Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Freya turned her head and blinked at Messalina. “I feel very rested. But you had just as bad a morning as I. Why are you nursing me?”

  Messalina shrugged—a strangely awkward gesture from such an elegant woman. “It’s what friends do, don’t they? Care for one another.”

  Freya smiled. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Messalina grinned back at her companionably.

  Freya felt peace wash over her. This was good, sitting with Messalina. Having this tentative accord.

  But she couldn’t lie in bed forever. “I suppose I must get up and dress for supper.”

  “You can if you want, but I doubt it will be a very formal affair,” Messalina replied. “Jane has set poor Eleanor up in a room here. I think the doctors are still tending to her.”

  “How is Lady Randolph?”

  Messalina winced. “Better than I thought she would be, given how horrible this last year has been for her. Jane says she can stay as long as she wishes to recuperate. Of course she’s lost Randolph House now that Lord Randolph is dead, but I don’t think she’ll feel that’s any great tragedy.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to enter that house again,” Freya said.

  “Nor I.” Messalina shuddered, then looked at Freya. “How does this all affect the Wise Women?”

  “I hope you don’t think me ghoulish, but Lord Randolph’s death is very good for us,” Freya said practically. “Without him, the Witch Act loses its major backer—he was the one who wrote the act and meant to present it. It won’t be presented to Parliament now.”

  “Then you fulfilled your mission?” Messalina asked.

  “Yes.” That at least was satisfying—she’d made the Wise Women a little safer.

  “His death was best for Eleanor as well,” Messalina said darkly.

  “Does she have any funds at all now?” Freya wondered. The estate was no doubt entailed, and the Randolphs had no children. Some distant relative would probably inherit.

  “Well, that’s the odd thing,” Messalina said. “Apparently Lord Randolph drew up a will when they were first married and he never bothered to change it. Eleanor will have a tidy income, and there’s a dower house in London when she’s ready to enter society again. I’m afraid that however she does it, though, there will be quite a scandal when it’s revealed that she’s alive.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Freya winced. Poor Lady Randolph hadn’t done anything to deserve the notoriety that was about to descend on her. She glanced at Messalina. “What about Lord Randolph’s death?” Surely Harlowe wouldn’t be brought to trial for murder—he was a duke, after all—but her own history showed quite well what gossip could do if it got out he’d killed Lord Randolph.

  “Fortunately Lord Lovejoy is the local magistrate,” Messalina said. “He’s ruled it an accident whilst Lord Randolph was cleaning his gun.”

  Freya raised her eyebrows doubtfully. “And everyone who knows what really happened has agreed to this explanation?”

  Messalina’s mouth twisted. “Lord Randolph was very unpopular in the area.”

  “Hmm.” Freya murmured. “What about Lord Stanhope?”

  Messalina snorted. “Apparently he’s in a great deal of debt,” she said with satisfaction. “Mr. Lovejoy knew about the debt through gossip and told his father who told Christopher. Christopher had the viscount clapped in irons and sent back to London to debtor’s prison. Christopher also made sure that the Randolph footmen and housekeeper were all arrested for imprisoning Lady Randolph. I don’t know how he managed to do so much before he left.”

  Freya glanced away, feeling the prick of tears at her eyes. “Then he’s gone already?”

  Messalina hesitated. “Yes? He left for his country seat, I believe. In Sussex? Or perhaps it was Essex.”

  All Freya could do was stare at her and blink. She’d somehow thought—against all reason and despite the fact that he’d said he’d leave immediately—that she’d have another chance to talk to Harlowe before they parted ways.

  To say goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty

  “No!” cried Rowan, horrified. “Why should you want Ash’s eyes?”

  The Fairy King spread his hands. “Color is rare and much sought after here. Why wouldn’t I want such pretty purple eyes?”

  Rowan turned to Ash. “You mustn’t.”

  Ash ignored her, speaking to his brother. “You’ll free her if I do this? You give your word?”

  The Fairy King inclined his head.…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  A week later Messalina watched from her carriage window as Lovejoy House receded into the distance. She’d said a rather tearful goodbye to Jane and a much improved Eleanor, and her eyes felt irritated as a result. Freya and she had parted two days before when Freya had headed to Scotland—much to the dismay of the Holland ladies. Freya had promised to write Messalina, though, and had given an address in some benighted place in Scotland.

  Messalina was already composing letters to her in her head.

  “I really don’t think I’ll ever attend another house party in my life,” Lucretia said thoughtfully from the seat across from her where she sat with their shared lady’s maid, Bartlett. The maid’s head was nodding so both women were trying to speak in lowered tones.

  Messalina shrugged. “I’ve been to worse.”

  Lucretia looked at her with interest. “Have you? I’d like to hear about those if they’re more horrible than wife imprisoning and the death of a neighbor.”

  Messalina winced. “Well, not worse, but most definitely almost as bad.”

  Lucretia’s expression was dubious.

  “Quite uncomfortable?” Messalina tried, and then gave up and waved her hand. “Never mind. You’re right. This was horrendous. At least, though, Eleanor is all right. She was already looking better when I went to say goodbye to her this morning.”

