Her Duke at Daybreak Mythic Dukes Trilogy

by Wendy Lacapra

  Reluctantly looking away, he set himself to rights. Just in time, as well. Mrs. Kent called from beyond the door—a rescue from the uneasy turn of his thoughts. He answered the door, collected the tray he’d requested, then told the housekeeper she could retire for the night.

  Now that he had Lady Stone back in bed, he intended to keep her busy—and his mind otherwise occupied.

  He set the tray on a bed-side table. He stretched out by her side, and proceeded to feed her, once small slice at a time.

  Ashbey had refused to allow her to touch the food. Instead, he cut each morsel into small pieces and used his fingers to bring them to her lips. The experience was as decadent as it was delicious. Then, he caressed every inch of her body with tenderness, as if her flesh were hallowed and he was in awe.

  He hadn’t just satisfied, he’d transported.

  Made bold by the growing familiarity of his body, she expanded her explorations, too. She learned how to elicit Ashbey’s growl of lust and his sigh of gratification.

  And then, she’d learned how to conquer.

  Placing her lips around his cock had been strange at first. But she’d loved the intimate connection. She’d delighted in his fierce protest when, with her hands firmly locked on his hips—she prevented him from pulling away before he came. She’d dug her nails into his flesh, moving her mouth until he released an untamed cry.

  Her lips, her tongue, and her hands had broken a duke into pieces.

  Just a few days past, she would have denied she was capable of such inhibition, but with Ashbey she could be feral without embarrassment—greedy, raw, and grasping. If Ashbey revealed even a fraction of what they’d done, she would be ruined forever.

  The thought should have made her feel vulnerable. It did not. She placed her hand against his stubbled cheek. “Are my secrets safe in your keeping?”

  “You may trust me, of course.”

  He wanted her trust. He’d already given her his.

  Twice, Lady Stone had driven him to exhaustion. She’d done things he’d never ask a lady to do, and yet, as she lounged by his side, she looked as angelic as ever. How had she survived with this part of her intact, this guilelessness?

  There was so much he did not know. It seemed wrong, somehow, to accept her intimate surrender and refuse to know her life.

  “Were you happy, at first, in your marriage?”

  She looked just as surprised at his question as he was at having asked it. He did not want to know about her marriage. He did not even care.

  Except that he did care. Very much.

  She replied after hesitation, “In a manner.”

  “You’ll have to explain.”

  Warily, she gazed into his eyes, weighing something in her mind. He passed her test.

  “When we first arrived in England, Octavius’s father was still alive. He lived in a Rectory with Aunt Hester, and Octavius’s brother Simon. That was before Simon joined the Navy. Octavius’s father was a rector, you know.”

  He had not known. Nor did he particularly care. He wanted to know her experience, her feelings. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else. And, he was envious—resentful, even—of her unceremonious use of the admiral’s Christian name. But, he continued to listen, because he’d asked, but also because he would never scorn anything she wished to give.

  “Octavius and I were supposed to live with the family, too, but Octavius wanted to be close to the sea. So, we rented the third flat above a baker in a small village not too far north of Bath. I don’t know if I was truly happy, but I was as content as I’ve ever been in that village.”

  He’d take her back to that village if he could—it couldn’t be far from where they were. Together, they’d make new memories, washing away the poison her husband had left behind.

  Only he wasn’t anyone’s prize, was he?

  “I’d read about England, of course. But I’d never actually seen a castle. You cannot imagine how thrilling it was to be able see one out my window—it didn’t even matter that the Castle had been damaged by fire.” She chuckled. “I cannot believe I have actually slept in a castle, now.”

  Certainly, other castles had been destroyed by fire. But none so close to Bath.

  “What,” he wet his lips, “was the castle’s name?”

  “Oddly enough, no one would tell me. Some sort of superstition. Even the vaguest of questions about the family were refused.” She shrugged. “We did not reside there long enough for me to earn anyone’s confidence. In less than a month, Octavius was called back to sea, and I went to live with his father.”

