Actually, it threatened to erode her calm most severely.
She lifted her chin slightly. “I assure you, Captain, that I have no nefarious agenda. I have an errand I must run—a rendezvous that would be most unkind to miss. A dear friend is awaiting me and I should not like to disappoint him.”
He turned on her, his dark blue gaze sharp. “Him? Your dear friend is a man? You are a married woman now. Do you think friendships with other men is entirely appropriate?”
Now he was just being obstinate. Spare her from the whims and whiffles of male moods! “Well, you will meet him shortly,” she pressed on. “Why don’t you see for yourself that he is no threat to any husband I may have? He is a dressmaker, and we shall be there for my dress fitting.”
He tilted his head back slightly and surveyed her from head to toe. Bliss endured his examination, for she knew perfectly well that she was most appropriately and demurely attired for an afternoon errand. Just so, as always.
Yet still he grumbled. “I do not see any reason why you cannot simply—”
“We.” She corrected him gently. “Yesterday I was forced to hire a stranger to pose as my escort. You are my husband. A wife has a right to expect a minimum of husbandly assistance, does she not?”
She didn’t smile at his startled befuddlement. She did not laugh when his gaze shot about the room in his desperate attempt to think of a reason, any reason, why she was not entirely correct. It was a very nice moment, but Bliss cherished it in an inward fashion only. Men did not deal well with glee at their expense. Such tender feelings.
It was rather exhausting, all told. She longed for her tough-skinned cousins, who were so used to Elektra’s abrasive temper and Attie’s lethal revenge that they jumped to do as Bliss bade them, simply because she asked politely.
“It is a dress fitting, you say?”
“Yes.”
“You cannot possibly need another dress. Your cousins brought a cartload yesterday.”
“No, I need another ball gown.”
He was probably not aware of the way he covered his weskit pocket with a protective palm. She should mention that it would not cost him a farthing, but why make matters easy for him?
“Why do you need another ball gown?” he asked.
Bliss forced herself to patience. “Why, to go to the Fletchers’ ball in two days. The invitations came out simply ages ago. I must go, for I have already accepted. Oh, and I shall need an escort for that as well. Husband.”
She had him, fair and square, and she knew he knew it.
He gave a horsey snort, a sound both annoyed and acquiescent. “Fine. I’ll take you this afternoon, after I have checked on my ship.”
“That is agreeable.” Bliss nodded serenely. “I have much to do myself.”
Morgan gave her a short nod, then turned and left the house. He was nearly running.
Bliss allowed a small smile to cross her lips. He likely wanted to get out before she found something else emasculating for him to do. This wasn’t going to take as long as she thought.
Sooner or later, Captain Pryce would remember that he wasn’t the marrying kind.
Chapter 17
LORD Oliver found Neville slouched in a library chair with legs askew. The younger man was still attired in last night’s dinner ensemble, though the cravat was untied and weskit unbuttoned. A half-emptied bottle of their finest Madeira teetered on a century-old Turkish carpet. And though one of Neville’s ridiculous insect books was open upon his lap, his eyes were closed.
Oliver made a tsking sound as he shook his head. The boy had just experienced his first heartbreak. It would not be his last. Who knew the boy would turn out to be such a sensitive sot?
“Neville!” Lord Oliver kicked at one of the duke’s boots. “Wake up!”
Neville started, gripping the chair arms like a drowning man clinging to a lifeboat. He blinked at Oliver in confusion. “Erph?”
“At this rate you’ll deplete our wine cellar by the fall.”
Neville straightened and cleared his throat. He tried to button his weskit but gave up when the task of slipping buttons into holes proved too challenging. “What time is it, Uncle?”
“It’s time for you to regain your dignity, boy! That Worthington girl does not warrant this kind of collapse. Think of all the people who depend upon you.”
Neville rubbed his palms over his face and looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “I love Bliss. I hate Morgan. I just don’t understand how my own brother could he have done this to me.”
