Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Chapter Eleven

  When Rowan opened her eyes again she stood somewhere else. There beside them was the wood and grotto, but all color had been stolen from the world. Everything was etched in shades of gray.

  Rowan turned and saw that Ash’s purple eyes still held color.

  His lips quirked. “Your hair is like a beacon, Princess.” He grew solemn then. “Remember: neither eat or drink anything in this place. Not unless you wish to stay forever.”…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  Christopher watched as Freya’s face closed. She was hiding something from him. It was obvious.

  And why shouldn’t she?

  While he might feel after a night together in the well house—a night in which he revealed the worst parts of himself—that he was somehow closer to her, bound in friendship, if nothing else, she obviously had no such sentiments.

  He exhaled slowly, facing the fact that he felt more for her than she did for him.

  To her he was still the man who had destroyed her family. There was no reason for her to trust him.

  Now or ever.

  Plimpton had disappeared, and with the blackmailer gone, there was no excuse for Christopher to stay at the house party. If he considered the matter dispassionately, he should leave.

  And yet he didn’t wish to leave—or to give her up.

  He wanted to stay for her.

  “Can you explain something to me?” he said slowly to Freya. “I understand you don’t wish to marry me. But do you truly plan to remain a companion for the rest of your life?”

  “I like the work I do for the Hollands,” she said, avoiding the question altogether. Her brows drew together. “You won’t tell them who I am?”

  “No,” he replied at once. “There’s no reason for me to tell them anything.”

  She nodded, picking at her bread again, crumbling it into inedible bits. “Thank you. It’s just that if they knew I’d lose the situation.”

  “Would you?” He glanced to where Lady Holland was talking with Lady Lovejoy. She struck him as a lady of good humor. “Are you sure? Lady Holland seems rather fond of you.”

  She looked up in alarm. “Please don’t tell her, Kester.”

  Kester. The boyhood name brought him up short. “You’re using my nickname to sway me,” he said slowly, watching her. “You imply intimacy with me while withholding yourself.”

  She blinked. Had she not noticed that she’d used his nickname? “I…Harlowe. Will you promise me that you won’t tell anyone my secret?”

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have pointed it out. He rather liked it when she called him Kester.

  But she was glaring at him now, so he held up his hand. “Never fear. I won’t talk.” He watched as her shoulders lowered and wondered if she truly feared being dismissed so much. “Is that why you hide your hair? As a sort of disguise?”

  She put her hand to her cap and then hastily lowered it. “It’s more so that I don’t draw attention to myself. The chaperone shouldn’t deflect from the girls she guides.”

  Men would no doubt be drawn to her fiery locks—her fiery temper—if she let herself be seen as who she was. From what he knew of society, she would have very little trouble finding a suitable husband, despite her family’s lowered expectations.

  Which made it all the more odd that she was hiding her identity. “You don’t intend to marry yourself?”

  She looked startled. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yet you’re in hiding.” He cocked his head, eyeing the dust-colored riding habit she wore today. “It would take an incredibly perceptive gentleman to notice you as you are.”

  Her eyes suddenly rose, pinning him. “You didn’t seem to have any trouble.”

  “Obviously I’m incredibly perceptive,” he said dryly. “Do you want to marry?”

  “Perhaps. I haven’t really thought about it.”

  She was frowning down at the cheese on her plate as if it had offended her terribly. It wasn’t an expression he would associate with a woman happy at the thought of marriage. “No? Then it’s simply me you don’t wish to wed.”

  She glanced up as if startled. “I…No, that’s not it at all. You don’t understand.”

  “Then help me,” he said softly.

  She picked up a strawberry and bit into it, the fresh red juices staining her lips. “When a girl is growing up, she’s told that she will marry. It’s simply what everyone expects. What they assume. To remain unmarried is considered odd.” She stared at him as if trying to find the right words. As if she had something very important to tell him. “But what if it wasn’t expected? What if women could decide to bind themselves to a man or not and still live a happy, free life?”

  “But ladies do have such a choice,” he said, puzzled. “It’s not as if every woman is forced to marry as soon as she turns eighteen. Many women never marry.”

  She was already shaking her head. “Quite a few women are forced to marry—by their fathers or other male relatives or by their circumstances. And once married they give up all free choice.”

  “Aren’t gentlemen under the same strictures? After all, I was forced by my father to marry.”

  “Yes, but once married you retained your autonomy.” She leaned toward him, her plate of food forgotten in her passion for her argument, her green-gold eyes sparkling. “A woman is legally subservient to her husband. He controls her money and her person. If he wishes to take their children away from her, he can. If he wishes to deprive her of money, he can.”

  He took a sip of his wine, conscious that everything seemed sharper, more real around him. “Some gentlemen might do that,” he said. “Despicable gentlemen. But wouldn’t you agree they are in the minority? The majority of gentlemen care for their wives. They provide their wives with everything they are capable of: food and clothing, shelter and children.”

  “But as an inferior. Like a child. Once a woman marries, even to the most liberal of husbands, she must needs give over her own determination. She’s no longer whole in and of herself. She is halved in order to become part of her husband.”

