Kensley nodded towards the library, from which the muttering of a lone female voice emanated. She would be able to see the main door from where she was, and perhaps conceal herself behind the curtains, but since they hadn’t entered by traditional means, she would have no idea they were there.
Anger radiated through Troy as he saw her rifling through his desk drawers, so instead of watching her and attempting to decide what she hoped to find, he made his presence clear.
‘Find what you are looking for?’ he asked in an acerbic tone, planting his fists on his hips as he watched her reaction.
She leapt up like the guilty intruder that she was and bashed the back of her head hard against an open drawer. She let out a most unladylike oath that amused Troy, despite his anger, and rubbed the affected area. She was clearly disoriented and scared half out of her wits. Troy’s blistering anger dissipated faster than the mist that habitually hovered over his lake in the early mornings when she knocked her cap askew and a long, thick curl in a most unusual shade of treacle blonde threaded with gold tumbled down, falling almost to her waist. Troy shared a glance with Kensley, who shrugged, looking amused by Troy’s reaction.
‘You’re hurt,’ Troy said. He took her by the arm, marched her from his library and into his sitting room, where he forced her into a chair. Shadow went straight up to her, which Troy found interesting. His dog was an excellent judge of character and not naturally friendly. Far from growling, he pushed his shaggy head beneath the woman’s hand. Troy watched, curious to see how she would respond. Most women of his acquaintance found Shadow’s size off-putting. Troy couldn’t explain why, but he wasn’t entirely surprised when this one didn’t follow their example. She appeared to forget her precarious position, her painful head and everything else. Her lovely face came alight with pleasure at the sight of Shadow and she gave his ears a thorough scratching.
Eventually Troy called Shadow off and the dog fell obediently to his belly at the woman’s feet.
‘Have the goodness to tell me your name and what you thought you were doing in my private rooms,’ Troy said curtly.
‘I…that is, I am…’ She cleared her throat and glanced at Kensley, who gave her no help at all. ‘I am Miss Carvell, Mrs Woodley’s maid,’ she eventually said, elevating her chin, ‘and I was looking for something to read.’
Troy fixed her with a fearsome glower at complete variance to his reaction to her delicate and susceptible beauty. This woman wasn’t a spy, or a thief, or an inventive aspirant for his hand. She was urgently in need of his help and protection. He couldn’t be sure how he knew that—somehow he just did. Her voice, as Kensley had warned him to expect, was cultured and melodic. She trembled with a combination of anxiety and, judging from the fact that her highly unusual moss green eyes had darkened to the colour of laurel after a rainstorm, anger too. Why she felt the need to be angry with him when he was the aggrieved party, Troy had yet to determine.
‘In my desk?’ he asked. ‘Has French poetry lost its appeal?’
‘You!’ she cried accusingly, half rising from her chair and then sinking straight back into it again. Troy was concerned about the knock to her head. It seemed she was still suffering from its effects. ‘It was you who searched my room.’
‘It is my room, Miss Carvell—or whoever you are. You are merely occupying it for a few days.’
‘Yes…well—’ She lowered her head and had the grace to look a little abashed, but the anger he had noticed swirling in her remarkable eyes endured. She obviously felt entitled to be angry with him, although Troy was convinced that they had never been introduced before. Hers was a face that would be impossible to forget.
‘You have still not told me who you are,’ Troy said, sinking into the chair across from her. ‘I am unaccustomed to asking anything twice.’
‘I dare say you are,’ she replied, lifting her head and tossing it defiantly. The gesture caused her cap to fall away and more of her hair tumbled down, framing her face and falling over her shoulders in a tangle of disorderly curls. Troy cleared his throat and looked away, determined not to be influenced by her physical attributes.
Most people quaked in their boots when Troy spoke to them so authoritatively, but this delectable female with her wild and vibrant beauty appeared impervious to his ire. Curling lashes cast long shadows over high cheekbones and those wide eyes shooting daggers of disapproval in his direction filled him with an irrational desire to make her smile. A flare of irritation caused her lush mouth to compress, and she continued to breathe erratically. His lip curled with answering irritation when he reacted to that beautifully sculpted, generously proportioned mouth and found himself wondering how it would feel to kiss those full, tempting lips.
Damn it, this wouldn’t do!
‘Your name,’ he said curtly. ‘Your real name, if you please.’
‘Gilliard,’ she said, hesitantly at first and then, lifting her chin with dignity and determination, she met and held his gaze with an expression of icy contempt. ‘Brione Gilliard.’
Troy and Kensley exchanged an astounded look.
‘You are Evan Gilliard’s widow?’ Troy asked.
Chapter Five
Brione found the duke even more formidable at close quarters, and would easily be intimidated by his air of effortless consequence if she allowed it to affect her. She felt overwhelmed by his unyielding presence and acutely embarrassed to have been caught rifling through his papers.
How had they got into the room without her gaining any advance warning? Castles, she supposed, had a plethora of secret passageways. Brione found distraction from her own humiliation as she watched the sharp exchange of glances between the duke and Kensley when she gave them her real name. They appeared surprised rather than worried to find her in their midst, but that didn’t mean they were innocent, did it?
