A Duke Never Yields

by Juliana Gray

  “Wondering how what fits together?”

  “I was in the library this afternoon, thumbing through the old account books . . .”

  “What, the castle account books?”

  “Yes, an idle curiosity,” Roland said, with a too-casual flick of his hand, which Wallingford took to mean an idle curiosity of young Philip. Since Abigail Harewood’s afternoons were now taken up with Wallingford, Roland had stepped in to see to the boy’s tutoring, in an act of pure cunning that Wallingford could only applaud. After all, what mother could resist a man who took such an interest in her son?

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Well, it was fascinating stuff of course, went straight the way back to the Medici, as I’d always suspected, and double-entry bookkeeping, if you can believe it! I was positively floored, but there it was. You wouldn’t believe the outlay on silver . . .”

  “For God’s sake, Roland. What’s the point?”

  “I’m coming to the point, you impatient old bugger. In any case, one thing led to another, and I came upon the old deeds of ownership, and do you know what I found?”

  “Obviously not, or I should never have sat through your tiresome meanderings.”

  “I found,” Roland said, with dramatic emphasis, “a rather curious fact. Namely, our fellow Rosseti, whoever he is, don’t own the old pile after all.”

  “Doesn’t he?” Wallingford’s brain scrolled back to the horrific moment he’d stood there in the drizzle, outside the castle, with the two identical lease documents in his gloved hands. “But the lease stated quite plainly . . .”

  Roland shook his head. “Doesn’t own it. Saw the deed written out quite plainly.”

  “Good God.” Wallingford’s back went as rigid as a fire iron. They were nearing the crest of the hill, with the stable a quarter mile away. Lucifer’s steps began to quicken, his eager head pulling against the duke’s stiff fingers.

  “Aren’t you going to ask who does own the castle?” Roland said, after a moment.

  “Is it relevant? I presume this Rosseti must be an agent of some sort, though I can’t begin to imagine how the legality . . .”

  “Oh, it’s relevant, all right. Deuced relevant.”

  Wallingford looked at him, frowning. “And why is that?”

  “Because.” Roland lifted one hand to rub the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “The castle deed was transferred in the year 1591 to the Earl of Copperbridge.”

  A current of pure ice water flooded the channels of Wallingford’s body. “Copperbridge! But that’s . . .”

  “Yes, quite. Now a courtesy title, with which we’re both all too familiar.” Roland heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. “It’s the awful truth, I’m afraid. The owner of the Castel sant’Agata, dear brother, is none other than . . .”

  Wallingford’s fist landed squarely on his thigh. He looked up at the sky and howled into the blazing sun, “The Duke of bloody Olympia.”

  * * *

  Abigail Harewood looked down and gave her bodice a final minute adjustment before attending to Lilibet.

  “There,” she said, tugging her cousin’s neckline a strategic half inch lower, until the lace of her chemise peeked out from beneath an enthusiastically laced corset. “You look perfect. You’ve filled out so beautifully with Morini’s cooking, I’d hardly recognize you.”

  Lilibet’s gaze rested heavily on her for an instant or two, before dropping down to contemplate the overflowing bounty of her own bosom. Considerably more bountiful, in fact, than the bosom with which she’d ridden into the castle over three months ago; what a difference a well-trained cook could make in a woman’s attractions! Abigail shook her head in awe.

  Lilibet picked anxiously at the trifle of lace shielding her nipples from general public admiration. “You don’t think I’ve grown too plump?”

  “Lord Roland certainly doesn’t seem to mind.” Abigail gave Lilibet’s apron strings a last constricting tug, to emphasize the curve of her waist and hips. Not that her figure needed much in the way of artifice; not that Penhallow needed anything at all in the way of encouragement. Still, Abigail and Morini had vowed to leave nothing to chance. “The way he looks at you! You might take a little pity on him, you know.”

  “How do you know I don’t?” Lilibet said, with some asperity, brushing Abigail’s hands from her waist.

  “Darling, your room’s next to mine. If I can hear Mr. Burke bringing back Alexandra at the crack of every dawn, I’d certainly notice you.” Abigail made a little twirl. “Does mine look all right?”