  Strange—for once—to be grateful for the same superstitions that had left him haunted and alone.

  She stretched out and sighed. “I wished with all my being that someone would rescue that ruin and make it whole, love the castle for all it had been and all it could be once again.”

  ...rescue the ruin and make it whole.

  She said the words as if all he needed to do was replace rafters, grind down damaged stone, and simply build again. Nothing connected to Wisterley was ever simple.

  Her words lacerated in ways she could never know. They didn’t just lacerate, they rolled open stone-blocked lairs of fire-breathing beasts.

  For the castle to be whole, he would need to be whole. He held no such illusions.

  “Were you happy in your marriage?” she asked.

  The question left him cold. Though it was fair. He’d asked her the same.

  “The idea of happiness had never entered my mind. My marriage was a transaction.” Transaction. The perfect word to cover a multitude of sins against Rachel. Against himself.

  “A transaction?”

  She draped her hand over his. He stared as if his hand was disembodied. What did one do with sympathy? He had no idea.

  “Then as now, I mixed infrequently with Society. Few would have wed a recluse, fewer still, the son of a man tried for murder.”

  She made no sound, but he knew the information had come as a shock. He knew because her fingers had lifted from his.

  Forsaken, if only for a half second. The ache was beyond belief.

  “Did your father commit murder?”

  “The court found him innocent.” He’d only acknowledged the truth to Hurtheven. Even Cheverley had never asked. But he could not withhold anything from Lady Stone. “And the answer is yes.”

  She rolled toward him. Toward him, not away. She reached up to cup his cheek. “How awful for you.”

  He kept his gaze blank. If she saw the riot in his mind, she’d run from the room in horror.

  “I was born to privilege,” he said. “I have freedoms and honors others do not have. I do not dwell in self-pity.” Only in solitude.

  And that, to keep others safe.

  He thrashed about for an alternate question, one what could send Lady Stone out of treacherous waters. “Do you hate him—the admiral?”

  Her hand stilled against his cheek. She blinked, and then calmly answered, “No.”

  Astonishing. “Why?”

  “Octavius was honorable,” she withdrew her hand.

  Even after all the admiral had done, Lady Stone’s voice held unmistakable admiration.

  Lady Stone may not have hated the admiral, but Ash did.

  “Honorable and adulterous,” he said, “a tricky feat, indeed.”

  She frowned. “People are rarely one thing or another. The only time Octavius broke his word was in his marriage vow. Whose concern is that but mine? I am not sure, to be completely honest, it was entirely his fault.”

  “Do you blame yourself for his inconstancy?”

  “No,” she answered. “But if he were happy, he would not have fallen in love.”

  He raised his brows. “Have you seen the countess?”

  “Of course, I have seen the countess,” she said. “I take it you do not read the scandal sheets.”

  He had, though he’d been searching for descriptions of Lady Stone; nothing else had mattered. But he would have remem
bered mention of the ensuing scandal, if the admiral’s mistress and his wife had met.

  “Did you meet accidentally?”

  Her bitter laugh chilled. “We did not just meet. We three attended the theater, where she occupied his right, and I his left. We arrived together to soirees.” Her voice dropped. “She played hostess in my home, before I moved out and she moved in.”

  Some things, apparently, were too scandalous for even the scandal pages.

  His look of horror was genuine. “Terrible.”

  “For me, yes,” she tilted her head, “and for her, too, I think.” She held him with a steady gaze. “The countess has great charm and sensibility. She is nearly impossible to dislike.”

  “Cheverley met her and was unmoved.”

  She frowned. “Cheverley...” Her frown deepened. “I know that name.”

  His heart seized, but he nonchalantly folded an arm behind his head. “An old friend from Eton.”

  “Cheverley...” she repeated.