It was difficult to know when seated across from such a vital, disarming and powerful adversary, a man who could no doubt crush her like an irritating fly if he looked upon her as a danger. But at that precise moment his midnight blue eyes had softened with apparent sympathy as he evaluated her. The scar that ran down the side of his face only served to add to his roguish good looks. Brione found herself gripped by the desire to run her fingers down its length, which infuriated her. She tossed her head, determined not to be taken in by his pretence at commiseration, or overwhelmed by his intoxicating presence. Her path had crossed with that of handsome men often enough and there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about this one.
Except the duke was a thousand times removed from anyone she had met before. An indefinable something flowed between them as he continued to watch her, sharpening her awareness of him, as an adversary and as a man. A kernel of sensation, something unfamiliar and primitive, stirred deep within her core as their gazes duelled. His dark eyes probed as deep as a verbal question whilst he took the measure of her and she couldn’t find the strength to look away.
‘You are supposed to be fishing,’ she said, cursing the banality of the statement she’d made in a desperate effort to dissipate the tension created by her fertile imagination. More astounded still that her thoughts had taken a sensual detour, quite without her permission. She hadn’t glanced twice at any man since Evan’s death, and it felt disloyal to be doing so now; even if she was aware that her admiration for the duke’s formidable person would at best be a one-sided affair. Any answering awareness she thought she discerned in his expression must either be the product of her own ridiculous imagination or guilt for the part he had played in Evan’s fall from grace.
Such reflections brought her to her senses and dispelled her inappropriate thoughts. She was herself again—or would be very soon.
‘I am sorry about your husband,’ the duke said softly. ‘He was a good man.’
Tears sprang to Brione’s eyes but she refused to let them fall just as stubbornly as she fought against being taken in by the duke’s apparently genuine words of sympathy. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘He was.’
‘Which begs the obvious question—what are you doing in my house, dressed as a maid?’
‘How did you get back into this room?’ she asked at the same time.
‘There is more than one entrance.’ He smiled at her, his anger apparently exhausted, and Brione immediately wished that he had remained hostile. She wanted to hold on to her own anger and her thirst for revenge. It was her crutch. It gave her life purpose, a reason to get out of bed in the mornings and fight for justice for Evan. The duke had no business treating her to a sinfully enticing smile that left her in danger of forgetting her own name. ‘I will ask you again. Why are you posing as a maid and what did you hope to find in here? If you tell me what it is, then perhaps I will be able to help you to find it, Mrs Gilliard.’
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ she demanded. Her fit of pique elicited a grunt of laughter from Mr Kensley, who thus far hadn’t spoken.
‘I am generally an agreeable person.’
‘Evan thought so, that much I will grant you.’ The duke raised a brow at her combative tone but didn’t interrupt her flow. Mr Kensley turned a guffaw into a cough. Presumably few people spoke with such blatant disrespect to his aristocratic master, but then no one, Brione suspected, ever had greater cause to doubt his integrity. ‘My husband was a trusting man by nature. Too trusting, it transpired. He was unaware how things would turn out for him.’ Her anger had returned and she fixed the duke with a blistering glower. ‘But I know that he was guilty of nothing more than loyalty.’ She fixed the duke with a look of unbridled reproach, daring him to defy her words.
‘You clearly hold me responsible for your husband’s death,’ he replied in a tone so soft and full of regret that Brione was obliged to lean forward in order to hear the words. ‘Which makes two of us.’
‘Oh.’
She folded her hands in her lap, the wind snatched from her sails. This had to be a ruse to gain her trust and deflect suspicion away from him, Brione realised, refusing to be mollified by pretended expressions of regret. It would take more than those dark eyes gazing at her with an intensity that created a taut atmosphere of shared sensibility to hoodwink her. Brione was well aware of his little game and was not about to play by his rules. She was no green miss in danger of melting when he favoured her with his momentary attention. Oh no! She was immune to his charm.
She absolutely was!
‘Then that is one subject upon which we are in complete agreement,’ she said, tossing her head to dispel the atmosphere of heady anticipation he had effortlessly created and which she couldn’t completely ignore, hard though she tried. What was it that he wanted her to anticipate, she wondered? Not that it really signified, since he had met his match and she would not be fobbed off with excuses or anything other than a complete explanation for Evan’s downfall.
‘Mrs Gilliard,’ the duke replied, having taken a long breath as though striving for patience, ‘as you must have been told, your husband was killed during the Six Days’ Campaign, shortly before Napoleon was beaten. He acted with extreme bravery, as did many others who perished during that campaign. I was in command of his regiment.’ He instinctively touched his scar. ‘If you blame me for surviving when so many better men than I will ever be did not,’ he added sotto voce, ‘then that is another area upon which we are in agreement.’
Brione was a little taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. By the distant, pained expression in those dark eyes that made her suppose he must be reliving the torment of those terrible times in his mind. But, she reminded herself, this could all be a clever ploy to invoke her sympathy. The man was a master manipulator and she would be wise to reserve judgement when it came to the level of his sincerity.