  “Quite adorably fetching. You’ll have to keep your distance from poor old Wallingford.”

  “I doubt poor old Wallingford will be in attendance,” Abigail said, as carelessly as she could. She was thankful for her mask, which allowed her to grimace unchecked, though it did itch like the devil. All afternoon she had looked out for Wallingford: first in lofty disdain, certain he would crawl back like a beggar; then in idle concern, as evening began to approach; and now in fatalistic resignation, in abject despair. She had behaved like a child, snapping back at him like that, kicking over the picnic hamper, for heaven’s sake! He had offered her marriage—marriage! The most confirmed bachelor in England!—quite needlessly, and rather unwelcomely, but still it was a lovely gesture, showing a gratifying attachment to her, and moreover it was a gesture that had probably cost him a great deal to make. And what had she done? Thrown it in his face, of course! His poor tender heart was undoubtedly shattered, just like the picnic plates, which had made an ominous series of crashes from underneath the overturned wicker.

  He had a right to sulk. She conceded him that. If only he didn’t have to sulk tonight, of all nights.

  Midsummer’s Eve.

  “Signorina, is ready,” said Morini, next to her elbow.

  Abigail turned. Trays of stuffed olives covered one end of the kitchen table; several joints of meat were roasting in the enormous fireplace. The heat was immense, though all the windows were open to the evening air, cooling at last as the sun slipped down. She picked up a tray of olives and handed it to Lilibet. “Off you go! I’ll find Alexandra and join you in an instant.”

  “But I . . .”

  “Or shall I send Francesca out with the olives? I believe Penhallow’s already roaming about . . .”

  Lilibet whirled around and marched out of the kitchen. Through the window came the whine of the violins and the low throb of the tuba, tuning up.

  Abigail turned to Morini. “There you are. It’s begun. I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Morini gave her a wise smile. “Trust in me, signorina. Is all coming together tonight. Is the Midsummer, is the night of enchantment. Is . . .”

  At that instant, the Dowager Marchioness of Morley swept through the doorway and stopped before them. With one elegant finger she plucked at the lacing of her bodice, which was nearly invisible under the rampant overhang of the exposed Harewood Chest.

  “This is so undignified,” she said.

  * * *

  By ten o’clock, the Duke of Wallingford had still not made an appearance.

  The thing to do was to keep oneself busy, and Abigail kept herself busy with a vengeance. She pushed the duke firmly from her mind. Her arms dangled from their sockets with the effort of ferrying endless courses of food and wine between kitchen and courtyard; her feet throbbed through the sturdy leather of her shoes.

  “Signorina, you must rest, you must sit,” said Morini, emerging into the open air of the courtyard, wiping her hands on her apron. The dessert had been laid out on the trestle tables, and the musicians were striking up an energetic polka beneath the emerging moon.

  “Rest? Sit? On such a lovely evening?” Abigail drew in a long breath, as if sampling the festive air, and indeed it was festive enough: A cooling breeze gusted gently along the hillside, and from the kitchen drifted the sugared scent of macaroons and panettone, of warm baking bread. Already the villagers were pushing aside the trestle tables and forming
lines on the flagstones, throwing aside somber Tuscan good sense to assemble, laughing men and giggling women, for the dancing.

  Only a single figure remained sitting at the tables. Her white mask glinted gold in the firelight, her firm chin rested in her elegant hand, and her gaze traveled longingly into the kaleidoscope of shifting dancers.

  Her breasts swelled precariously over the bodice of her dress.

  “Alexandra, my dear.” Abigail let her hand fall lightly on her sister’s shoulder. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

  “Oh.” Alexandra seemed to gather herself. “I daren’t. If I take another step, I shall probably spill free altogether, and I don’t believe these Tuscan chaps would ever recover.”

  “Nonsense. In the first place, you’ve at least another inch standing firm between you and infamy. In the second, all your Tuscan chaps have made themselves thoroughly drunk, and won’t remember a thing.”

  Alexandra laughed and put her hand atop Abigail’s.