  “Not necessarily,” he argued. “Shouldn’t a husband and wife, in the best of marriages, combine to make a greater whole?”

  She sat back, staring at him. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly beneath her gauzy fichu; her gold-flecked eyes were lit with fervor. “Perhaps. In an ideal world. In an ideal marriage. Perhaps a man and woman could bond together and be better than themselves separate. But I don’t think that this is an ideal world, and I, certainly, am not an ideal woman. I think were I to marry, the pieces of me would be picked apart, bit by bit, until nothing remained of me alone.”

  “What a very cynical view,” he said gently. “And so you’ll go through life alone and celibate? Never having either lover or children?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I would like children.”

  “I think you’ll need a gentleman for that at least,” he replied, his voice expressionless.

  She scoffed and threw the top of her strawberry aside. “I am aware. I know something about the world and gentlemen. I have lived in London for five years.”

  What that had to do with knowing gentlemen, he wasn’t sure.

  “Yes?” He felt his lips twitch at her solemn assurance that she was a woman of the world. “Have you…erm…conversed with many London gentlemen, then?”

  Her eyes narrowed as if she wasn’t sure exactly what he was implying.

  He wasn’t sure himself—he just knew he was enjoying talking with her enormously. He hadn’t simply conversed with a woman in a long, long time. Sophy and he had had very little in common, certainly not enough for a lengthy discussion.

  It was nice, sitting here in the sunshine, talking with a passionate woman. Thinking of ways of countering her arguments. Remembering the heat of her mouth.

  If they were alone…

  But they weren’t. He sat up straight at the thought, glancing around, but no one was paying them any attentio
n. In fact, most of the attention seemed to be on an argument between Lord Rookewoode and Viscount Stanhope.

  He turned back to Freya.

  To find her eyeing him with a small scowl on her face. The look sent a spike of arousal through him. Odd that her prickliness should be so beguiling to him.

  “I’ve talked to gentlemen before,” she said.

  “Have you?” he asked, interested—and a little jealous. Had other men discovered the fire underneath her dusty exterior? “Intimate intercourse?”

  “I…” Her eyes narrowed, and he could practically see her brain trying to work out what that meant, exactly. “I don’t know if intimate is the right word.”

  “No?” He frowned as if in thought. “Familiar? Personal? Cozy?”

  She stared suspiciously. “Cozy intercourse?”

  “Yes.” He smiled guilelessly at her. “Have you had frequent cozy intercourse with gentlemen?”

  “I…” She lifted her chin, looking both defiant and vulnerable. “No. Not frequent, but I have had, erm…intercourse?” Her voice was doubtful on the last word.

  He really ought to take pity on her, but then again, she wasn’t such a weak woman that pity was called for. She was a warrior. That being the case, it would be an insult to give up any ground gained.

  “With many gentlemen?” he asked innocently, and tore off a bite of bread, watching her as he chewed.

  She was frowning again, her plush lips pulled down rather adorably. “Nooo, not many.”

  “I’m glad,” he said softly. “I’m honored to be one of the few you’ve shared your intercourse with.”

  * * *

  Freya stared at Harlowe, feeling her cheeks warm. Was he…flirting with her?

  Surely not.

  Not after she’d argued with him. After she’d pricked him with her sword.

  After she’d told him she’d never forgive him.

  After she’d declined his proposal.

  But then there were those kisses. Unless he made a habit of kissing everyone he argued with—and her mind boggled at the thought—he’d been…interested in her.

  Perhaps he was interested in that sort of thing only now that she’d rebuffed the idea of marriage—kissing and what came after. Certainly she’d heard enough warnings as a girl about men and what they wanted.

  She’d given such warnings herself—to Regina and Arabella—but now she paused. If he were really interested only in that, surely he could find someone who didn’t slap him when she was angered.

  What, then, was he after?

  “You…” She cleared her throat, trying to find the right question. “You wish to talk with me?”

  “Amongst other things.” He smiled, his teeth flashing white in a face too tanned for a gentleman. “I’m interested in intercourse with you, haven’t I said? Intercourse implies more than simple discussion.”

  “What then?” Freya found herself leaning toward him as if lured by his words.

  He shrugged, never taking his gaze from hers. “The exchange of ideas. Building a foundation of mutual thought and consideration. Acknowledging that we two are equals in mind and spirit so that when we argue we are on level ground. I enjoyed our discussion about women and marriage even if I don’t agree with everything you said. I’d like to continue such debates.”

  She stared. She’d never met a man who considered a woman his mental equal. She’d never even heard of such a thing. What a strange creature Harlowe was.

  And how utterly seductive his proposition was. She’d been used to speaking her mind when she’d lived with Aunt Hilda and the other Wise Women. One of the hardest things about her work in London was hiding what she truly thought.

  To engage as equals with a man who respected her mind.

  The thought sent a shock through her, and she felt warmth pool low in her belly.

  She said carefully, cautiously, “What sort of ideas?”

  His eyes had more than a hint of triumph, as if she’d somehow conceded something, but before she could think about that too much he spoke. “Whatever you might want to discuss. Anything and everything. History? Politics? Philosophy? Religion?”

