Chapter Three
One day Rowan and her companions rode deep into the forest until at last they came to a clearing. To one side stood a grotto, beautiful, green, and silent.
The horses shied away.
“They say that Fairyland lies in there,” Marigold whispered, and Redrose and Bluebell looked frightened.
But Rowan said, “Bah! A wifes’ tale. Let us explore inside and prove the tale wrong.”…
—From The Grey Court Changeling
He’d been a skinny boy with a man’s full height at eighteen, but not his weight. He’d looked like a medieval king, his face long, sensitive, and ascetic. And his eyes had been blue, luminous, and beautiful—at least that was how Freya remembered Christopher Renshaw.
She sipped her tea and contemplated the Duke of Harlowe. He was fully formed now, big and solid, his shoulders wide, his calves muscular in his fine stockings as he stretched his legs before him in his chair. His face had filled out into craggy cheekbones and a strong jaw. He was no longer a dreamy poet.
No, now he more closely resembled a warrior king—hardened and merciless. A man who could betray his friend without thought.
A man who still didn’t recognize her.
Well, why should he? she thought rather irritably. When Harlowe had last seen her she’d been a skinny girl in the schoolroom. The younger sister of his great friend Ranulf. Someone he’d had no reason to notice. A child while he’d been a young man and a student at Oxford with Julian Greycourt and Ran.
Freya pressed her lips together to stop them trembling at the memory. They’d been so bright, the three of them, shining like young gods. She’d thought them invincible, and now…
Now Ran was crippled because of Julian and Harlowe.
“Does your head ache?” Arabella asked softly beside her.
“No, not at all.” Freya caught herself frowning. She forced a smile and turned to the elder Holland sister. “Have you recovered from the carriage ride this morning?”
“I’m glad to have a bit of a rest from bouncing up and down,” the younger woman replied with feeling.
“What do you think of Lady Lovejoy’s guests?”
“You mean the gentlemen?” Arabella asked with a wry twist to her lips.
Freya winced. “I was trying to be more subtle than that.”
“I don’t know that there’s any point.” The younger woman sounded bitter.
Freya glanced at her quickly.
Arabella gave her a half-hearted smile. “I know Mama wishes me wed before Regina, and with Mr. Trentworth ready to propose…”
She shrugged.
Freya tightened her mouth and silently patted Arabella’s hand, which felt like no comfort at all. Ladies of Arabella’s rank sometimes didn’t wed, but the vast majority did, and Freya knew that Lord Holland expected his daughters to not only wed but wed well.
Freya silently gave thanks that she was a Wise Woman. If she wished to, she could certainly marry and have a family, but it wasn’t an imperative. In fact, were she to wed she might be less welcome at the estate in Dornoch. The Wise Women were very careful about which men they let into their sanctuary.
Freya said, “If you truly dislike everyone you meet here, I have no doubt that your mother will give you time to find another suitor.”
“Yes.” Arabella scanned the gentlemen in the room with an oddly dispassionate eye. “But I’ve had three years to find a husband. She and Father cannot wait on me forever.”
“You sound quite grim.”
Arabella turned and gave her a small curl of the lips. “I’m planning a campaign to find a husband, Miss Stewart. Such things should be done most gravely.”
Freya took a sip of tea, trying to cover her own unease. So many things could go wrong in a marriage, and once the vows were said there was no returning to what freedom there was in maidenhood.
A grave business indeed.
Freya cleared her throat, attempting a lighter note. “Lord Stanhope is quite beautiful, don’t you think?”
Arabella sent her an appalled glance.
Freya tried to look innocent.
“You’re awful,” Arabella whispered. “Lord Stanhope looks like he swallowed a toad. And quite recently.”
Freya repressed a smile. “Perhaps he’s shy.”
Arabella widened her eyes disbelievingly.
“Well, he might be.” Freya shrugged. “I’ve noticed that sometimes gentlemen who present a forbidding exterior are simply timid.”
