That was her only warning, before she had nothing but the grasp of Haverford’s hand to orient her.
“We regularly dust the stairwells,” he said, as they were enclosed by stygian darkness. “Don’t envision yourself surrounded by mice, cobwebs, or bats. The steps are immediately before us.”
The sound of their footsteps echoed, indicating that the passage traversed several floors. The duke didn’t hurry Elizabeth, and his grip on her hand was secure.
“The landing,” he said, “and now we go to the left, then ten more steps.”
They passed a window that let in light from torches on some terrace or balcony. The duke was momentarily silhouetted against the panes, then he led Elizabeth down the last four steps.
She bumped into him at the foot of the stairs, a warm, solid wall of cedar-scented man.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace.”
“Finding the latch always takes a moment. The fairies move it, or—ah, here we are.”
They emerged on the outer side of the castle wall, the scent of the breeze placing them downwind of the stables. Lanterns bobbed near the outline of a small building that might be the summer kitchen or the laundry.
“Take a moment,” Haverford said, turning Elizabeth by the shoulders. “That’s Tudor Hill, where you would have spied Griffin earlier if he was intent on counting the coaches. On which path did you see him?”
Chapter Four
IN THE DARK, NOTHING was the same. Vision dimmed, while other senses became more acute. Haverford stood at Elizabeth’s back, still in his evening attire, no more appropriately dressed for a hill trek than she was. He stood close enough that she could feel his heat and sense how their bodies would fit together in an embrace.
Perhaps the fairies were trifling with Elizabeth’s imagination.
“The man I saw looked to be aiming for the large tree about halfway up the hill,” she said. “He took that path to the left.”
“Then Griffin’s headed for the wishing oak. He loves that damned thing. The views from its branches are breathtaking, and at least four different paths lead to it. Come.”
Elizabeth let herself be tugged along, even as she marveled that His Grace of Haverford had climbed that tree and treasured the views.
Radnor and the man called Abner joined them at the laundry, and the party started up the path Elizabeth had indicated.
“If the way is too challenging,” Radnor said, “I can return you to the house, Miss Windham.”
“It’s merely a hill, my lord.” Without stays to confine her breathing, keeping pace with the men was easy.
As they ascended, the moon rose, and the way became less difficult to navigate. Elizabeth held on to Haverford’s hand nonetheless.
She hadn’t held hands with a man before. Had Haverford held hands with many women?
The path crisscrossed the hill, growing more rugged as the trail ascended.
“My goodness,” Elizabeth said. “I hadn’t realized we’re so close to the sea.” Off in the distance, the ocean was a flat silver mirror peeking between two hills.
Abner and Radnor continued to climb, and for a moment, Elizabeth was holding hands with Haverford under a moonlit sky, the splendor of a wild nightscape before her.
“I’d forgotten what the view up here is like at moonrise,” Haverford said. “No wonder Griffin was disinclined to turn for home.”
The breeze rustled through the oaks higher on the trail, but other than the fading sounds of the other men’s footsteps, quiet descended.
“We’ll find him,” Elizabeth said. “The night is mild, he’s on familiar ground, and you won’t rest until he’s safe.”
Whoever this Griffin was, he meant a great deal to the duke.
“I believe you are reassuring me,” His Grace said, resuming their progress. “The experience is novel and appreciated.”
Odd comment. Elizabeth toiled on beside him in silence for another few minutes before Radnor’s shout broke the night’s quiet.
“Found him! Bugger’s fast asleep beneath the tree, just as you predicted, and damned if the dog wasn’t napping as well.”
The duke’s relief was evident in the relaxation of his shoulders and the easing of his grip on Elizabeth’s hand.
Radnor came bounding down the path a moment later, his lantern bobbing in the shadows.
“The lad’s fine. A bit sheepish and hungry, but none the worse for his outing. Did you know you have forty-two coaches ranged around behind your stables and carriage house?”
“Griffin is well?” Haverford asked.
