Duke of Desire

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Andrew glanced up on their entrance, starting when he saw Raphael. “Dyemore! What are you doing in London already? When we last saw you I had the impression that you were to stay at the abbey for a while.”

  Raphael shrugged, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation. “I’d always planned to come back. Business concerns.”

  Andrew took a gulp of his wine. “And your new bride?”

  “What of her?”

  The other man shook his head, keeping his eyes on the thick slice of beef on his plate as he sawed into it. “I thought with your marriage you might decide to stay longer in the country. As a sort of honeymoon.”

  Raphael raised an eyebrow, simply watching the other man.

  Andrew chewed and swallowed and at last was forced to meet his eyes when the silence became prolonged. “Yes, well. I should’ve remembered what a cold bastard you are. Course you weren’t always, as I recollect. As a boy you were quite sweet. Your father certainly changed that.”

  Raphael ignored the sly probe.

  “Whom did you see after you called upon me and before you set out for London?” he asked Andrew.

  “No one. Would you like some wine?” At Raphael’s impatient nod, the other man motioned for a footman, then continued, “We were already on the way to London when we stopped to see you at Dyemore Abbey.”

  Then how had the Dionysus known to send an assassin after him? But perhaps the murder attempt had nothing to do with his marriage to Iris. Perhaps the Dionysus had had his men watching Raphael all along.

  Or perhaps Dockery had acted on his own.

  “Why do you ask?” The footman set a wineglass before Raphael, and Andrew filled it.

  Raphael looked at him. “I was attacked on the way to London.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows rose as he sawed at his beefsteak. “Highwaymen?”

  “Lawrence Dockery and nine hired ruffians.”

  The other man froze. “Dockery?” He glanced at the footmen, abruptly waved them from the room, then waited until the doors closed before turning once again to Raphael. “Dockery the redheaded ne’er-do-well who married a horse-faced heiress?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought him capable of murder.” Andrew shook his head. “What happened?”

  Raphael twisted the stem of his wineglass. “We’d stopped for the night at an inn. Dockery and his men attacked in the stable yard. Dockery himself tried to stab me in the back.”

  “He always was a sneaky thing.” Andrew shook his head and sat back. “I take it he was unsuccessful.”

  Raphael inclined his head.

  The other man looked nervous. “And where is he now?”

  “Hell,” Raphael replied succinctly.

  “Damn me,” Andrew muttered, the blood draining from his face. “He must’ve been acting on the Dionysus’s orders.”

  “Obviously.”

  “We did try to warn you.”

  Raphael shrugged and took a sip of wine.

  Andrew watched him, his eyes wide. “Good Lord, man, aren’t you frightened? He can have half a dozen men sent to kill you without lifting a finger.”

  “The Dionysus is a man like any other,” Raphael said. “Which means he has to communicate with his assassins in some way. Could either your brother or Leland have sent a message to the Dionysus after you saw me?”

  “I … I don’t see how …” Andrew frowned as his voice trailed away. “Of course we did stop for meals and for the night at various inns. It wasn’t as if I kept a constant eye on them. We didn’t even share a room.” He swallowed, staring down at his half-eaten beefsteak. “I’ve never liked staying in the same room with Gerald. Not since we were boys.” He glanced up, his eyes not quite meeting Raphael’s gaze. “Well, you know why.”

  Raphael felt his chest contract as if a hand were squeezing his lungs.

  Carefully, slowly he lifted his wineglass again to his lips.

  He couldn’t taste the wine.

  “Perhaps you don’t remember,” Andrew was saying now, his voice soft, almost a whisper. “You left when you were only a boy. Right after the initiation. But I had to stay with them, my father and brother and the Lords. For years. Until … until I grew too old, I suppose.” He grabbed for his wineglass and gulped the contents before refilling the glass and shooting a shaky smile at Raphael. “But that’s all in the past, isn’t it?”

  Raphael stared at Andrew, wondering if he looked as broken as that.