“Oh, nonsense. He’s not your brother—he’s a bastard, your father’s regrettable by-blow.” Oliver sat in a chair opposite Neville, crossing his legs to get comfortable.
“I shall never speak to him again.”
Lord Oliver hid his twitch of a smile behind a cupped hand. Oh, but this was too rich! His attempt to turn the brothers on each other was working, and since they had chosen not to rely on each other, they would have to turn to their dear old uncle instead.
Such an arrangement would make it so much easier for him to shape Camberton’s future.
Neville dropped his elbows upon his knees and hung his head, staring at the carpet. Oliver knew that before him was a thoroughly defeated man.
“Morgan knew how I feel about Bliss.” Neville’s voice was now nothing but a moan of despair. “He stole her! It’s . . . it’s . . . a knife in my belly. I shall never trust my brother again.”
Oliver grew weary of all the blubbering. He fiddled with an arrangement of lilies on the side table, wondering how long he needed to remain here before the boy was convinced he had his dear uncle’s heartfelt sympathy.
He sighed in boredom. “Well, I told Pryce it was a bad idea. He doesn’t listen.”
Neville’s neck tightened. His head perked up. His eyes—now wide and fiercely alert—locked onto Oliver’s. Oh no . . .
“You knew, Uncle?”
• • •
OLIVER KNEW?
Neville felt his jaw unhinge. His mind was so fogged by drink that he could not be sure he had heard Lord Oliver correctly.
Uncle Oliver drew back. “Well, I—”
Neville jumped to his feet. Too quickly. He nearly toppled over. “You knew what Morgan was up to, yet you did not warn me? You just let it all unfold?”
“It’s not as simple as that, my boy. Truly. I—”
“Why did you not stop him?”
Uncle Oliver looked flushed. His eyes darted about the library in what looked like panic. Neville heard himself emit a bitter laugh. This was unbelievable! It was bad enough that his brother had betrayed him, but his uncle, too?
It was no secret that Lord Oliver disapproved of the Worthington connection. Yet for him to know that Morgan meant to betray him—and do nothing?
The hollow in Neville’s gut grew larger. Truly, he had never felt so alone in all his life. “Why, Uncle? Why did you not stop him?”
Lord Oliver stood. “You’re a bit jug-bitten at the moment, my boy. I must advise that you avoid making accusations you will later regret.”
“You advise me, Lord Oliver? Still? And yet you do not answer my question!”
“This is ridiculous.” Oliver turned to go.
Neville stepped in front of him. He might be unsteady, but he was determined to see this exchange through to a satisfactory end. “Why did you let Morgan steal Bliss from me?”
His uncle looked terribly insulted. “While I agreed with Morgan that the girl was unsuitable, I did not believe Morgan would go through with something so outrageous. I intended to appeal to your better judgment instead, as I always have!”
Neville blinked, trying to marshal his intellect against the fog of drink. “Did you mean to—”
“I assure you, young man, my only fault was thinking too highly of your so-called brother. Now . . .” Oliver looked him up
and down, his expression impatient. “Do clean yourself up and arrive promptly for dinner this evening. We have houseguests, as you might recall.”
Neville watched his uncle stomp from the library, his back straight with self-righteousness. He stayed there, staring into the empty hall, as he fought for some bit of clarity. It was true that his uncle had always pushed him toward success, and often insisted he do things his way. But until now, Neville had believed his father’s brother had only honorable motivations. He believed Lord Oliver only wanted what was best for Neville, the Danton family name, and Camberton Park.
For the first time, Neville wondered if his uncle might be driven by self-seeking motives. Simply wielding the power of Camberton like a borrowed sword might not be as satisfying as having it for his own.
One thing Neville was sure of—his family was family in name only. No one took him seriously. No one cared what he wanted.
And he was the bloody duke!