Something passed between the two men, more than a simple question. Radnor touched Haverford’s shoulder.
“Absolutely safe and sound. Peckish and fretting that Biddy will tear a strip off him for getting his coat dirty. Abner and I will walk him home, and I’ll see you at breakfast. Miss Windham, good evening, and mind your step on the way down. Many an ankle has turned on this descent.”
Radnor waited, as if anticipating an argument from Haverford.
“My thanks, Radnor. Until breakfast. Miss Windham, shall we?” The duke dropped Elizabeth’s hand to gesture back the way they’d come.
Well, drat. Elizabeth started down the path, disappointed that the closest thing she’d had to an adventure was so soon over.
“I should precede you,” Haverford said. “A gentleman should precede a lady, so he can break her fall.”
“A lady should wear her boots, so she’s surefooted enough not to land on her face. Besides, if you’re in front of me, and you lose your footing, I’ll trip over you.”
“Now you scold me. The novelties of this evening multiply apace.”
Elizabeth slowed, because Radnor had been right. Descending could be more treacherous than climbing. “Nobody scolds you? Ever?”
“Not as effectively as you just did. Lady Glenys remonstrates with me, my valet chides, Radnor takes me to task, but you have a way with a scold.” He sounded intrigued rather than put off by Elizabeth’s way with a scold.
“I have three younger sisters and many younger cousins. My older cousins are most in need of scolding, though. They meddle.” They also foiled would-be kidnappers. Elizabeth shied away from that thought.
“I cannot abide meddlers. They are busybodies who cloak their attempts to manipulate under false solicitude. I was surrounded by such concern upon my father’s death, and in each instance, somebody stood to profit by taking an interest in my situation. Misplaced trust can exact a fearful cost.”
Elizabeth was sure His Grace would not have made that admission in the light of a summer sun. Perhaps he’d been figuratively waylaid, as Lord Allermain had waylaid Elizabeth.
“The next time somebody tries to cozen your trust, sir, try a cold silence. Dukes have a knack for an arctic reproof that conveys itself without a single word.”
Haverford had drawn even with her as the path had grown more level. “I like that. A cold silence. Radnor has one, though he uses it so seldom, one forgets he’s capable of it.” For the third time, the duke glanced over his shoulder, toward two lanterns bobbing across the hill, traveling away from the castle.
“You can scold Griffin in the morning,” Elizabeth said, taking Haverford’s hand. “Some scolds are better for a bit of rehearsal, and sometimes, not scolding a miscreant works magic on his guilty conscience.”
“You are full of helpful suggestions. Griffin would never trouble anybody on purpose. He’ll be apologizing to me before I’m off my horse.”
At this conclusion, Haverford’s stride opened up, and he shifted his grip on Elizabeth’s hand so their fingers linked.
Maybe gloves were worn on most social occasions because the grip of a man’s hand said a lot about his confidence and his character. Haverford held hands easily, his grasp warm and secure without being presuming.
“You would have found Griffin,” Elizabeth said, “no matter how far he rambled, no matter which hill he climbed. He’s under your protection, and you’d not fail him.”
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“That’s the theory. I hope Griffin never tests it to the point of proving it false.”
Elizabeth walked along, wrestling with the most extraordinary urge to hug the duke. Not steal a kiss, insinuate herself into his affections, or flirt. To offer him the comfort of an embrace, and perhaps steal some comfort for herself too.
She liked him. If she should ever come under his protection, he’d move heaven and earth to find her when she wandered, and he’d neglect all else until he’d assured himself she was safe.
Not that Elizabeth would inconvenience him like that—he had enough to look after without a prodigal party guest adding to his burdens.
Besides, she wasn’t lost.
* * *
“My appetite has returned,” Charlotte said. “My appetite for food, that is. You were up early, sister mine.”
Elizabeth smiled in greeting and Viscount Haldale bestirred himself to hold Charlotte’s chair at the breakfast table. He was blond, tall, and blue-eyed, and Charlotte had learned years ago not to waste her waltzes on him. His conversation was sadly predictable, dealing invariably with one topic and one topic alone: himself.
