And yet, she reveled in his focus. It made her feel the same heady power that Eve had surely felt after tempting Adam with that sinful piece of fruit in the Garden of Eden.
“Do you require any assistance, my lady?”
Katherine jumped at the unexpected appearance of the shopkeeper. He alternated his gaze between Katherine and the duke; a slight frown of disapproval on his small lips.
She smiled. “No, I am finding everything rather easily. Why, I found the sole, remaining copy of The Excursion.”
The duke’s mouth flattened.
Katherine winked up at him as the shopkeeper returned to the front of the shop.
She made to step around the duke, but then, something gave her pause. It was the slightest something, reflected in the greens of his eyes, now deepened to the shade of emeralds, a glitter of emotion he likely didn’t think himself capable of.
Pain.
The Mad Duke.
Her smile faded as she imagined him as an altogether different man; one who smiled, and teased, and who loved. And who was also so very lonely at the Christmastide season. Katherine glanced down at the book, and then cleared her throat. “Here.” She held the book out to him.
He stood stock still, studying her with an inscrutable expression. Katherine pressed the volume into his hands. “I really wasn’t all that interested in reading it,” she lied. She’d been looking forward to reading Wordsworth’s latest poem for an inordinate deal of time. There would be others.
She detected the white-knuckled grip he had upon the leather spine. “I don’t need—”
“I’m sure you don’t need anything, Your Grace. But sometimes, it is nice to simply have things one wants.” Katherine dipped a curtsy, and continued on down the long row of shelving. All the while, she felt his gaze boring a hole into her back. She stole a sideways peek, and found him rooted to the same spot, studying her as if she were an oddity at the Egyptian Hall.
Katherine yanked her gaze back to the books in front of her. To give herself something to do, she tugged free the nearest book her fingers touched.
“I’d not accept pity from you,” a low voice said close to her ear.
Katherine jumped. The book tumbled to the floor and landed upon the tips of her slipper. A gasp escaped her, as she shifted the injured toes.
The duke cursed. “Are you injured?”
She grimaced, shifting to alleviate the throbbing ache in her toes. “I survived a plunge into the Thames, I imagine I should be handling an injured foot a good deal better.”
He grinned.
Katherine’s heart rhythm increased several quick beats. Goodness, when he smiled, it transformed him into a really, rather remarkable man. When she’d first made her Come Out, she’d visited the Royal Museum and observed the chiseled work of Michelangelo’s David. With his smile, the duke could rival that great statue for a place of beauty.
Perhaps madness was contagious.
He bent down and retrieved the forgotten book. He turned it over in his hands, studying the title, his familiar frown back in place. Only…his lips twitched at the corner.
Katherine glanced at the title, and heat flooded her cheeks. “Er…uh…I…” The Works of Leigh Hunt?! Egads, the poet who’d been sentenced to prison by the Prince Regent for libel. Well, Katherine would certainly have a good deal of explaining to do if polite Society believed she read such scandalous works.
She accepted the book from him, and promptly stuffed it back on the crowded bookshelf. “I don’t read Leigh Hunt’s work,” she said, detecting the defensive note in her words.
The duke inclined his head. “It would not matter if you did.”
“Oh, it certainly would,” she said. She could only imagine the furor if the ton believed the plain, bluestocking Adamson twin read the work of Leigh Hunt. “Not that I do. Because I don’t,” she said, hurriedly. Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from rattling on. “Very well, then. I must be going.”
Before the duke could utter another word, she spun on her heel and quickly exited the shop. A blanket of white covered the pavement, the snow that rained down from the sky, large, fluffy flakes. A sweet, uncharacteristic quiet filled the London air. Katherine searched around for her carriage.
From over her shoulder she detected the faint jingle of the bell from inside the bookshop, then the steady crunch of boots turning up the fresh snow.
Katherine’s back straightened, and she resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. She didn’t need to look. She knew he was there, watching, walking over to her…and still, his commanding presence didn’t fail to unnerve her.
Katherine gasped, as the duke stopped alongside her. She slapped a hand to her breast and spun to face him. “Must you always—”
“Here,” he said, gruffly.
She blinked at the wrapped package in his hands.
“Take it,” he ordered.
Katherine looked around, aware of the impropriety of accepting a gift from a gentleman, in a very public place, no less. Except, the streets remained eerily empty, devoid of people passing by. She took the wrapped package from him, and proceeded to open it.
The Excursion.
Her heart did a quick pause, and then resumed its steady tempo. “No, you mustn’t…”
She spun around in search of the duke, but his long legged stride had put considerable distance between them; his black cloak stirred about his powerful legs, in a stark contrast to the white snow.
Her gaze fell to the book he’d given her. He was a perfectly odious bounder, and yet, twice now he’d shocked her with his generosity; one in risking his life to save her, and two in allowing her the sole copy of The Excursion. He struck her as a self-centered, unfeeling nobleman, and yet, with unexpected gestures, continued to defy the image of boorish lout.
And Katherine hated that she did not know what to make of the gentleman. She preferred a world where black was black and white was white, and there were no colors in between. Her father’s betrayal taught her that gentlemen were ultimately selfish creatures who put their own comforts and desires before all else.
