Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  “Return by the side door,” Penelope whispered as Maggie crept out. “I’ll leave it open. And do please be careful!”

  Maggie nodded and pulled the door shut behind her with a quiet click.

  Hurrying down the few front steps of the terrace house, she drew the hood of her cloak up over her head, her whole body tingling with anticipation to see that blue-eyed scoundrel again. Be careful? she thought. Didn’t Penelope know that the safest place for her was right beside the major?

  With that, she raced out into the mild spring night to go to him. The darkness glistened; here and there were still puddles, but the streets and the houses had been washed clean by the rain.

  Tightly clutching the key, Maggie sped across the street, then glided through the shadows next to the wrought-iron fence. She hurried alongside it, taking pains to keep her footsteps quiet until she reached the elegantly formidable, locked gate.

  As she fiddled with the key, squinting in the inky darkness, her trembling hands and the lack of light made it nigh impossible to fit the thing properly into the keyhole.

  “Oh, come on!” she whispered.

  Just then, a flicker of motion in the shadows near the street corner to her right caught her eye. Already jumpy with the mad risk she was taking simply by being here, Maggie stopped cold and looked over.

  She held her breath, and could have sworn she saw a dark figure lurking in the shadows. A man-shaped silhouette, blacker than midnight.

  Was it Connor? Her heart skipped a beat. But it couldn’t be.

  He knew full well that their agreed meeting place was the white garden folly in the middle of the park. So why would he be over there?

  Maggie narrowed her eyes, staring into the blackness, but the figure had already vanished—if it had been there at all.

  She swallowed hard, slightly unnerved. Perhaps it had been no more than a wisp of fog forming from the rain, or some man’s shadow from inside one of the houses over there.

  Or just a phantom of her skittish imagination.

  Either way, it was gone now. But even so, she fumbled all the more speedily with the lock, glancing again in the direction that she’d seen the spooky shape.

  It did not reappear.

  To her relief, the lock finally gave way. She twisted the key and pushed the gate open. Its creak in the peaceful quiet of the street made her wince.

  She did not need any of her neighbors peering out to see what was going on. No doubt there was already enough talk about her. First, with the way she had run over to Amberley in a panic at the duel, and now, the far more ludicrous spectacle she had made of herself in Hyde Park with the help of her sister.

  It was all so unspeakably lowering.

  She felt like such a fool. If only she could think of some glib remark with which to make light of it to Connor.

  After stepping through the garden gate, Maggie turned back to close it behind her. The squeak that it made sounded so loud in the tranquil night that she decided not to risk banging it shut all the way.

  Instead, she left it closed but unlocked, letting the latch-arm rest against the iron strike. That would make leaving quicker and easier, not to mention far less noisy.

  Once inside the garden park, she could see how the rain had swollen the flowers—every fragrant petal seemed lush and engorged. The sweetness of lilacs filled the night air, and the blossoms on the fruit trees glowed pale in the moonlight.

  With a glance back at Edward and Delia’s house, Maggie saw no sign that her escape had been detected. Bless Penelope, always reliable.

  Confident that she’d gained her freedom, at least for a while, Maggie whirled around and raced down the graveled path toward the gazebo, her steps light, her heart pounding with eagerness to see Amberley again.

  * * *

  Seth stepped out of the shadows by the corner, shocked at what he’d just seen.

  Little Lady Margaret Winthrop, sneaking out of her house and into the garden park close to midnight!

  What the devil?

  He looked up at the terrace house from which she had just emerged. He had been watching both Amberley House and the Birdwell residence tonight, keeping an eye on both of his persons of interest.

  After Duke Number Four had gone into his club, of which Seth was not a member, he had waited a while, growing restless and bored. Then he had wandered around the square and had a good, long look at the block of large, elegant terrace houses where the girl lived.

  The last thing he’d expected to witness was an aristocratic virgin sneaking out alone in the deep of night.

  What is going on here?

  Glancing up at her house, he noticed the lantern that now shone in the upper window. Well, that’s odd. Why was it sitting there right on the sill?

  If people inside the room required light, that was a useless place to set the lantern. His brow furrowed, Seth turned and squinted toward Amberley House.

  What he saw made him stare. Well, now… What have we here?

  In Amberley’s window, two lanterns now glowed, right there, side by side. None had shone there a short while ago.

  Staring at the twin lamps for a long moment, Seth spun slowly on his heel and looked again at the light in Lady Margaret’s window.

  Realization began sinking in, and his jaw dropped. It’s a signal.

  He laughed softly in the darkness.

  Why, you naughty girl. The suspicion brewing in his mind told him to follow her at once. So he did. Stealthily crossing the street, he was quite prepared to climb over the iron fence. But, just in case, he tried the gate.

  Open.

  Why, thank you, Lady Margaret.

  She’d made it easy for him to follow. Seth liked easy. But the thought of her made him hard. Maybe she wasn’t as virginal as he had assumed if she was sneaking out at night to meet a man.

  After easing the gate back into the same position she’d left it, he avoided the graveled path and the noise it would make, striding through the soft, wet grass instead, surrounded by the heady perfume of spring.