“Thank you, my lord. Might I prevail upon you to fetch me some eggs?”
“Of course, Miss Charlotte. Miss Windham, anything for you?”
“No, thank you.”
He sidled down the length of the breakfast table, which was full of chattering guests organized into the usual groups: Chaperones and mamas clustered near the head, debutantes and other hopefuls near the foot, with bachelors and husbands sprinkled about as manners or empty chairs dictated.
His Grace and Lady Glenys had yet to join the group.
“You look well rested,” Charlotte said, giving Elizabeth a sororal inspection. “Much better rested than when you stay up until all hours reading. This puzzles me, for His Grace’s book collection is among the largest in the realm, and I’d expect you to have hidden yourself among its shelves.”
Where a gentleman’s library was concerned, size mattered to Elizabeth, and Haverford’s library was enormous.
Elizabeth speared a strawberry from her plate. “As Lord Byron put it, ‘If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.’ I am well rested, though. The lovely Welsh air agrees with me.”
Something agreed with Elizabeth. She had resisted this house party vehemently, and then for reasons Charlotte had yet to winkle out of her, abruptly changed her mind.
“Your eggs, Miss Charlotte.” Haldale set the plate down, leaning too near and doubtless ogling Charlotte’s décolletage. He smelled of neroli, a heavy scent for the early hour.
“My thanks, your lordship. And I’ll have that rack of toast, if you don’t mind.”
He sat and passed Charlotte the toast. His lordship was a tribulation in breeches, for she had to pluck the butter from the middle of the table herself, and that meant nudging up against his arm.
Why must house parties be so predictable, and why must Elizabeth radiate such serene contentment, nonetheless?
“Elizabeth, did I dream that you took a pair of boots from the wardrobe last night?”
She set the teapot before Charlotte’s plate. “You must have, another symptom of that awful ale. Sugar?”
Charlotte had not dreamed it, nor had she dreamed Elizabeth taking her cloak from the hook on the wall, nor was she dreaming that her sister’s smile this morning held a hint of mischief.
“The sugar typically goes into the tea,” Elizabeth said. “One uses a spoon, but takes care not to stir noisily.”
Charlotte helped herself to two lumps. Elizabeth was right—one did not discuss late-night outings over breakfast, particularly not when Mrs. Delphine St. David was disdaining a place among the mamas and chaperones and plunking herself down directly across from Haldale.
He rose and bowed. “Mrs. St. David, you’re looking radiant, as usual.”
She shot him a look, part exasperation, part threat. Her expression suggested they’d been lovers in the past, but Mrs. St. David wasn’t inclined to renew those festivities.
“Some toast?” Charlotte asked, moving the rack close to Mrs. St. David’s plate. “And help yourself to the butter. Will Mr. St. David be joining us this morning?”
Hugh St. David appeared older than his wife by a decade or so, and he was aging handsomely. He bore a resemblance to Haverford, though Mr. St. David’s features were more weathered. Charlotte had bested him at piquet the previous evening, and then he’d excused himself claiming his day would start early.
“Hugh is off hunting for fossils,” Mrs. St. David replied. “He’s mad for his antiquities and very knowledgeable about where the best ones can be found.”
Her mouth was smiling, while her eyes told a different story. Mr. St. David’s absence let the entire company know that fossils interested him more than sharing breakfast with his wife, and thus Charlotte didn’t blame the lady for her mood.
“Would you care for some preserves?” Elizabeth asked, passing over a jam pot. “I admire a man who pursues his passions.”
“Do you refer to Haverford’s libraries?” Haldale asked. “I’d heard about the St. David family penchant for collecting books, but thirty thousand volumes goes beyond a mere passion.”
“Thirty thousand is nothing more than a number,” Elizabeth said. “The St. David collection is as well-known for its quality as for its quantity. I hope to become much better acquainted with it during my visit. The family has been collecting literature since well before the invention of the printing press, and I’d be a fool…”
Her diatribe trailed off as Lady Glenys and her brother joined the guests. Haverford cut a handsome dash in morning attire, while her ladyship looked composed and gracious.