‘That is not what I meant to imply,’ she replied more acerbically than had been her intention, thinking she must look a dreadful sight in her shapeless grey gown and with her hair tangled over her shoulders and tumbling down her back. Then she berated herself for caring about her appearance. Hadn’t she already decided that she didn’t want to impress this man? Instead she wanted him to let his guard down, to be guided by his conscience—always assuming that he possessed one—and admit to what he had done once he’d witnessed the level of distress he had caused. She shook her head at her naiveté, reminding herself that if he was a traitor, he was far too powerful for her to be able to prove it and far too wily to condemn himself…
If? Did she now doubt his loyalties, or lack thereof? Was she being taken in by his smouldering gaze and persuasive charm, despite her efforts to remain immune?
‘You have the advantage of me, Mrs Gilliard,’ the duke said softly. ‘I am at a loss to understand what brought you to my house, and more to the point why you felt the need to disguise yourself as a maid. I have asked you twice for an explanation. Please don’t make me force one from you.’
Now he was making her angry. Anger was good. As long as she was angry, there was no room in her heart for any other feeling. ‘Are you pretending that you don’t know what is being said about Evan?’ She shared a furious glance between the two men, who in turn looked blankly at one another, and then back at her.
‘Tell me,’ the duke said softly.
Was his mystification genuine or was he seeking to learn how much she knew? Without knowing quite why, she decided to trust him with the truth. ‘The moment I returned to England to settle Evan’s affairs, I became aware of the finger-pointing, the cuts…’
‘Why?’ Kensley asked.
‘That is the question I asked myself then and the question I am asking you now. I continue to look for answers.’
‘Excuse me,’ the duke said. ‘You mentioned returning to England. Did you follow the drum? I do not recollect having the pleasure of making your acquaintance during the conflict.’
‘I did not. I was in Austria for the majority of the time, caring for my mother. After my father’s death, she remarried to an Austrian. After she died, Evan said it would be safer for me to remain where I was. He predicted that Napoleon’s days were numbered and planned to come and collect me when it was safe.’ She closed her eyes and swallowed down her emotions. ‘Instead, a despatch arrived informing me of his death.’
‘I am very sorry,’ the duke said, sounding sincere, but Brione already knew that he was adept at doling out sympathy and remained to be convinced. ‘Your husband was a hero and a personal friend of mine. He also spoke of his good fortune in having secured your affections.’ The duke paused. ‘Now that I have met you for myself, I can quite understand why he felt that way.’
Brione looked away from him and didn’t acknowledge the hollow compliment.
‘Why do you imagine people were cutting you?’ Kensley asked.
‘I have not imagined it.’ Brione sat a little straighter. ‘It happened and continues to do so, and I want to know why. I have been away from England for some years, and I did nothing overseas to earn a reputation. So I wrote to one of the officers in Evan’s regiment with whom he was friendly. His reply indicated that there had been rumours going through the regiment about someone feeding information to the French and that feelings were understandably running high as a consequence. He didn’t actually say that Evan was suspected of being the traitor, but the implication was there.’
The duke and Kensley exchanged another of their speaking glances. Guilty consciences or genuine concern? It was difficult for Brione to be sure.
‘Go on,’ the duke said softly.
‘Don’t tell me you weren’t aware of the rumours, your grace,’ she said. ‘I know that Evan helped you with more than just your soldierly duties.’
The duke stood and paced the room, absently rubbing his chin as he considered her words. His expression had turned thunderous and she was a little afraid of him when he seemed so remote, so elegant and yet so dangerous, but she refused to beg his pardon or take back her words.
‘Are you going to deny it?’ she asked, standing also and facing him with a determination born of injustice.
He regarded her for a protracted moment, his probing expression giving nothing away about the nature of his thoughts. Then he took her forearm in a gentle hold and turned her back to her chair.
‘Sit down.’
It wasn’t a request, and she didn’t have the strength of will to defy him over something so insignificant. With an indignant huff, she lowered herself into her chair and fixed him with a venomous look.
‘You must have loved him very much,’ he said softly.
‘My feelings are neither here nor there. What signifies is Evan’s reputation, and that is vitally important. I will not have his memory unfairly sullied when he served his country with distinction and gave up his life in its defence.’
‘Why didn’t you come to me and ask for my help to clear his name?’
Brione fixed the duke with a defiant look and said nothing.
‘Ah, of course. You assume that I or one of my close circle is the traitor, and that we used Evan’s death as a convenient way to shift the blame?’
‘Well, didn’t you?’
His expression turned mildly reproachful. ‘So you came here, saw how well I live and decided that you must have got it right.’
‘This castle must cost a fortune to maintain,’ she added, sounding defensive.
‘You still haven’t explained how you came to be acting the part of a maid,’ the duke reminded her in a tone of exaggerated patience.
She wanted to tell him to mind his own wretched business, but if she did that then he would only appeal to Rachel for answers. If she could invoke his sympathy, there was an outside chance that he would keep her identity to himself and her one remaining friend would not be called upon to account for her part in this deception. Even so, genuinely shocked by her revelations and suspicions though the duke appeared to be, she was a long way from trusting him, or absolving him from blame.
To Desire a Duke: Dangerous Dukes Vol 8 Page 6