  He set his glass down. “So either Gerald or Leland could’ve sent a message to the Dionysus.”

  “Yes … possibly.” Andrew had his brows drawn together, thinking. “It doesn’t make sense, though, does it? The Dionysus would then have to contact Dockery and send him after you. It seems terribly unlikely. Even if he traveled by horse, it would’ve taken him days to catch up, surely.” He looked up. “What night were you attacked?”

  Raphael frowned. “The second.”

  Andrew waved a hand. “There, you see? I can’t comprehend how it could have been done.”

  Raphael narrowed his eyes. “Unless one of you is the Dionysus.”

  The other man’s mouth curved in a wobbling smile. “You jest. Gerald isn’t the Dionysus and Leland is a follower, not a leader. As for me …” Andrew’s face gave an odd twist. “Well, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” Raphael watched him closely. “Why? The Dionysus must be someone who longs for power. Someone who behind the mask is powerless. You fit that notion rather nicely.”

  Andrew blinked rapidly. “You’re joking.”

  “Have you ever seen beneath the Dionysus’s mask?”

  “No, of course not,” Andrew answered automatically. “No one has.”

  Raphael nodded. “And are you with your brother at the revels? Or with Leland? Are you ever separated?”

  Andrew looked away, nervously fiddling with his wineglass. “I don’t attend with Gerald. Ever. But yes, I often see Leland. He wears the mole mask. Gerald is the Stag … though I didn’t see him at the last revelry …” The other man’s brows were drawn together as if he was considering for the first time if his elder brother could really be the Dionysus.

  It would take a man with steady nerves, a man cunning and sly, to deceive his own brother.

  But then Raphael knew that the Dionysus, whoever he was, was a particularly clever and evil man.

  “And you?” Raphael asked.

  “What?”

  “Your mask. What do you wear?”

  “The rat.” Andrew glanced down, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “Our father gave Gerald and me our masks, and they reflected his differing opinions of us.” He looked up, and his entire face seemed to fall for a moment. “Father never thought I would amount to much, and Gerald has the same opinion.”

  Raphael felt his jaw tighten as he looked at the other man’s broken eyes. The scent of cedarwood seemed to drift in the air, and he was moving before he gave it conscious thought.

  His chair screeched against the hardwood floor.

  Andrew jerked his head up.

  Raphael nodded. “It seems I need to talk to your brother.”

  “Wait—” Andrew called behind him.

  But Raphael was already striding out.

  He could no longer stay in that room, hemmed in by the memories of a broken boy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Seven days and seven nights Ann stayed at the tower. She found within it a pot that always bubbled, full of stew, and a jar that always stayed full of sweet, cool water. In the morning she would walk around the tower, searching the horizon to the north, and finally on the eighth day she saw the Rock King returning.…

  —From The Rock King

  Iris sat in the duchess’s chambers, which, oddly, appeared to have an Elysian fields theme. The walls were painted with murals of vaguely Grecian people lounging about in meadows strewn with flowers.

  Well, it could be worse. She supposed she should be grateful the walls weren’t painted
with Sisyphus rolling his boulder up a mountain in Tartarus.

  She’d had a lovely bath and was wearing a clean chemise borrowed from Bessy until she could get her own clothing. After this last fortnight she vowed to never, ever take clean clothes for granted again. Her hair was brushed out and falling around her shoulders, a small indulgence.

  The wine-red chair she was curled in was large and the cushions soft, and she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open as she stared into the fire, but keep them open she must.

  Because she was waiting to talk to her husband.

  There were questions she should’ve asked days ago.

  Ah, there it was.

  Boot heels in the hall outside. The opening and shutting of the door in the duke’s room next to hers. A murmur of voices. Quiet again.

  She stood and went to the connecting door and opened it.

  Raphael looked up. He was in his shirtsleeves and was just taking off his boots. “Iris. How may I help you?”