In her clear world, with his harsh treatment and callous words, he was a reprehensible fiend.
But in a suddenly unclear world, the same duke who’d purchased the expensive volume for himself, had now given it to her.
She dusted her gloved finger along the trace of snow that coated the leather cover. When she’d first learned of her family’s financial situation, she’d lain awake in the middle of the night, a crushing fear upon her chest. In those scariest of times, she’d found solace in Wordsworth’s poems. The sonnets had reminded her that for as tenuous as her circumstances were, and for all the fear she carried, there was always some far greater sadness.
Thinking of the Duke of Bainbridge, and all he’d lost, she rather believed he’d known that greater sadness. When she’d plucked the volume from the shelf, she’d hoped to aggravate the flinty-eyed duke. Now, staring down at it, considering what he’d done, and more importantly, what he’d known, Katherine knew very well it would be wrong for her to keep the book.
Just then, the footman rushed over to help relieve her of her package. She held a hand up. “Stephens, I need to return to the bookshop. I need to pen a note, and when I’ve finished, I’ll require you to deliver this package to someone.” Katherine handed it over to him, and turned back to the bookshop.
In that moment, Katherine realized the duke was not all he seemed.
And she didn’t know why that thought should terrify her as it did.
Chapter Seven
Jasper stomped his way through the snow, down the long stretch of pavement, onward toward his Mayfair Street townhouse, his hands empty from his visit at the bookshop.
He gritted his teeth so hard, pain shot from his jawline, and radiated up to his temple.
He’d recognized that look in her eyes; her eyes that put him of mind of warmed Belgian chocolate. The winter air swallowed the growl that climbed up his thr
oat.
What in the name of St. Stanislaus was the matter with him?
He was the bloody Duke of Bainbridge. The Mad Duke, as Society referred to him. He did not wax poetic about the color of ladies’ eyes. He had, once upon a lifetime ago, when he’d courted Lydia. But not any longer. He drew on her name, and closed his eyes momentarily. He froze.
Wind whipped around him, harsh and punishing, and he embraced the sting of the winter storm.
Jasper clenched his eyes tight, willing her precious face back into focus. Her eyes. They’d been blue. But the exact shade, he could no longer envision with his imagining.
As if in mockery of his efforts, Lady Katherine’s brown eyes, filled with fire and passion, flitted through his mind.
Jasper shook his head and continued walking.
He could explain away his fascination with Lady Katherine. She, unlike the lords and ladies who’d had the misfortune of crossing his miserable path, appeared wholly uncowed by him. Rather, she seemed to find an unholy delight in tormenting him.
Since Lydia’s death, nay, since he’d killed her, people had been wise to avoid him, and what was more, fear him. People didn’t dare speak to him. And they certainly didn’t tease him.
But Lady Katherine did.
Yes, he could explain away his fascination with the young lady. He could not, however, explain what had possessed him to purchase that damned volume of Wordsworth’s and run after her like some callow youth.
Over the years, Jasper had embraced the stark coldness that filled him. For a man without a heart could never again know the mind-numbing pain of losing one’s wife and child.
Then Lady Katherine had fallen into the Thames River and upended his icy world.
Seeming incapable of guile she wore her every emotion upon her face like an artist’s palate of colored paints. The lady’s outrage, her fury, the amusement, hope, all of it, etched at upon the graceful lines of her heart-shaped face. She reminded him of the fresh innocence he’d possessed, of a simpler time, of the joy he’d known, before his world had fallen apart.
And it scared the bloody hell out of him.
At long last, Jasper arrived at his white stucco townhouse with the cold brick front that suited the bleakness of his life. He stomped up the steps.
As if on cue, the door opened, and Jasper sailed through the entrance. He shrugged out of his cloak, and tossed it to a waiting footman.
“Your Grace,” the butler greeted, with a deep bow.
Jasper gave a curt nod in greeting and continued onward down the long corridors, through the length of the house. He paused outside his office door a moment, and then entered.
Jasper kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. A panicky sensation gripped his chest. He counted to ten, and when it didn’t help, he counted again. Since Lydia’s death he’d found that focusing on those small, succinct numbers diverted his thoughts away from any unwelcome thoughts or emotions.
He crossed over to the rose-inlaid mahogany table and picked up a decanter of brandy. He poured the amber contents to the rim of a glass, and carried it over to the window. Jasper stared out into the intensifying storm, the flakes swirling outside the windowpane. He took a slow sip.
Coming to London had been the height of foolishness. He’d allowed Guilford to cajole him into paying a visit to his townhouse. As most members of the ton had left for their countryseats to celebrate the Christmastide season, Jasper would be spared the pointed glances and snide whispers as they gossiped about the Mad Duke. Ultimately, he’d been too much a coward to face the ugly remembrances that lived within the castle walls.
A knock sounded on his office door.
“Enter,” he called, his gaze fixed in the streets below.
The door opened.
Then the soft shuffle of steps. “Your Grace, a package arrived for you.”
Jasper stiffened.
A package?