  “If you’re pining after a certain ginger-haired scientist of our acquaintance,” said Abigail, “I understand the best cure for that sort of melancholy is to go off and amuse yourself regardless.”

  “I’m not pining after anyone. And in any case, I’ve no one to dance with.”

  Abigail ran her hand down her sister’s arm until it gripped her palm. “Come along, you ninny.”

  Dragging Alexandra into the dance proved roughly comparable to dragging Percival the goat into his pen, but Abigail had managed this feat nearly every morning since her arrival at the Castel sant’Agata, and eventually experience told. “I don’t think you need to know the steps,” Abigail called, over the relentless oom-pah of the tuba and the shrilling swing of the violins. “Nobody else does.”

  “Rather like London, then,” Alexandra called back.

  The torches flickered; the band played. The last of the sunset disappeared behind the hills to the east. Alexandra’s cheeks flushed with the effort of the dance, lurching back and forth from partner to partner. When her smile crested at last over the top of her lips, when her eyes sparkled with pleasure, Abigail slipped quietly away from the throng and found Morini in the kitchen.

  “Alexandra’s with the dancers,” she said. “I think she’s ready. Though where the devil Finn’s gone, I can’t . . .”

  Morini looked up. She was sitting at the table, before a tray of six small glasses, which she studied intently. Each was filled to exactly three-quarters with a clear liquid; a collection of bottles and herbs lay scattered around the wooden surface.

  “Morini,” Abigail said, in a dark tone, “why are there six glasses before you?”

  “Signorina, listen . . .”

  “I’ve told you, Morini, on numerous occasions—of which you appear to take no notice at all—Wallingford has nothing to do with tonight’s plans. Or any plans at all, for that matter.”

  “Signorina, what is the difference? There is no harm in giving the nature a little push.” Morini made a short wave of her fingers, illustrating a friendly helping hand to nature’s design.

  “No harm? No harm? When I might wake up to find myself shackled to the most notorious libertine in the British Isles?” This was not perhaps fair, or even factually accurate, but Abigail saw no reason to let such a trifling detail as the truth derail her argument, which was sound in the fundamentals.

  “The duke, he loves you. He is not this libertine.”

  Abigail pointed an accusing finger at the glasses on the tray. “I daresay you’ve been imbibing this stuff yourself, if you really believe that! No, I’ll have none of your love potions, addling my brains and doing God knows what to my ordinary human reasoning.”

  Morini rose and closed her fingers around two of the glasses. “Signorina, you are not listening. You wish to have the night with the handsome duke, it is so?”

  Abigail eyed the two glasses and said, warily, “If the opportunity should arise, I wouldn’t say no.”

  Morini held out the glasses. “Then here is your chance, signorina. The duke, he is proud, he has the honor, he does not make the try to seduce you. This, signorina. This will make him forget these things. This will open the arms of the so-handsome duke.”

  The lamp flickered on the table next to the tray, giving the liquid an oily gleam, almost iridescent. Morini gave the glasses a little swish.

  Abigail crossed her arms. “What’s in it, then?”

  “A little of the limoncello, a little of other things.”

  “What other things?” Abigail narrowed her eyes at the jars on the table.

  “Is a secret, signorina. Is nothing harm.” She jiggled one glass enticingly near Abigail’s fingertips.

  Abigail watched the drink catch the light. She ran her tongue along the roof of her mouth, which had gone strangely dry and thirsty. With unsteady fingers she plucked the glass from Morini’s fingertips and held it up to her eyes. “Nothing harmful? Are you certain?”

  “Is pure, signorina. It give only the love.”

  “I suppose,” Abigail said, stretching her words to the limit, “there are no priests nearby, should my intellect be overturned.”

  “No, signorina. Is only for the love.”

  “And it’s such a beautiful night, such a perfect night, a night for . . .”

  “. . . the lovers,” Morini finished for her.

  Abigail turned the glass this way and that, admiring its clarity, its brilliance, almost lit from within. The faint scent of lemons drifted into her nose. She tilted the glass closer and inhaled more deeply, lemon and something else, something lovely, and at once a sense of peace overcame her, a delicious, languorous anticipation. “Oh, that’s nice,” she breathed.