  What would he do if he came upon Amberley out here with his guard down, distracted by the girl?

  This might be the night.

  Of course he had come armed. Knowing Amberley, he’d probably need a cannon, but if Seth got a clear shot, his service pistol would have to suffice. Unfortunately, that did require going rather closer than he liked. Still, he touched the gun hidden under his jacket to reassure himself of his readiness.

  The metal was smooth, solid, and cool under his fingertips. As he glided through the darkness on a parallel to the path he’d seen Lady Margaret take, he considered the prospect before him.

  As a dragoon with all the usual swagger and at least a few pretensions to chivalry, he found he really did not care to kill the man in front of Lady Margaret, if it could be avoided.

  If not, oh well. But there was a practical reason for this, too. She had not reacted well to the sight of blood at the duel, as he recalled. There’d be noise from her.

  Screaming.

  And that drastically increased his risk of being caught. Don’t get ahead of yourself. He had made the mistake of underestimating the major once before.

  He had not planned to kill tonight. These were not ideal circumstances, and Seth had no intention of getting cornered, sentenced, and hanged.

  He must be shrewd, like Father. It was probably best for now just to observe and collect information.

  Oh, but it was tempting to have this burden over with. Either way, as he prowled through the darkness, his pulse throbbed with the thrill of the hunt.

  * * *

  Connor leaned against the gazebo railing as he waited, arms loosely folded across his chest.

  Far overhead, a waxing gibbous moon shone now and then between the shifting clouds. The garden park in the center of Moonlight Square was wrapped in a deep, dripping darkness, puddles gathered here and there from the rain.

  He took another draft from his cheroot in brooding stillness, savoring the
smoke, then slowly blowing out.

  It was a dreadful habit, he knew. He had picked it up in Spain during the war, like so many others had.

  But the long breaths in and out helped him manage his fury.

  Indeed, Connor was still hot, but he’d calmed himself down a bit ahead of seeing her, because he knew he could come across as menacing indeed, when he was angry. Prided himself on it, actually. He’d built a fine military career on it—but he didn’t want to scare her.

  Especially not after all that she’d been through, thanks to both Delia and Bryce.

  Still seething over what he’d learned at the club, Connor only cared about protecting the girl, and perhaps it was rash, but tonight he would follow his instincts.

  The frogs sang in the night, unseen, and a puff of breeze sent a scattering of raindrops flying off the trees overhead, dripping off the eaves of the gazebo. He took another pull on his cheroot, and the taste of tobacco smoke mingled with the luxuriant scent of the rain-soaked turf. He watched a moth go fluttering by and wondered if Maggie had seen the signal yet.

  Maybe she hadn’t, or if she had, maybe she wouldn’t come. Maybe the impropriety of meeting a man alone at night would prove too much for his little English rose.

  Either way, he, for his part, did not intend to budge. He’d be here as long as the Great Pyramids stood on the desert sands, waiting for her.

  She’d see the damned light eventually.

  He flicked his ashes over the railing and glanced around, watching for her.

  Provided she indeed came, he mused, the garden square was a lovely setting for what he had in mind. Odd to think that, in fact, this spot had once been a hanging ground, long ago, so he’d been told.

  Quite the transformation. It gave one hope. After all, if a former site of public executions could become one of the most fashionable neighborhoods in London, then perhaps a three-quarters Irish trained killer could eventually become a proper duke.

  Especially with the help and guidance of a proper duchess.

  It was about then that he noticed motion in the darkness. His stare homed in on the path to his left. He heard delicate footsteps crunching over the gravel, then a slim, dark-clad figure approached, speeding toward the garden folly.

  Connor pushed away from the railing with a smile slowly spreading across his face. Atta girl, he thought. She was so much stronger than she gave herself credit for. Like the graceful willow that could bend and not break in a gale that toppled mightier trees or snapped them like matchsticks.

  As she neared, he noted with amusement that Lady Maggie had concealed her fair self with a long, hooded cloak to help her blend into the shadows. She wasn’t taking any more chances with her reputation, he gathered.

  Well, after tonight, thankfully, she wouldn’t have to worry about such things for much longer.

  If she said yes.

  His pulse hammered at the prospect of what he meant to do.

  “You’re smoking?” she exclaimed as she skipped up the three steps from the path to join him inside the gazebo.

  Why, she already sounded like his wife. “You disapprove?”

  “I do,” she said archly, drawing back her hood.

  He flicked the rest of his cheroot away with a smile.

  She smiled back with a twinkle in those lovely gray eyes, and set her hands on her waist. “Well?” she asked with a businesslike air. “What’s afoot, Your Grace? I see you’re alive. You look unscathed. I was worried there might’ve been another attempt on your life.”

  He shook his head.

  “Oh thank God,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “I was beside myself with worry.”

  He smiled. “How sweet.”

  “Well?” She waved a curl of smoke away. “Have you learned something more? Found another clue?”

  She seemed cheerful enough, a fact that he noted with relief, for he had been worried about her, too.