  He could almost see the connections being made. “I doubt you would have met. He served in a diplomatic position during the war, and has been missing for some time.”

  “A situation no family should bear,” she murmured.

  He thought of his mother, declared dead after seven years gone. Then, he thought of Chev’s wife Pen. “Agreed,” he said. “It’s been hardest on his wife. She still holds hope. I helped them elope.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. His father was furious. When he could not annul the marriage, he sent Chev away, hoping he’d never return.”

  She sighed. “How cruel and unjust.”

  Unjust. Yes. “Do you truly wish to speak of Cheverley?”

  She studied him for a long moment. “Actually, I wish to be in your arms.”

  Clever woman, Lady Stone.

  “Well, then. We are in complete agreement.”

  He set aside the tangled mess of their pasts and fully embraced their present.

  The duke was as beautiful in slumber as he’d been atop his horse. They’d spent their second day alternating between making love and making conversation, so why did he seem an even greater mystery?

  How could someone with an air of such menace be so gentle? How could a man rarely in society anticipate her every need? Believing Ashbey was a man of consummate power had been easy, catching a glimpse of the pain he denied left a cavern in her heart.

  Ashbey was like that castle atop the hill, wounded, sad, and vacant. And like the castle, she wished Ashbey could be healed and made whole. She was certain the inky force swirling around him like the never-ending storm beyond the window was capable of drawing men to him as easily as it pushed them away.

  If only there were someone willing to bring light back into his life.

  She gazed at his slumber-softened features, and tenderness bloomed in her heart. A tenderness that encompassed all she wished for and all she could not have.

  The duke could never be hers. And if some small, rebellious part of her heart was wishing the impossible, she had only herself to blame.

  She would never be breathtaking like the duke. She would never be dazzling like the countess. She was just Alicia, orphan from the West Indies, childless wife, duty-bound widow.

  Even if heaven parted the waters between them, how could she be enough for the duke, when she’d never been enough for Octavius?

  The thought caused a stabbing pain. She pulled away and clutched the cover.

  For the past two days, she’d become someone else. Someone exciting. Someone free. Someone who seized what they wanted. Someone bold.

  She was not bold, nor exciting, nor, heaven help her, even free.

  She had Octavius’s family to care for and protect. And she had to do so in the all-encompassing shadow of the countess and her child.

  All she had was one more day. One more day to inhabit this other self. She would do so. And then she would find a way to live in the cold, lonely echo of what had been.

  She drew the sheet up to her chin, as if drawing the fabric close could protect her from all she did not know and all she feared she would never understand.

  Chapter Ten

  Ash never counted the hours at night. Such a task was useless to a man at war with slumber. Eventually, however, in soft, almost imperceptible stages, muted light illuminated Lady Stone. She slept the sleep of the innocent—deep and untroubled, her long, even breaths restorative and content.

  The contrast to his own restless slumber felt like yet another warning.

  Carefully sliding from the bed, he crept toward his retiring room and began his morning ablutions. He peered into his mirror, astonished.

  He looked almost human. Almost like an unhaunted man.

  She could make a broken man whole, just by standing by his side.

  He splashed cold water against his cheeks, trying to shake the sense he’d found something he hadn’t known was lost. Danger lurked in such feeling. Tomorrow, she must go.

  He finished washing and then glanced to the door. His morning ride was an unbroken tradition. He glanced back to the bed—one more day. There was no contest.

  He slid back into bed. She hardly stirred.

  Lady Stone.

  The hard name did not fit her at all. She was a multi-petaled flower, each layer sweeter than the one that had come before.

  What more awaited discovery? She’d already overwhelmed every sense he possessed.

  They’d had two glorious nights. Nights that had been everything he had hoped for from the moment their eyes had locked.

  What a fool her husband had been.

  The countess, of course, had left kings tongue-tied. Even queens mimicked her style. But the countess could not have rendered Ash so completely undone. No one could. No one but Lady Stone. She had given him back pain and pleasure, fear and anticipation.