• • •
KATARINA PRESSED HER palms against the large double doors and entered the library of Camberton House quietly, but then again, she did most everything quietly. She had long ago discovered that her mother had ears like a wild dog, though she’d not appreciate being compared to the mongrels roaming the streets of Bridgetown.
Regardless, Katarina knew that if she were to enjoy the pleasures of reading, taking walks in nature, or daydreaming, she had to learn to make her escape with stealth and restraint. Otherwise, Mummy would put her to some sort of “improving” task—usually something of the ladylike variety, such as embroidering cushions or tatting lace.
If she never tatted another lace for the rest of her natural life, it would be too soon for Katarina.
The library might have been hushed and soothing, but it was the most spectacular sight she had ever seen. With seemingly miles of shelves, and many thousands of books, the two-story chamber called to her as no other place in England had. Her heart beat faster at the sight of shelves stacked to the high ceiling!
Katarina closed her eyes in delight and breathed in deeply the scent of fine books, catching a faint hint of oils, too, no doubt from the paintings that covered every inch of wall not reserved for books.
The Dantons certainly loved their books, to house them in such a fine room. With her steps cushioned by rich wool carpets, Katarina made her way silently around the perimeter of the room, appreciating the glow of richly dyed leather spines and the sparkle of gold embossing.
A library this splendid almost made up for leaving behind her beloved island.
Almost.
Within a few moments, a particularly large tome caught Katarina’s eye. She gasped, reached down toward a lower shelf, and snatched the volume.
“Oh heavens! Is this possible?” Katarina stared in awe at what lay in her hands—a first printing of Maria Sybilla Merium’s Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium. The volume was more than a hundred years old and considered the most comprehensive study of butterfly metamorphosis in the world. The German woman’s work was legendary, and Katarina had often seen references to it in other books, though she never imagined she would ever have the honor of reading the original work.
Clutching the precious volume to her bosom, Katarina hurried across the room toward a library table, smiling to herself. Why should anyone wish to tat lace when there were thousands upon thousands of books in this world?
• • •
NEVILLE HAD MADE a discovery. He now knew that he enjoyed the act of drinking but disliked passing out from drink. He must learn to pace himself. If he had started drinking at a younger age, the way many men did, he would be an expert by now.
Perhaps that was his failure. Perhaps he should have chosen to be a selfish rake instead of a sensible duke. After all, what had sensibility gained him? There he sat, alone, unwashed, and unwed, a decidedly undignified state of affairs for the fourteenth Duke of Camberton.
Neville was a disappointment to himself.
And he missed his Bliss. No. She was no longer his anything. She was Mrs. Morgan Pryce!
Neville grabbed the wine bottle and brought it to his lips. Shockingly, it was empty. He would have to ring Regis for another.
At that very moment, the door to the library opened. Yet again, Neville marveled at the preternatural abilities of the butler of Camberton House. Regis was so devoted to his duties that he could read minds!
Alas, it was not Regis with a fresh bottle. A girl, a slip of a thing in a pale blue dress, had just entered. It took a moment for him to realize it was Uncle Oliver’s houseguest Miss Beckham. He decided to remain quiet and pretend to be invisible. Perhaps when she realized there was nothing in the library but books, she would move on.
He rather liked her, if he recalled correctly. Katarina was her name. She had an inquisitive mind and knew a thing or two about butterflies, an attribute he had not often encountered in members of the fairer sex.
Neville watched her wander through the library, a look of awe on her face. Clearly, she understood the importance of books. She brushed her fingertips along the bindings. Occasionally, she would reach for a volume, flip through it, smile, and put it back. Never once did she sense that someone else was in the room with her.
How unlike him to spy on a lady. How terribly rude. But then, if he announced his presence, he would lose his chance to watch her unaware.
Miss Katarina Beckham was not actually plain. Neville reminded himself that on their first encounter, she’d still been wan and weary from her journey.