  “That is good,” Lucretia returned soberly. “How horrible it must have been to be married to such a monster. And I’m sure she had no idea when she married him.”

  “I don’t think so, no,” Messalina said. “I’m rather glad on the whole that he’s dead.”

  “I think everyone is glad he’s dead,” Lucretia said with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. “I only wish he’d died before he’d imprisoned Eleanor.”

  “Yes.” Messalina shook her head. “But it’s over. Let’s not talk about such tragic things. What will you do when we return to London?”

  “Well,” Lucretia began. “I have the most urgent desire for a new gown, and the address of the dressmaker for—”

  Their carriage suddenly jolted to a stop.

  Bartlett started awake with an “Oh!”

  Messalina just had time to glance in alarm at her sister when the door was opened.

  Gideon Hawthorne was again in black. His curling, black hair was pulled severely back, emphasizing his high cheekbones and devilishly slanted eyebrows.

  “What do you want?” Messalina snapped, and immediately regretted it. He’d know that her loss of control signaled fright.

  He bowed gracefully. “Your uncle requests your presence, Miss Greycourt.”

  “You can’t have her,” Lucretia said, young and brave.

  He still stared at Messalina, and a corner of his mouth quirked as he said softly, “Can’t I?”

  They all knew he could.

  Her heart was beating too hard. She was terrified, but she’d be damned before she let him know.

  She caught her breath and said steadily, almost dismissively, “Very well.”

  Her sister began to protest, but Messalina sent her a warning glance. “Darling, you’ll have to continue without me. Be sure to give Quintus and Julian my love.”

  “Of course.” Lucretia gave a subtle nod.

  Good. She’d understood the message.

  Bartlett, who was a sturdy woman of forty years or so, spoke up for the first time. “I’d better come with you, Miss.”

  Messalina nodded to her in gratitude
. She’d much rather the buffer of the maid than traveling with Mr. Hawthorne alone.

  She rose and made herself place her fingers in the terrible man’s outstretched hand as she stepped from the carriage. “Lead on, Mr. Hawthorne.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later Freya stood on a hill, the breeze pressing a lock of her hair against her cheek, and traced the ancient carving on a battered standing stone. The carving looked like a stylized downward-facing crescent moon with an arrow broken at a right angle and piercing both points of the moon. The stone marker had been here on this hill several miles outside Dornoch, Scotland, since the beginning of time.

  Or at least since the beginning of the Wise Women.

  “Freya!”

  She glanced up to see her sister Caitriona making her way up the hill, her dark blue skirts whipping in the wind.

  “Are you coming to luncheon?” Caitriona called as she neared. “Elspeth has made something quite awful with a leg of mutton, I think.”

  Freya winced. “That doesn’t exactly make me eager to come.”

  Caitriona stopped beside her, heaving a breath. She was the tallest of the de Moray sisters, angular and strong like Aunt Hilda had been. Her red hair was bound up loosely in a haphazard knot on the top of her head. “No, but we ought to at least taste it. She’s worked all the morning at it.”

  Freya looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “It won’t be like the fish stew last week, will it?”

  “Well, I hardly think we’ll choke on the mutton bone,” Caitriona replied practically. Somehow Elspeth had forgotten to debone the fish before making her stew. “You can see forever up here, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” Freya said softly. “Forever and a day.”

  In front of them, in the distance, was the sea with the road to Dornoch a winding thread between. To their left was where the Wise Women lived, in a walled medieval abbey. From here they could see the many outbuildings, the garden, and the orchard. And behind them were ancient rolling mountains.

  This was what she’d missed in England—the Scottish hills, her sisters, the sweet wind, and the familiar community of Wise Women. But now that she was here she found herself longing for Christopher.

  Quite desperately.

  As if sensing her thoughts Caitriona leaned against her. “It’s been lovely having you back.”

  Freya sent her a quick smile. “It’s been lovely to be back.”

  “But,” Caitriona murmured, “I have the feeling you won’t be staying with us.”

  Freya hadn’t lasted two days before telling her sisters about Harlowe one night after rather too much wine. She shook her head. “I should stay. This is home.”

  “Is it?” Caitriona pushed back a trailing lock of hair. “But Christopher isn’t here. And you don’t have particular work to keep you here—maintaining the library like Elspeth or gardening like me.”

  “I could find work,” Freya muttered. “I could make a life here. I’m a Wise Woman.”

  “Well of course you could,” Caitriona replied, sounding amused. “Once a Wise Woman always a Wise Woman. Married or unmarried, with a man or not, you will always have the Wise Women. No man or man-made marriage can take that from you. But, Freya, you love Christopher. Go to him.”

  “Love isn’t the problem,” Freya said. She was so weary of this fight within herself. She just wanted to lay down her sword and go to Harlowe. “It’s marriage.”

  Caitriona heaved a sigh. “I don’t know why you doubt yourself. Do you truly think that you’d love a man who would abuse your faith in him?”

  Freya turned to look at her sister in astonishment. “It’s not as simple as that!”

  “Isn’t it?” Caitriona looked curious. “Why not? If you love him and want him and he loves you back, why not simply take him? Don’t be such a coward. Marry the man.” She shook her head and turned to start down the hill. “In any case Elspeth’s mutton leg won’t be any better cold. Come have luncheon.”