  Her lips parted. Such a grand world he threw so carelessly at her feet. Anything and everything. Had he any idea what he offered her?

  But this was too good. Too effortless. She looked at him suspiciously. “What if I disagree with something you hold dear?”

  He shrugged and picked up an apple. “Then I shall tell you why I think you wrong and listen to your reply.”

  He bit into the apple, crunching loudly.

  Slowly she smiled at him, feeling almost giddy.

  A corner of his mouth curled up and he offered her the other side of his apple. “Bite?”

  She placed her hands around both the apple and his fingers and bit into the juicy fruit.

  When she looked up, his blue eyes were glittering at her.

  She slowly chewed and swallowed the bite of apple. “Do you read?”

  He tilted his head, a smile playing about his mouth. “Of course.”

  “I mean, what sort of books do you like?”

  “History, mostly,” he mused. “English books were rather rare in India. Those of us who had them traded them back and forth. So although I’d brought Herodotus and Tacitus and several histories of England and Scotland, I also read what other men—and women—liked.”

  “Such as?” She took a sip of her wine, the sweet bite sparkling on her tongue.

  “Oh, the usual. Robinson Crusoe, Don Quixote, one or two of Shakespeare’s plays, The Compleat Angler—the last rather wasted in Calcutta. But there were other books as well.” He glanced slyly up at her from under his ridiculously black eyelashes. “There was a battered copy of Moll Flanders that went the rounds and an even more disreputable Fanny Hill.”

  Freya imagined Harlowe reading such scandalous literature. She’d never seen Moll Flanders—though she’d heard of it—but there was a copy of Fanny Hill hidden in the Holland library. She’d found it one rainy afternoon when the girls were away on an overnight trip with their mother and father.

  Found it and read it…and now the memory made her bite her lip.

  When she glanced up she found Harlowe watching her, his eyes amused. “You know them.”

  She nodded. “I’ve heard of both books.”

  “Have you?” He relaxed back on his elbow, the movement bringing him closer. The arm he was propped on nearly touched her knee. “But you haven’t read either?”

  She smiled and reached for a strawberry. “I’ve read Fanny Hill.”

  She watched him as she bit into the strawberry, sweet juice filling her mouth.

  “Have you.” He watched her mouth as he took another bite of his apple. “Did it have illustrations?”

  Her brows rose. Illustrations? There could be only one type of illustration for that book. “No.”

  “Pity.” He finished the apple and threw the core into the brush before turning back to her. “The copy I read did, but I’m afraid the book had been vandalized. There was only one plate left.”

  “Yes?” she prompted, feeling a low heat in her belly. An urge to stretch and thrust out her breasts. To let her barriers fall. She was discussing fucking with Kester.

  “Yes,” he replied, his voice dropping as if he sensed a little of what she felt. “The plate depicted the first time Fanny lay with Charles.”

  She contemplated what a picture of that act would look like…and then she laughed.

  Many men might feel that she laughed at them and take offense, but not Harlowe.

  He smiled as if in reaction to her laughter. “You find that humorous?”

  “No, not the picture, exactly,” she replied. “It’s just that when I read Fanny’s description of Charles I thought he was too soft for my tastes.”

  “Indeed?” His voice was deeper.

  “Yes.” She leaned closer to him and whispered, “I thought that Mr. H—, her second lover, was much more appealing, even if he di
d betray her with the maid. He was big and manly.”

  Harlowe opened his mouth to reply, but movement caught her eye behind him. The party was beginning to leave, the footmen packing up.

  She’d lost track of both time and where she was.

  How was that possible? When she was on a mission she was always careful to keep her mind focused and aware of her goal.

  She’d never been so careless before.

  “You look worried,” Harlowe said softly.

  She glanced at him and saw sympathy in his expression.

  Oh, he was dangerous—both to her and to her mission.

  “I shouldn’t have spent the picnic talking to you exclusively,” she muttered, irritated with herself.

  He rose as well. She could see his buckskin breeches out of the corner of her eye.

  “I wanted to talk to you. I couldn’t care less what the rest of the party thinks,” he said with all the arrogance of a gentleman whose place in society had never been doubted.

  Who was a duke.

  “Yes, well,” she murmured, “I’d rather not draw attention to myself.”

  There was a short silence, and she wondered if she’d offended him.

  She looked up to meet warm blue eyes. A corner of his mouth twitched. “I understand. You’re hiding your name. Your past.”

  His eyebrows drew together in a small frown as if he wanted to say more…and she wanted to hear what he said. Desperately. Wanted to continue this dangerous discourse.

  Freya swallowed. She’d already revealed quite enough to Harlowe today.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she muttered.

  And all but fled.

  * * *

  “I just don’t understand,” Lady Holland said incredulously that night after supper, “how you could decline a duke.”

  Freya sighed. It was not the first time her employer had expressed this opinion—and she had the feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

  They both sat in Lady Holland’s room. Selby, Lady Holland’s maid, was brushing out her mistress’s hair in preparation for bed. Lady Holland sat in front of a mirrored vanity, the items from her traveling toilet spread before her.