But she was no Bliss Worthington, either. Where Bliss was blond and blue-eyed, Katarina was dark. Where Bliss was lush and full—and oh, dear God, was she was ever so lush and full!—Miss Beckham was slender.
But as Neville continued to observe her, he noted that this slight young woman moved with an exceptional grace, a feminine economy he much admired. He imagined Miss Beckham would be a fine partner for a quadrille.
Katarina now carried a large book in her hands. She was headed for the table, coming in his direction. Neville knew he should announce his presence. He began to stand. More precisely, he positioned himself in preparation to stand, since the act of rising to his feet could prove difficult in his current condition.
The book laid across his lap thudded to the floor.
“Oh!” Katarina clutched the book to her middle, staring at him as if she’d just seen a phantom. “I . . . I did not know anyone was—I had no idea . . .”
“It’s juss me.” Neville partially rose and bowed, aware that he had managed nothing more than a floppy wave of his arm. “Mizz Beck’im. So verynicetoseeyouagain.” He fell back into the chair.
“Hmm.” Katarina tipped her head curiously, then walked toward him. She retrieved the fallen book from near his feet and returned it to him. “Reading up on moths?”
“Yes! Yes, I am! Er . . . did you know that moths are vital to pollin”—hic—“nation?”
Miss Beckham offered him a patient smile and then sat down in the chair recently vacated by Uncle Oliver.
That bamboozler. That trickster.
“Quite. In fact, moths are the workhorses of nocturnal pollination.” Miss Beckham balanced the large book on her knees, then folded her small hands atop it. “One night in Barbados, just a few miles from our plantation, my papa and I observed a moth feeding on a honeysuckle bush—with a six-inch proboscis!”
Neville felt his eyes pop. “No! Thass incredible!”
“I assure you it is true.”
Suddenly, he saw that her cocoa brown eyes were not just intelligent. They were animated, flecked with gold and green, and framed in generous dark lashes.
“I can only imagine the wonders of Barbados,” Neville said dreamily. “Do you enjoy living there?”
“Enjoy?” Katarina seemed puzzled. Neville hoped he had not offended her. “I reveled in it, Your Grace. I have been gone from my home less
than a month and have seen many unusual places and things, but nothing compares to Barbados. The Bajans are the most gracious people on earth, and nothing is more magical than the island of my birth.”
“Will you show it to me someday?” Later, Neville would wince at his overly familiar manner, but if his question was too brazen, Miss Beckham did not seem to notice.
“I should be honored, Your Grace. I believe you would find the biological diversity of the West Indies fascinating.”
“Please call me Neville.”
She nodded. “If you call me Katarina. But, Your Grace . . . Neville . . . may I ask you something?”
“Please do.”
“It is obvious that you are very drunk. I might also surmise that you are not accustomed to escaping into drink on a regular basis. What has caused you such terrible sadness?”
Neville froze. He was so stunned by the force of her direct question that he was incapable of answering. But he had just told her to dispense with formalities, had he not?
Katarina frowned, a tiny divot forming between her neat eyebrows. “Forgive me, but it is obvious you are struggling. I saw it last night as well. You seem to be a very nice man in great distress.”
When she gestured toward his sloppy appearance and the empty wine bottle, she did so to illustrate her point, not to judge his behavior. He saw no disapproval in her expression, only empathy.
“When my papa died,” she went on, “I was heartbroken. Talking about it was the only thing that helped me sort out my sense of loss and find a way to carry on. I recognize such grief in you. Should you ever wish to share your story, I shall keep it in absolute confidence. You have my word.”
Neville stared at the remarkable creature in disbelief. Never in his life had anyone offered such a thing, with such matter-of-fact kindness. Obviously, it would be unwise to trust someone he had only just met. And yet . . .
Neville could not contain his bitter laugh. So much for wisdom! He had just been viciously betrayed by his brother and uncle, the two people closest to him in all the world, the two people he trusted most.
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