“Timid.” Arabella raised a single eyebrow. “Then the duke must be a rabbit. He was kind to introduce Regina to darling Tess, but I would never have guessed him to be so gentlemanly from simply his appearance. He looks as if he might bite one’s head off if his tea wasn’t to his satisfaction.”
Freya glanced at Harlowe before she could stop herself.
He was seated with Lord Lovejoy. Tess was under his chair, watching the assembly alertly, her head on her crossed paws. Harlowe listened with a frown on his face to something their host was saying. As she watched, he glanced at the fire and then the door and shifted in his chair, almost as if he wished to leave the room.
She shook her head at her own ridiculousness. Harlowe was hardly the sort of man to be shy in a gathering. No, Arabella was right.
He did appear rather intimidating.
“I should avoid him were I you,” Freya found herself saying.
“What do you mean?” Arabella asked. “I’ve always thought that when a man has the devotion of a dog it shows his true character, and Tess quite obviously loves the duke.”
The thought of Arabella setting her cap at Harlowe made Freya feel irritable. She glanced back at the girl.
Arabella’s brows were knit.
Freya shook her head. “Dogs are such loving animals, and really it takes little to win them over. Food and companionship, mostly. I don’t think the duke is very nice.” Arabella looked so young in a pretty pale-pink gown. “At least, not nice enough for you.”
“You’re quite cynical on occasion, Miss Stewart,” Arabella said. “Sometimes I wonder if a gentleman hurt you in the past. If there was a beau who spurned you and broke your heart.”
“Alas, nothing so romantic,” Freya said dryly. “What do you think of the younger Mr. Lovejoy? You’ve met him before, I believe.”
Arabella gave her a disconcertingly considering stare. “You always turn the conversation away from yourself. Really, I hardly know anything about your past.”
“There’s not much to know,” Freya said lightly, meeting her gaze.
“Hmm.” Arabella sighed and glanced again at the gentlemen. “As to your question, yes, I danced with Mr. Lovejoy at a ball last winter. Once. He danced with Regina twice.”
Freya ignored the last. “Mr. Lovejoy seems quite nice.”
“Mama would prefer a titled gentleman.”
“Of course,” Freya replied, refraining from rolling her eyes. Naturally the lineage of the prospective groom was more important than whether or not the bride actually liked him. “But Mr. Lovejoy will inherit a barony someday—and quite a wealthy one at that. I think, in the end, Lady Holland wishes above all that you be happy.”
“I know she does, but I also know Papa would like me to marry someone of rank.” Arabella raised her eyes, meeting Freya’s gaze frankly. “I want to make them both proud of me, but I’m not as vivacious as Regina. I don’t know if I can attract a titled gentleman.”
“You can,” Freya said, taking her hand. Arabella’s vulnerability made her heart want to break. “I know you can if you set your mind to it. You are kind and intelligent and very witty when you wish to be. We simply need to find the right gentleman to appreciate you.”
Arabella looked uncertain, and Freya pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to see Arabella hurt.
“Arabella,” Lady Holland called. “Lady Lovejoy has the most intriguing embroidery patterns. Come see.”
Lady Lovejoy had joined Lady Holland on a settee.
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“Of course, Mama,” Arabella said obediently, rising to cross and sit with her mother and their hostess.
The fact was that Freya wasn’t certain the girl could make a suitable match. Titled gentlemen had their pick of aristocratic ladies. What she wished she could tell Arabella was that there was no need to worry. That there was plenty of time for Arabella to find a gentleman who was kind and who loved her for herself.
But the awful reality was that Arabella was expected to marry. To make familial ties for her father and to breed the next generation of aristocrats. The girl really had no choice.
Freya might, on the surface, work as a companion and chaperone—quite near the bottom of aristocratic society—but in reality she had more freedom than any duchess.
Because she was a Wise Woman.
And now she had only a fortnight to save the Wise Women.