  Freya stared after her sister, indignant. Coward? She was no coward.

  Suddenly she felt lighter, as if her heart were flying.

  Like a merlin seeking her mate.

  * * *

  “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

  Christopher absently shook his head at Gardiner as he threw the afternoon post aside. There wasn’t anything interesting there.

  There never was.

  He’d arrived back at Renshaw House, the seat of the Dukes of Harlowe, nearly a month ago. Every day he rose, dressed, and ate breakfast as one of his land stewards apprised him about his holdings. After that he might meet with his lawyers—the dukedom really had been in a wretched state when he’d inherited. In the afternoon he wrote letters with his secretaries—he had two—in his study. Sometimes he took callers. Tenant farmers with complaints, the vicar of the local church asking for funds to reroof the church, or the mayor wanting him to sponsor the grammar school.

  There was always something.

  It was only in the late afternoon, in the hour or so before supper, that he took time to himself. Let himself think.

  Gardiner cleared his throat as if about to say something else, and Christopher glanced at him.

  Somehow he’d forgotten the valet was still here. “Nothing, Gardiner. You may go.”

  Gardiner looked indecisive, but then he bowed and left the bedroom.

  Christopher snapped his fingers at Tess, lying before the fireplace. “Come on, then.”

  She rose eagerly, tail wagging.

  At least Tess enjoyed their evening walks.

  He descended the grand staircase—marble imported from Italy—and walked to the front door.

  His butler bowed, and two footmen opened the door. Obviously it would have been too much for one footman.

  Christopher nodded to the men and mentally chided himself. Renshaw House provided needed work for over one hundred people. That was one of the responsibilities of being a duke.

  One of the many responsibilities.

  He started down the drive. The day was beautiful, the sun still summer bright despite the time of day. The grounds had been meticulously landscaped, surrounding Renshaw House with a parklike setting.

  It was a lovely estate.

  And he’d be happy here, even with the work and responsibilities, if only Freya…

  But best not to think of that.

  He was a rich man—a very, very rich man—and that should be enough.

  It wasn’t.

  He stopped in the middle of the drive and threw his head back. How was it possible to continue breathing with such pain? Perhaps he should go to her. It had been a month with no word. He could try one more time to convince her…

  No.

  He blew out his breath, closing his eyes. No. She knew full well what he felt for her, and if that was not enough—

  Tess set up a cacophony of barking.

  Christopher opened his eyes to see what the problem was.

  A figure was at the end of his drive, walking toward him.

  Tess galloped toward her—she was wearing a dress, so definitely a her.

  Christopher began walking.

  Tess reached the woman, ran in a circle around her, barking all the while, and turned to race back to Christopher.

  It couldn’t be.

  Tess made her next lap back to the woman. The sun had turned her into a black silhouette, but the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head…

  Christopher walked faster.

  She wore a dress the color of flames and a wide-brimmed hat instead of the cap, but it was Freya. She dropped a soft bag and bent to fondle the damned dog, who was nearly dancing at her feet, and Christopher broke into a run.

  She looked up and straightened, her expression uncertain, but then she smiled.

  Freya, his Freya.

  He caught her about the waist and swung her up and around, ignoring her shriek of surprise.

  Then his mouth was on hers and it was right.

 
; So right.

  He held her in his arms and something settled in his chest. The bewildered feel of loss and loneliness evaporated.

  She was here and all the world was right again.

  “Christopher,” she gasped, trying to pull away.

  He didn’t want her to. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear why she’d come.

  And if she said she was leaving again, he didn’t think he could bear it. He might break and fall to his knees to beg.

  But he couldn’t hold her and kiss her forever.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. “How did you come?”

  “I took the stagecoach from Edinburgh,” she said. “And then I walked from your little town.”

  “Walked?” His brows snapped together. “Whyever didn’t you send word? I would’ve sent a carriage—or come myself.”

  “It wasn’t far, truly,” she said.

  “But you shouldn’t have to walk it. You’re my guest and I—”

  “I have something for you,” she blurted, interrupting him. She reached up and drew off the thin silver chain around her neck. He expected to see Ran’s ancient signet ring, battered and worn, but a different ring hung from the chain now. A gold ring.

  She slid the ring off the chain and held it out to him.

  He took it and examined the ring. Engraved on it were a lion and a lioness, necks twined together. Christopher shook his head, glancing up. “I don’t—”

  She laid her fingertip against his lips, silencing his protest.

  “I love you and I do trust you,” she said quietly. “I think I have for some time, I just didn’t realize it. There has been so much between us—between our families—that I had difficulty seeing through the conflict and hurt and history to what you are to me now.” She took a breath. “To what I am to you.”

  “Freya,” he whispered.

  “I’m not done. I have something to ask you,” she said, her voice a little wobbly. “I’d like…That is…Will you…No, that isn’t right.” She took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. “Christopher Renshaw, Duke of Harlowe, will you marry me?”

  He laughed, throwing back his head. Then he picked her up and swung her around again. The dog barked. A flock of birds startled from a nearby tree.