  His voice was as cold as hoarfrost, his eyes empty as glass. She hadn’t seen this Raphael for days, and for a moment she thought about stepping back.

  She didn’t understand this side of her husband—was he sad or angry or in despair? Or was he simply bored? She couldn’t tell, and really it was beginning to alarm her. Wasn’t a wife supposed to be her husband’s confidant?

  Except James had never been that emotionally close to her. He’d made sure to hold her apart from himself.

  She didn’t want another marriage like that.

  That decided the matter. She walked into Raphael’s room and closed the door behind her.

  She’d expected paintings on the walls or ceiling of his room, but there weren’t any. Instead they were painted a dark red, the color of dried blood. Gold was etched along the panels and into the pilasters lining the walls. The ceiling was entirely gold, in swirls and intricate patterns, like something from an Ottoman’s palace.

  “Iris?” He was still watching her, waiting for her to say something.

  Perhaps to explain why she’d invaded his territory.

  She walked to a chair in front of the fireplace and sat. “Where did you go tonight?”

  The good side of his mouth turned down, giving him an oddly lopsided appearance. “I went to talk to Lord Royce. He wasn’t home, however, so I settled for speaking with Andrew.”

  He set his boots outside the door and returned without saying anything else.

  Iris frowned in irritation. “And?”

  He sat, unbuckling the knees of his breeches to reach the tops of his stockings. “And I asked him about Dockery.”

  He didn’t look at her as he threw his stockings aside.

  She glanced at his feet. They were big, with long toes. Generally one didn’t think of a man’s feet as handsome, but his were.

  He huffed. “What do you want, Iris?”

  Her gaze snapped to his face. “I want to know why you’ve suddenly grown cold.”

  He was in profile to her, and she saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. He clasped his hands between his knees, bowing his head. “Andrew … I knew Andrew when we were boys.”

  Her brows knit. How was that …?

  Then her eyes widened in sudden realization. “Did your father draw him?”

  “What?” He turned to look at her, and now there was an expression on his face: puzzlement. “No, of course n—” He cut off his own speech and twisted his mouth and made a sort of cawing sound.

  He was … Oh, dear God, that was a laugh. Iris recoiled in horror.

  But he wasn’t paying attention. “Maybe. Yes. No. I don’t know. My father could have indeed sketched Andrew. He was …” He shook his head helplessly and then closed his eyes. “You should go. I’m no fit company tonight.”

  She inhaled. If she left now she had the feeling that they would stay the same—he would keep her at arm’s length always.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  Iris folded her hands in her lap, straightened her back, and looked him in the eye. “Who scarred you, Raphael?”

  His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “No.”

  She surged to her feet. “Yes. How … how do you expect us to live together, to make a life together, if you won’t share what you are with me?”

  He was shaking his head as he stood and strode to a chest of drawers. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do,” she said, following him across the room. “Please.”

  He turned, catching her in his arms, thrusting his face into hers. “Why not simply listen to the gossip? Choose one: A duel because I besmirched a lady’s honor. My father cut me because he could not stand the sight of me. The Dyemores are cursed from birth. Are the tales—the endless rumors—not enough for your curiosity? Enough to assuage your need to know?”

  She reached up and pulled his head down to hers. Placed her lips against the top of the scar, where it split his eyebrow, and, kissing, trailed downward, over his eyelid, over the ridge of his cheekbone, over the edge of his permanently curled lip, to the divot in his chin.

  “Please,” she whispered against his ruined flesh. “Please.”

  He groaned, deep in his chest, and buried his face in her hair. “Iris.”

  “Please.”

  His shoulders tensed, his breathing grew ragged.

  His voice sounded like broken obsidian when he spoke. “I did it.” He inhaled as if the words were burning his throat. “I scarred myself.”

  Her heart stopped.

  Of all the possibilities, she’d never even imagined that one. Dear God.

  “How …” She had to stop to clear her throat. “How old were you when you did it, Raphael?”