She had to find something to hold over Lord Randolph.
Freya sipped from her teacup and scanned the room. Her gaze almost immediately clashed with the duke’s.
He was staring at her, his sky-blue eyes narrowed in what looked like consideration.
The sudden surge of hatred for him caught her off guard. Made her chest so tight it was hard to breathe. Had Harlowe forgotten not only her but Ran as well? It was a thorn in her breast, the knowledge that he was living his life freely and without remorse while her brother Lachlan toiled over the remaining de Moray lands.
While Ran hid himself away from the world.
Across from her, Arabella laughed at something.
Freya glanced over. The girl was smiling at the pattern book Lady Lovejoy was showing her and Lady Holland. If only Arabella could be so relaxed when conversing with a gentleman. Unfortunately she became stiff when—
“Miss Stewart,” a deep voice said next to her.
Freya fancied that she could feel the reverberations to her bones. “Your Grace.”
She turned to find that Harlowe had seated himself in a chair pulled up beside the settee she perched on. He was at a perfectly proper distance. No one could look askance at the fact that he’d sat down beside her. But the point that he was talking to her might cause comment. She was the hired companion and chaperone. She wasn’t supposed to be noticed at all.
She didn’t want to be noticed.
And he was well aware of it. There was a gleam in his startlingly blue eyes as he murmured, “I find myself curious, Miss Stewart. I don’t think you are what you seem to be.”
“Are any of us?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps not.”
She smiled, aware that it was closer to a grimace. “What dire secrets do you hide, Your Grace?”
“How do you know I hide any?”
“Intuition?” She tilted her head, studying him, and picked her words carefully. If she mentioned Greycourt, the game would be given away directly. All the same she was tempted to do it. Instead she settled on something more vague. “You’re a gentleman past thirty, widowed, but in the two years since you gained your title you’ve not bothered remarrying.”
“I wasn’t aware that lack of a wife is a suspect state,” he drawled.
“It is for a gentleman who holds such a lofty title. Shouldn’t you be searching for a young, nubile maiden? One you can tie to your side and who will bear for you your heirs? Duty to the dukedom surely demands it.”
His lips curved cynically. “Are you acting as a pander for the Misses Holland?”
“No.” Her reply was curt. No, this man wasn’t for Regina or Arabella. He was a powerful man—a dangerous man. The woman who married him would have to be not only strong but stubborn, able to hold her ground. Not that she would wish marriage to him on any woman, of course. “I would not recommend you to a young girl.”
“Should I be offended?” His eyes were so blue it was hard to look away.
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “You are not good enough for them.”
He was very still, and only the tightening of his jaw gave away his ire before he said caustically, “And am I good enough for you, Miss Stewart?”
“I am a companion, Your Grace. You know well enough that you are not for me.” This was too close to flirtation. She could not be distracted by cerulean eyes, blunt conversation, and her own heightened awareness of him. She turned her hand over in her lap, exposing the vulnerable palm. “Tell me. What are your thoughts on revenge?”
Silence.
She glanced up.
He was watching her as if she were a cannon poorly primed. “What an odd question.”
“Is it?” she asked carelessly. “I beg your pardon. I shall return to proper subjects of conversation. The weather is quite pleasant, don’t you think?”
He snorted and said seriously, “I think revenge destroys the soul, Miss Stewart.”
She felt an odd thrill. He’d accepted her conversational gambit. “I disagree. If I am wronged, shouldn’t I seek revenge for it?” She leaned a little toward him, wondering how much further she could push him. When he reached his limit, would he walk away—or turn on her? “What would you do, Your Grace, if you were vilely used, terribly hurt, had everything you held dear taken from you?”
“I would be more careful in the future,” he said slowly, but without hesitation, as if he’d actually mused on the topic before. “And I would try to live my life as honorably as I could.”