She and Elizabeth had that in common—an ability to bear up serenely despite all vexation to the contrary. Charlotte, by contrast, was ready to elbow Haldale in the ribs if his leg casually brushed against hers even once more.
“Greetings, all,” Haverford said, holding his sister’s chair. “I hope you appreciate the fine weather I’ve ordered for you this morning. Blink, and the sky will be pouring torrents.”
He spoke with the various guests seated at his end of the table, made Aunt Arabella laugh over some quip concerning a hedgehog, and poured out for his sister as only a man of innate gentlemanly sensibilities would.
Charlotte had not dreamed that Elizabeth had snatched a cloak and boots late last evening, and disappeared into the night with them. She also hadn’t dreamed the sound of Haverford’s voice from the corridor.
Which raised a question: Had Elizabeth agreed to come to this house party because she was impressed with the Haverford libraries, or with the man who owned them?
* * *
The Haverford maids had apparently been too busy to open the windows in the library. The smell from last night’s gathering thus nearly overpowered Elizabeth.
The gentlemen would have waited until the ladies had retired to get out the port and cigars, but she had a theory that cigar smoke was no better for books than coal smoke.
She opened the French doors, then started on the windows, letting both morning sun and fresh air into the room. This being a newer part of the castle, the windowsills were merely a foot and a half deep, though the hinges were still stubborn. One gave a great squeak—were the footmen too busy to oil hinges in this castle?—and from the depths of the sofa near the fireplace came a snort.
Or a snore?
Elizabeth could not recall seeing any hounds in the castle. She crossed the library to investigate and came upon His Grace of Haverford fast asleep, a ledger book on his chest. He put her in mind of the deceased at a wake, with a Bible placed over his heart, though no deceased had ever sprawled in such casual splendor.
His tall boots were neatly positioned at the foot of the sofa, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat upon his nose. Those two items—the boots and the glasses—spoke volumes about the man and his station.
Though gracious sain
ts, what if some scheming debutante should come upon the duke? She’d take down her hair, curl up near him in a wanton pose, and wait to be discovered in a compromising situation.
“Your Grace.”
Another snore. He wasn’t a loud snorer, but he was far gone in slumber.
“Haverford. Wake up.”
“Not at the moment, thank you.” He shifted to his side, and the ledger book slid to the carpet.
Elizabeth picked up the ledger. This had to be a book for tallying the expenses, for every entry was a deduction. “Sir, you must rouse yourself.”
He scooted around, scratched his chest, and sighed.
The poor man was exhausted. Shaking his shoulder was like trying to shake one of the marble lions couchant atop the castle’s gateposts. “You must wake up, Your Grace. The castle’s on fire.”
Two sets of dark lashes swept up. “Haverford Castle is made of good Welsh stone. It cannot burn.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, removing his glasses. “But your reputation can go up in flames along with mine if you don’t bestir yourself. How can you see anything with all these smudges?”
She used a handkerchief to polish the duke’s spectacles.
He sat up and reached for his boots. “Miss Windham. Good morning. I should beg your pardon.”
His hair stood up on one side. Elizabeth combed her fingers through it enough to set it to rights. The texture was silky, despite its thickness, like a healthy cat in winter plumage.
“You’re a bit disarranged.” She positioned his glasses back on his nose, then gave his hair an extra smoothing. “I should be begging your pardon. This is the famous St. David library, and you haven’t given me permission to borrow from it.”
He sat through her fussing, tugged on his boots, and stood. New boots were the devil to put on, because they were made to allow for the leather stretching to the wearer’s exact conformation. Haverford’s boots hadn’t been new for some time, though they’d been lovingly maintained.
“You come upon me, dead asleep in the middle of my own house party, and your objective is to become better acquainted with my books.”
No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides) Page 5