  “Twelve.”

  And then she knew what it was to have one’s heart break, for she could feel a sharp ache inside her, a well of grief and shock and horror. “Why?”

  He shook his head against her, his face still hidden.

  But she’d come too far. This was important. She could feel it.

  “Why, Raphael?”

  He bent and lifted her, one arm under her legs, one under her back.

  Iris clutched at his shoulders as he took two steps to the bed and carefully laid her on it. She watched him as he stripped himself of breeches, smalls, stockings, and shoes, until he was naked. Beautiful and strong and without shield. And then he climbed in beside her.

  She opened her arms to him and he gathered her close again.

  Her cheek was against his warm chest and she could hear his heartbeat. She was still, breathing next to him, wondering if she would have to give up her questions for the night.

  Then he spoke.

  “My father adored me when I was small. He called me beautiful. I was his prince. Cosseted. Spoiled. Stroked and petted. You know that he was the Dionysus. That he …”

  His breathing was uneven again.

  Very, very carefully she shifted until she was holding him and stroked his hair.

  His head was a heavy weight upon her breast.

  He swallowed, his throat clicking. “He liked children, though I didn’t know it at the time. How could I? I was too young, too sheltered to even conceive of such a thing.”

  She inhaled, suppressing any sound, though she wanted to exclaim.

  To perhaps scream.

  If he could speak this horror aloud—for her, because she had asked it—then she could listen.

  “My father didn’t touch me in that way until I was twelve,” Raphael said, his voice hoarse. “I was to be initiated into the Lords of Chaos. It was to be a great honor.”

  He gasped as if a hand were tight around his throat.

  She closed her eyes, trying to keep her fingers from shaking as she threaded them through his hair.

  “First …” He inhaled. “First there was the tattoo. It would hurt, but I was determined not to weep—and I didn’t. I was absurdly, naively proud. Then he took me to the revelry and there were …” He swallowed again, loud in the
silence of the room, and when he spoke again his words were stark. Staccato. “I was confused. They were hurting children. Women. But they gave me wine to drink. My father. And then. My father.… Brought me. Back to the abbey. To his room.” He wrinkled his nose, opening his mouth as if to refrain from inhaling a scent. “Father’s room always smelled of cedarwood. He said there was one more step to the initiation.”

  Iris bit her lips to keep from crying aloud. Oh no. No, no, no.

  But her silent denials couldn’t stop his broken, rasping voice. “He told me. He told me. He said he loved me. I was his beautiful prince. Then he pushed my face into the pillows—his cedarwood-scented pillows.” He breathed heavily. As if he were gasping for air that wasn’t there. “And buggered me.”

  She sobbed—a loud, awful sound—and laid her cheek against his as if to brace him.

  As if to give them both strength for his next words.

  He turned his face into her breast and said in a rush, “When it was done he rolled off me. He fell asleep. I … I fled. I ran to the kitchens. I was half-mad. All I could think while he was on me was that this must not happen again. He’d said I was beautiful.”

  “Oh, my darling,” she whispered, her heart aching. Her eyes were blinded by her tears now.

  He shuddered, his entire body quaking as if a giant hand shook him. “If I could make myself ugly then he wouldn’t do it again, would he? I found the sharpest carving knife. I held it with both hands. And I put it against my eye. I meant to cut it out.”

  “Oh God,” she moaned. How must he have felt—such a little boy in despair and fear, doing that? It was a wonder that he hadn’t killed himself.

  She traced over his scarred cheek with her fingers. He still had the eye. He hadn’t done that, at least.

  “I obviously didn’t succeed,” he said, “but my plan did work. The cook found me in the morning. When my father saw me—saw the great gash I’d carved in my face—he was disgusted. Aunt Lina took me to Corsica the next week. I never came back.”

  “I’m so glad she was there to take you away,” she whispered, choking on her sobs.

  He was still, breathing against her, and then he raised his head and looked at her.