had to look.
Breath caught in chest, she whirled around. See, how foolish was she, there was nothing—
She almost dropped the book again.
The Duke of Sowrith stood, ramrod straight, before the fire.
Dumbly, she stared at him. It was all well and good when defiance was theoretical, but now that he stood before her in an advanced state of dishabille and with his face in shadow... Well, if she were wearing boots, she would be shaking in them.
Lifting her chin, she pretended bravery. “Your Grace.”
A long silence, in which he moved not at all, merely stood before the fire, shrouded in shadow and flame. Then, “Miss Parkes. Good evening.”
Setting her jaw, she lifted her chin a little higher. Lord, this place drove her to fancy. Shadow and flame indeed. Next, she would be running across the moors in her nightgown, hair a dull brown streak behind her. But then, only raven-haired beauties were foolish enough to run barefoot through uneven ground, or at least, such was purported by those who wrote the literature in her hand.
Silence stretched between them, filled with the faint crackle of the dying fire.
“May I help you with something?” the duke finally asked.
“I—No.” Wetting her lips, she held up the book, keeping her gaze fixed somewhere over his right shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah.”
Again, silence. The book felt heavy in her hand, her fingers aching from clutching it too tight.
“Why can you not sleep?”
Incredulity forced her gaze. His face was still hidden in shadow, but surely he could not seriously be asking why—
Fury roared unchecked through her. “Why can I not sleep? Well, let me think.” Fingers trembling with rage, she tapped her temple. “Could it be the wind screaming past this mausoleum of a house, loud enough to wake the dead? Or is it the room I’ve been given is three times the size of my lodgings in London, enough that I got lost on the way to the bed? Perhaps it is because I’ve been travelling all day and though that has exhausted me, apparently I am not exhausted enough to sleep.” Chest tight, her mouth stretched into a garish smile. “Or maybe it’s because I’ve been ordered to remain here, in direct contradiction to my wishes and with no means of refusal.”
“You were not told you might be staying here longer.”
It should have been a question. It irritated her enormously that he had framed it as a statement. Her fingers dug into the book. “Clearly, I was not. The first I heard of it was in Lord Beecham’s presence and yours.”
The duke stepped forward, his left leg dragging slightly. Light fell across his features, revealing an expression that still showed little. She drew in her breath as light also fell upon the cruel twist of his scars, and she hated herself a little when his lips tightened at her gasp. “I apologise, Miss Parkes. It was not my intention to bring you discomfort.”
He might not have intended it, but that was exactly what had occurred.
“If it is so disagreeable to you, you may leave with the next stage to the train station,” he said stiffly.
Oh yes. That was a completely viable solution.
She blinked. Wait a minute. Were they talking of the same thing? Surely he did not think his scars...
He took another step forward, then seemed unsure if he should continue. A strange expression drawing his features, he hovered there, halfw
ay between one step and the next. He settled at the end of the bookcase, his pose rather awkward. “You came for a book?”
“Yes.” He was behaving...oddly. Not at all like the standoffish man he’d been but moments before. “There seems rather a lot of Gothic literature.”
“Oh. Well, yes, I...” It was only then he seemed to realise his dishabille and a redness that could only be a blush stained his cheeks. Rolling down his sleeves, he said, “Gothic literature interests me.”
Gothic literature? Truly?
“The collection is the finest that could be amassed and encompasses all the eras,” he continued. “You will find tales from the Americas, as well as the German classics. Do you speak German?”
It seemed to her he looked expectant as if he wished to know her every thought on the Gothics, and for him to impart his along with his enthusiasm for the subject. It was too much, too fast. How could he go from disdain and distance to this almost desperate grasp at commonality? Would that he’d had such expectation when Lord Beecham was ordering her to stay. Throat working, she closed her eyes. That thought was unkind and beneath her dignity.
“Miss Parkes?”
His voice sounded…uncertain. Rousing herself, she recalled his question. “No, Your Grace. It is not something my mother thought to teach me. I would venture to say this is because she does not speak German.” She must have imagined his uncertainty. His expression held no trace of the emotion.
He cocked his head. “Your mother was a governess before her marriage, was she not? I thought perhaps the Germanic languages would have been part of her curriculum.”
Mouth agape, she stared at him. He was the one who had written those letters. He had written her, and now she was here in his study with him, she in her nightgown and he in his shirtsleeves and—
The inappropriateness of this whole situation crashed over her. Oh, criminy. She couldn’t do this. She could talk of defiance, but she was not made as Etta was. She could not do it. The need to escape wound inside her, desperate and undeniable. “I will disturb you no longer. I have my book, and I will leave you to your contemplation.”
“Stay, Miss Parkes. I... That is, you might find the later period of interest.” He took half a step toward her.
Clutching the book to her, she backed away from him. “I have to go, Your Grace.”
Like a shutter drawn, his expression turned to indifference. Ramrod straight, he laced his hands behind his back. “Of course, Miss Parkes. My apologies for keeping you. Good night.”
With a tight smile, she curtsied and left before he could say anything further.
Chapter Three
STARING AT THE HEAVY curtains, Gwen laced her fingers in her lap and waited.
For over two hours, she’d been seated alone in the duke’s study with no direction or clue as to what was supposed to happen. She’d arrived at nine of the clock, inkwell, pen and notebook in hand. Now, it had just gone a quarter after eleven, the chime of the clock on the duke’s mantle fading into the ether, and he’d still not arrived.
Needless to say, she was somewhat irritated.