  “Actually, yes,” he said. “But that is not why I called you here tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Will you sit?” He gestured toward the built-in bench that ran the perimeter of the garden folly. His pulse lurched from a trot to a canter.

  She nodded, then lowered herself to perch on the edge of the bench nearby, watching him, wide-eyed. “What is it?”

  He sat down beside her, unsure how to begin. For a moment, he stared into her eyes. “I heard what happened yesterday.”

  She stiffened at once, and her gaze fell to the floorboards. “Oh. That.”

  He could not hold back. “Did she really make you walk home?” he demanded.

  She gave a slight nod but did not look up, as though she were ashamed.

  “And then Bryce chose not to help you?”

  She looked up. “You heard about that, too?”

  He struggled to keep his wrath from showing on his face, determined not to frighten the girl the way he’d sometimes frightened Will back at the war. “Yes.”

  “Wh-what are you going to do?”

  Connor just looked at her.

  Her eyes turned as round as an owl’s, and she gulped. “Don’t. Not another duel—please!”

  He growled, but the hard truth was, as much as he wanted to punish that coxcomb for showing her such outrageous disrespect, Connor needed Bryce alive for information on Richard. That was his next line of question regarding the plot against his family. Richard’s secrets, Richard’s past.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot anyone,” he grumbled.

  She exhaled with relief.

  He couldn’t stop staring at her, scanning for damage. “I feel responsible for this.”

  “No! Why?”

  “I provoked her,” he said. “I’m the one who picked the fight, and that goaded you into joining the fray.”

  “Nonsense.” Her dainty shoulders slumped as she sat back against the railing. “I had to stand up to her sometime. Didn’t I?”

  “I cannot believe the woman is such a bully to you.” He shot to his feet and began to pace across the gazebo.

  “Is that the only reason you summoned me?” she asked. “I didn’t come here to talk about this. I thought you might have information or something for me to do. You said we’d only risk meeting here in case of emergency.”

  “Dammit, Maggie, this is an emergency!” he retorted. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck with agitation. “I will not allow you to be treated this way!”

  She cocked a brow and folded her arms. “Well, what do you propose? Should I challenge my sister to a duel, hmm?”

  He sent her a mild scowl. “Hardly.”

  Bloody hell, this was not going at all the way he had envisioned. Her hurt pride over the shameful way she’d been used had raised her hackles just when he wanted to rescue her from all of it.

  “Well?” She shrugged. “What is it you expect me to do?”

  His heart thumped, and for the swiftest instant, the words stuck at his Adam’s apple. Then he forced them out: “Marry me.”

  Her eyes flicked open wide; he did not know how to read her blank look.

  In that brief moment, Connor felt a rare bolt of dread arrow through him. It startled him immensely.

  Slipping behind enemy lines in uniform, risking execution every time if he were caught: no problem. Leading men into battle, all in a day’s work.

  But gazing at the girl he suspected had already stolen his heart, the legendary major tasted a moment of pure fear. What if she says no? Because I’m Irish? Because I’ve killed men?

  Because I’m…well, me?

  Because of a hundred reasons for all the ways in which he wasn’t perfect.

  Suddenly, the thought of this fine English beauty’s rejection sent him running for cover. “It seems a practical idea, and I know you’re a practical girl,” he said coolly.

  “I like practical,” she said automatically, staring at him.

  Still unsure what to think of her stunned look, he retreated oh so casually to a
safer distance, leaning against one of the white posts across from her. “Another bargain between us, as it were.”

  Her expression was guarded, too, as she scanned his face warily in the silver moonlight. “I’m listening.”

  “Well…” Gulp. Connor folded his arms and tried to look nonchalant. “The situation’s very plain, inn’t it? You need a husband. I need a wife.” He shrugged and gave her a hard, meaningful look.

  She seemed speechless for a heartbeat. “Are you…serious?”

  “Aye,” he said, going perfectly motionless, for that could be taken either way.

  “Really?” she murmured in astonishment.

  “Yes.” His cool, level stare probably would have been better suited for the card table earlier tonight, but here he was.

  “Criminy,” she whispered, glancing away as if to collect her thoughts.

  “Well, it just makes sense, doesn’t it? You need a new living situation, and I’ve got to marry someone to carry on our poor, decimated family line. My aunt’s already shoving women at me, but I much prefer you because…well, we’ve already seen we get on well together, yes?” He paused, his heart thumping. “You understand me. And I trust you.”

  He waited for as long as he could bear; the few seconds of her silence felt like hours, fraying his normally steely nerves.

  “Well, lass?” he prompted, losing patience. “What say you?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Gazebo

  Maggie sat staring into space, unsure if she was dreaming. Had the Duke of Amberley really just proposed to her?

  She might as well have won the parish lottery.

  Her heart soared somewhere up above the slumbering expanse of Town. Giddy with a swirling sense of outlandish possibility, she stared at her large, intimidating friend like she’d never seen him before, taking in the strapping size of him, with his dark jacket unbuttoned, his cravat hanging untied.

  The hard, angular face and thick black hair. The intense eyes, blue as the deep Atlantic. It was too dark now to see their color, but she knew it well; she’d memorized it at the ball.