“Your Grace?” the butler asked hesitantly.
“Leave it on my desk.” And get the hell out. The words screamed inside his head but he remained silent. He stared down into the contents of his brandy. He didn’t want any blasted company this day. He blinked as the rich hue put him in mind of a fiery pair of brown eyes. “Christ,” he hissed. Jasper downed his brandy in one long swallow, welcoming the trail it blazed down his throat.
He set the empty glass down upon a nearby table, and looked over to the package on his desk.
The fabric, dampened from fresh melted snow, familiar.
Jasper hesitated, and then strode over to the desk. He picked up the package and undid the velvet ribbon that held the fabric together.
The Excursion
He fanned the pages of the book.
A note slipped out.
The Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge, cold, heartless bastard he’d become after Lydia’s death wouldn’t care about the blasted contents of the letter. That Jasper would have crossed to the hearth and hurled an unread note into the flames.
The Jasper Waincourt who’d attended the Frost Fair and rescued a young, unchaperoned lady, bent down, and opened the scrap.
Your Grace,
I understand you find my company objectionable, which is all right, considering I’m not overly fond of your frowning countenance.
Jasper smiled, and continued reading.
I am, however, eternally grateful for your rescue. Even if you are not. Grateful to have rescued me, that is.
That gave Jasper pause.
The young lady couldn’t be more wrong. It would have been a dark day if the light in Lady Katherine’s eyes had been forever darkened by the icy river waters. The velum crackled in his hands, and he forced himself to lighten his hold upon the page. He didn’t care to consider just why it should matter so much to him. It just did.
I greatly appreciate the kindness you showed this afternoon in offering me the sole copy of The Excursion. In spite of how it may have seemed, I was not merely baiting you. I am in fact, an ardent admirer of Wordsworth’s work. Though in actuality, I did have a good deal of fun teasing you as well.
I digress…
I hope you enjoy the pages, as they should be enjoyed.
Signed,
Lady Katherine Adamson
Jasper examined the note, almost willing there to be more than—his finger tapped the parchment as he counted—ten…he blinked. She’d dashed ten sentences upon the page.
That diversionary number that had brought him temporary distractions over the years.
He strode over to the hearth, paper in hand, and extended it toward the flame. Black singed the thick ivory velum, as the hint of a flame licked at the corners.
Jasper cursed and with his hand, killed the faint stirrings of a flame. The ink used by Lady Katherine smeared and smudged, but it remained readable.
Letter in hand, Jasper made his way over to his desk, pulled out the overstuffed leather chair, and sat.
It would be madness to send a note to the young lady. Jasper didn’t give three goddamns on Sunday about propriety. Society could go hang.
It was this desire to write the note in the first place that should reserve him a spot at Bedlam.
But then, they did not call him the Mad Duke for little reason.
He tugged open the front drawer of his desk and pulled out a single sheet of parchment. Then, reaching for a pen, he dipped it in an inkwell, and proceeded to write a note to Lady Katherine.
The tip of his pen upon the paper tapped an annoyingly loud rhythm upon the hard surface of his desk. Jasper, again dipped his pen in ink.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” Jasper barked, not picking his head up.
What the hell did his butler want with him now? “Has the bloody Queen of England come to visit,” he called, heavy sarcasm intended in that question.
“I do say I’ve never been confused for the Queen of England. That is certainly the first.”
Jasper’s head whipped up so quickly, he wrenched h
is neck. “Guilford,” he said. He rubbed the aching muscles.
His friend strode over to the table with crystal decanters and poured himself a brandy. Glass in hand, he wandered over to claim the seat across from Jasper. His gaze paused a moment on the empty brandy glass. His eyes narrowed, and then his probing stare swung to the nearly completed letter. “What are you doing?” Guilford craned his neck in an apparent attempt to read Jasper’s private correspondence.
Not that Lady Katherine was his business. She wasn’t.
She was…
A winsome, fiery miss.
Where the hell did that thought come from.
One. Two. Three. Fou—
“Bainbridge, I say are you all right?”
“Fine,” he snapped.
“Because you don’t seem nearly as surly as your usual self. Oh, do not be mistaken, you’re still quite foul, just not as foul as you usually are.”
He’d had enough of his friend bating him. Jasper tossed his pen down. “What do you want?” He personally wanted the other man gone so he could see to his letter for Lady Katherine.
Guilford hooked his ankle across his knee. “I wanted to issue an invitation to join my family for the Christmastide—”
“No,” Jasper cut in. He did not celebrate the holiday season. The godforsaken time of year represented birth and life. His lips twisted at the bitter irony that it also coincided with the time Lydia and his child had been cruelly ripped from the living.
Guilford continued, either unaware or uncaring of Jasper’s silent tumult. “I’d also wanted to inquire as to whether you’d returned the young lady’s reticule?”
Lady Katherine as she’d been earlier that afternoon, with a mischievous smile and too-full laugh, flashed to mind. It would appear the Ice Princess had thawed, and in her place was a lively creature that continued to wreak havoc upon his life. He’d not encourage Guilford questioning. “Which lady?” Jasper growled.
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 39