For the first time it occurred to her that perhaps he had been wronged at some point. After all, it was fifteen years since she’d last seen him. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the sinner was himself sinned against?
“What a paragon of restraint you are, Your Grace,” she said, sweetly mocking. “You would simply let your tormentor free? Wish him a long and happy life?”
“No, naturally not.” He sighed impatiently. “I am only human. I would want to bring him to justice. But justice is not always possible—or for the greater good. Surely you realize this.”
“I realize that to give up the drive for revenge—or justice, as you put it—is to relinquish a part of oneself,” she said far too passionately. “To succumb to the mundanity of life instead of reaching for the most valiant part of ourselves.”
“You think revenge valiant.” He glanced away from her as if he couldn’t bear to see her face. “And after you have revenged yourself, what then, Miss Stewart?”
She didn’t want him to turn from her. “Then I will have peace.”
His expression when he looked at her was sardonic. “Madam. Have you ever sought peace in your life?”
She couldn’t help the wry twist of her mouth. “Truthfully, no.”
He nodded as if unsurprised. “I thought not. So tell me, who is this man you wish to revenge yourself upon? Was it one of the men chasing you through the streets of east London a fortnight ago?”
Good Lord, had anyone heard him?
She caught her breath at her own idiocy. She wasn’t a shallow girl, to have her head turned by a pair of pretty eyes. This was her enemy. “Do keep your voice down, if you please.”
“Why?” He lounged back, watching her with the dispassionate interest of a tomcat playing with a crippled mouse. “Are you hiding something?”
She widened her eyes. “Obviously.”
“What?”
“Why do you think you have any right to ask?” Talking to this man was far too seductive. She was perilously close to giving everything away. Freya took a sip of tea to cover her disquiet.
“Possibly because I didn’t throw you and your companions from my carriage,” he replied mildly.
“I am forever in your debt,” she snapped.
He paused, his eyes narrowing. “I could simply ask your employer.”
“You could,” she replied, a tight smile firmly in place, “but by doing so you admit that you are unable to handle me by yourself. And then I should know you for a coward.”
He stilled, and she knew she’d found the line.
Found it and crossed it.
“Most people in your position,
Miss Stewart,” he said very quietly, “would be careful not to offend me.”
* * *
Christopher stared at Miss Stewart, aware that he couldn’t remember when he’d last been this angry. Come to that, he hadn’t felt any emotion so deeply in a long time.
She wasn’t cowed by his ire. Quite the opposite—those green-gold eyes were glittering with almost feverish excitement as she replied, “Your pardon. If you want careful argument, then you must seek it elsewhere.”
“I certainly would be a coward if I left the field to you,” he said softly. “And I assure you, madam, that I am not.”
Her smile this time was quick and real, revealing a dimple on one cheek. He caught his breath at the sight. This, this was what he’d been missing without even realizing it: genuine conversation. Genuine feeling.
In the next second her smile was gone, almost as if she were ashamed of the lapse. “I’ll have to take your word for it, Your Grace.”
Another insult. They seemed to spill off her tongue. What was it about this awful woman that held him so? Her appearance didn’t match her personality at all. On the outside she was dowdy and forgettable, her clothes prim and drab. The cap on her head particularly irritated him—it hid most of her brownish hair and distracted from the rest of her.
“You wear the most ghastly cap,” he said.
One never spoke to a lady in this manner. A gentleman always used polite little lies, glossing over anything that might distress a lady.
He remembered once when he’d tried to talk with Sophy about a maid who was stealing. His wife had been so upset over even the thought of reprimanding the maid that she’d taken to bed for the rest of the day. He’d dealt with dismissing the maid himself. Sophy hadn’t seemed to notice beyond commenting on the new maid’s lazy eye.
It had been better all around to live a polite fiction with his wife. A sort of make-believe life in which the truth was never mentioned. In which he always cared for her and her worries, and she existed in a childish state of dependence.
Never an equal adult.
Not the Duke's Darling Page 4