  “You see, signorina? Is no harm. Is destiny.”

  “Destiny. Yes. I shall take this to Wallingford at once.” Abigail turned on her heel.

  “Wait, signorina! Is not working, just for one.” Morini held up the other glass and dangled it gently, back and forth, between her fingers. “There must be two. One for the gentleman, one for the lady.”

  A little frisson of warning snaked across the haze of delight in Abigail’s brain, and then disappeared. “One for the lady?”

  “Is so. There must be two, signorina. There must be equal.”

  It seemed to make sense. Everything seemed to make sense at the moment, an absolute exquisite rightness, all the way through the world. Abigail plucked the glass from Morini’s fingers. “Very well. If I must.”

  “You must, signorina. Now go find the handsome duke. Give him the great desire of his heart.”

  “I will, Morini! I will!” Abigail exclaimed, and she danced on air across the kitchen and through the door, holding her precious burden in each hand.

  An instant later, she poked her head back through the doorway.

  “Ah, Morini. Just a slight . . . a little detail. I don’t suppose you know . . . of course, there’s no reason you should know . . . that is to say, I was rather wondering . . .”

  Morini was already picking up the tray from the table. Without turning, she said, “In the library, signorina. The duke, he is in the library, all the evening.”

  FOURTEEN

  The tuba pounded through the open window of the library, the same two bloody notes, over and over again, until the Duke of Wallingford would willingly have given up one of his lesser estates for the chance to stuff a full-grown male pheasant down the bell, feathers and all.

  He had tried closing the window at first, but the old glass hardly blocked the sound, only filtered out the obscuring effect of the other instruments. Moreover, he soon realized he had cut off the only source of fresh air in the stuffy book-lined room, which had been baking in the sun through most of the afternoon.

  Suffocation, or slow descent into madness? The choice was his.

  At last he opened the window again, reasoning that he was already far down that well-beaten path to insanity, and might as well finish the journey in style.

  He returned to the desk, removed his ja
cket, slung it across the back of the chair. Hardly had he straightened his shirt cuffs and resumed his seat when the doorknob rattled, and into the library danced Abigail Harewood.

  At least it seemed to be Abigail. A white feathered mask obscured her face, and her dress—what there was of it—had been cut so low in front and so high at the leg, Wallingford could not quite focus his eyes on any remaining identifying features.

  “Oh, hullo,” she said. “There you are. May I come in?”

  Wallingford lowered his eyelids to eclipse the sight of her overflowing bosom, but it was too late: The image was seared on his brain, in flawless photographic negative. “I would rather you didn’t,” he said.

  “Disturbing your studies, am I? I do apologize.”

  She sounded not the slightest bit contrite. Wallingford looked back up. She was balancing a pair of small glasses in her hands, and she glanced at him with a smile he might have described as shy, if he hadn’t known better from long experience.

  She looked at him expectantly, and he realized he hadn’t answered her. “You are, as a matter of fact. What the devil are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be serving olives to the villagers?”

  “Oh, the olives were finished long ago. They’re dancing now. The villagers, I mean, not the olives. What are you studying?” She wandered across the room toward him, looking . . . hesitant? Not Abigail Harewood. Surely not.

  Wallingford slid the sheaf of papers back into the leather portfolio. “Nothing of particular interest.”

  She laughed. “Why on earth are you studying nothing of particular interest?”

  “You mistake me. What I’m studying is of no particular interest to you, Miss Harewood.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, rather like one of his more pompous tutors at Oxford. “It is, however, of immense interest to me.”

  She stopped a few feet away, holding the glasses before her. The lamplight shone like a nimbus on her chestnut hair. “I see. You’re still angry with me.”

  Wallingford sat in his chair, regarding her, trying to ignore the lush picture she made in her mask and her provocative costume, trying to set aside all that he knew of her and felt for her. The effort was immense, like pushing a boulder away from the mouth of a cave to look inside. “Tell me something, Miss Harewood,” he said, in a soft voice.