After their ill-advised meeting last night, she’d made it back to her room without incident and then had spent most of the night staring at the canopy above her bed. She’d not even managed a chapter or two of the book she’d appropriated, the tome abandoned to the bedside table. Instead, she’d run over and again in her mind what he’d said...or what little he’d said, and on Gothic novels, of all things. He could not put two words together about important things like asking if someone would be amenable to contract work for an indeterminate amount of time, but he could wax lyrical on Mr. Poe and Mrs. Radcliffe and the Germanic Gothics. Germanic, for heaven’s sake.
Lord, she was sick of sitting here. Launching to her feet, she shoved her pens and papers onto the duke’s desk and strode over to the curtains. They’d been driving her insane since she’d arrived, the heavy fabric blocking what little sun this part of the world had. She wrenched them open, the curtains dragging a protest as a fine sprinkle of dust rained upon her. Weak sunlight filtered through, hurting her eyes but a moment before she adjusted to the faint glare. Framed by the panes, the gardens led down to the moors where a darkening sky loomed over distant crags of rock.
Crossing her arms, Gwen curled her hands over her biceps. The vista was not unexpected. It seemed all of Sowrithil was the same, a brief ring of tamed green falling away to a landscape full of dramatic juts of rock reaching toward a threatening grey sky. It seemed not to matter what time of day it was, either. This morning, she’d raced to the drive to catch Lord Beecham before he’d departed and been confronted with the same.
She stared out the window. She’d wanted to talk with Lord Beecham, to plead her case for returning to London. However, her pleas had only fallen upon deaf ears. In point of fact, he’d elaborated upon her expected duties, ordering her to undertake whatever the duke commanded. Whatever he commanded of her.
Hands tightening on her biceps, she glared at the moors as impotent anger and disbelief coursed through her once more. Lord Beecham had intimated that if the duke wished to greater intimacies with her person, she was not to refuse. It was completely beyond the realms of comprehension that Lord Beecham thought it appropriate to say such to her. Besides the fact it was a truly deplorable thing to intimate, it was in direct contradiction to her employer’s almost daily edict that she prescribe to behaviour of a ridiculously strict nature.
What happened to his insistence his law firm would be ruined should it be discovered he employed that most dreaded of things, a female, as a scribe, and one so brash as to insist on employment? While others in his employ were able to do as they wished, she was required to stay in the background, quiet as a mouse. She was even required to dress in browns and greys, keep her hair scraped into a bun, and her gaze was never to meet any clients, should she be so inopportune as to meet one. All of this, and yet she was to allow the duke her body should he ask?
Her fingers dug into her flesh. She was so sick of this. She was sick of wearing brown. She was sick of being ignored. She was sick of being treated as if she were less than nothing, as if her wishes and thoughts were meaningless.
And she was sick of waiting.
Turning on her heel, she abandoned her quills, her papers. If he could not be bothered to direct her, than she would not be bothered waiting.
She left the room without a backwards glance.
***
ACROSS THE DESOLATE LANDSCAPE, the wind screamed, broken only by jagged rock jutting to reach toward the grey sky. Harsh green shrubbery covered the earth, the thick, gnarled branches grasping at flesh and bone as a body fought through the thicket.
Gwen ignored the sting, the wind tearing at her hair and warring with her hairpins even as it plastered her dress to her body and slowed every step. In London, there was no wind, and a film of soot and grease lingered on her skin no matter how often she washed. Here, her lips were dry, her skin parched, and she was completely and utterly exhilarated.
Unable to help herself, she grinned. Oh, it was even better than he’d described. Untamed and wild, the moors stretched on forever, full of mystery and an ominous oppression that sent an excited shiver down her spine. The earth almost hummed while the shriek of the wind created a cacophony she could never have imagined.
She wished she had the words to describe the majesty of the place. The awe-inspiring rocks jutting to the sky. The dark-streaked sky. The grey-green foliage. The feeling it engendered, deep in her breast. It made her feel wild, and exhilarated, and...free.
“Miss Parkes!”
The unexpected shout made Gwen whip around. The duke bore down on her, white-faced and furious as he limped toward her. He leant heavily on his cane, the speed of his approach seemingly aggravating his affliction.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
Blood drained from her face. Criminy, she shouldn’t have left. She shouldn’t have abandoned her duties so wholl
y, shouldn’t have been so enthralled by the moors she’d forgotten her obligations. Oh Lord, her parents. She’d forgotten her parents. How they relied upon her. How her mother wouldn’t admit the money Gwen sent them eased her burden. That if that money was suddenly gone, they’d suffer.
Frozen, she could only watch as the duke grew ever closer. He halted before her, his chest heaving as he took her arm in a bruising grip. “This is beyond foolishness. You cannot wander on the moors alone. You will return to Sowrithil at once.”
Sudden, intense rage ignited within her. She wrenched her arm from his grasp as fury immolated any fear. “I will not.”
His expression turned thunderous. “You will heed me in this.”
A wild recklessness took hold of her. “Why?”
Perverse satisfaction ripped through her at his astonishment. “It is too dangerous—” he started.
“If I choose to break my head, it’s no concern of yours.” Squaring her shoulders, she dared him to comment.
He appeared completely at a loss for words. “You are my guest.”
“How am I your guest? I’ve been ordered here against my will. You didn’t even have the decency to attend your study this morning. What am I to think except that I am left to my own devices?”
He looked completely at a loss, but she didn’t care how he felt. As if a seal had broken, emotion barrelled through her, a twine of rage and frustration and…and hurt. “I’ve chosen to wander these moors, and if I’m pursued by a dark man with murderous intent, or if I should break a leg, or if an enormous hound devours me whole, you may rest assured you have no say in it. In fact, I think I shall do these things just to be difficult. I rather fancy a broken leg. Perhaps if I’m incapacitated, people will stop thinking they can order me about.”
Silk & Scars (The Silk Series Book 3) Page 3