  Would it be such a terrible thing if he just...kept her?

  He could send away the carriage, and lock the doors. He could keep her confined the way he kept himself aloof, and perhaps they could both remain shielded from the gloom.

  She’d be his Persinette, his lady in the tower. And like the witch who’d imprisoned Persinette, he’d provide her with every luxury. Food, books, musical instruments. Any instruction she’d desire, too.

  She could be happy.

  She could be his.

  Perhaps she’d escape Rachel’s fate.

  Perhaps not.

  Rachel had been chosen for him by his godfather, plucked from the flowers at Almack’s for her pedigree and poise...and for the fact that her family was desperate enough to consider marriage to the heir of a duke once charged with murder. He’d been dazzled by her beauty. Hopeful with a creature of such refinement by his side, he could restore the family name.

  On their wedding night, Rachel had come to him dutifully...and then left in tears, her chest heaving with vitriol. He’d mauled her like an animal, she’d said. She could not stomach his tainted touch. And that hadn’t been her worst, or only, accusation.

  Another memory intruded, unbidden—Rachel, on the terrace of Wisterley, telling him she hated him as she’d never hated anything before. Telling him he’d ruined her life when he’d brought her to the cursed castle, that she’d rather be dead than married to him.

  Less than a fortnight later, she was—along with the father he’d loved and despised in equal measure.

  Lady Stone stirred, releasing him from his thoughts. He planted a kiss on her shoulder. Even her skin was sweet.

  “Mmmm,” she responded.

  Carefully, he brushed the hair from her face. “Good morning, Lady Stone.”

  Dream’s mist cleared from her eyes. “Alicia,” she whispered. And then, she smiled.

  An unfamiliar feeling entered his heart—light and heady, as if he were galloping free.

  “Alicia.” He tested the name. The consonants spilled over his tongue. Alicia.

  Now he understood why she had, at first, refused to call him Ash. The gift
of her name was more intimate a gesture than anything they’d yet shared.

  Too intimate.

  He’d pleasured Lady Stone. He could remain thankful, even devoted to Lady Stone from afar. But Alicia? Alicia was someone he must gather up close and protect.

  A discordant note clanged in his soul.

  The best way he could protect Alicia was to let her go.

  “Good morning, Ash.”

  He gathered her into his arms and held tight.

  “Ah, Ash,” she sighed.

  How could a single sigh transport him from despair to—what was that word? Was there a word for feeling all would be right with the world?

  She pulled away. Her lids swept down as her cheeks pinked. “I require a bit of privacy.”

  “Of course.”

  He set her free. Reluctantly.

  She glanced back half way across the room, her shy, sweet smile more dangerous than a primed pistol. Then, she disappeared into the adjoining chamber, but not before nervously adjusting her shift.

  Why was she nervous? She was utterly perfect. She’d always be utterly perfect. At least, to him. He settled back into the pillows, propping his head on his arm.

  The child of a madman, even a madman with a ducal title, was bound to be lonely. His father had never harmed him, but he thought it wise to act as everyone else in the household did and keep out of his father’s way.

  Alone in his chambers, he’d taken comfort in sounds of human activity—cleaning, brushing, polishing...the clank of dishes, the swish of a gardener’s scythe. But this was the sound he had longed for—the sound of someone for whom he cared, going about a trivial occupation. Life, shared.

  His chest pierced—the price he’d have to pay for the return of his feeling. But his three stolen days were not over.

  She emerged with another, private smile.

  Not in the least.

  “Will you ride this morning?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Her face fell.

  “Come here, Alicia.” Lud, he liked to say her name. He said it again, “Alicia.” He drew her toward the bed. “Alicia.” He tumbled her onto the mattress and kissed her until she pleaded for breath.

  “I needn’t leave the room for the ride I have in mind.” With a crude push of his hips, he showed her what he meant.