Duke of Midnight

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Belle bumped her head under his palm as if in sympathy. Percy and Starling had already ranged ahead, but Belle liked to stay by his side.

  Well, usually, anyway.

  Her narrow ears suddenly perked and she was off, bounding gracefully through the underbrush. He could hear the other dogs yipping in greeting.

  Ridiculously, he thought he could feel his heart beat faster. Despite their antagonism, despite her threats to his equilibrium, he wanted to see her, and right now he wouldn’t examine why.

  In another few steps he made the clearing with the pond and looked about. He could see the dogs milling a quarter way around the pond—even Bon Bon was there—but he couldn’t yet see her on the path.

  And then he did see her and arousal went straight to his cock.

  Artemis Greaves was in the pond, as graceful as a naiad, her skirts bound up at her waist, standing thigh deep in the sparkling water.

  How dare she.

  He strode swiftly around the pond to stand at the shore nearest to where she was wading. “Miss Greaves.”

  She glanced at him and if anything looked displeased to see him. “Your Grace.”

  “What,” he said softly but dangerously, “are you doing in the pond?”

  “I would have thought that obvious,” she murmured as she began moving toward the shore. “I’m wading.”

  He gritted his teeth. The closer she came to shore the more milky white leg emerged from the water. It was soon apparent that she was bare from just below the juncture of her thighs all the way to her narrow feet. Her skin glistened in the morning sun, pale and vulnerable, wholly, terribly erotic.

  As a gentleman he should look away.

  But damn it, it was his pond.

  “Anyone could happen upon you,” he hissed, aware at the back of his mind that he sounded like a prudish old woman.

  “Do you really think so?” she asked, finally reaching the shore and stepping onto the mossy bank of the pond. “I doubt most of your guests usually rise before nine of the clock at the earliest. Penelope hardly ever emerges from her rooms before noon.”

  She stood there, head cocked, as if she truly wanted to debate the morning habits of his guests. She’d made no move to lower her skirts. He watched a bead of water slide slickly down one rounded thigh, over the pretty contours of her knee, faster down the smooth slope of her calf to drip off one delicate anklebone.

  He snapped his gaze up to her face.

  She still looked merely curious, as if standing half nude in front of him was a completely acceptable way to start the day.

  Good God, did she think him a eunuch?

  He wanted to shake her, to scold her until she hung her head in shame. He wanted to—

  “Put down your skirts,” he growled. “If this is your way of provoking me because of our disagreement, I’ll have you know it won’t work.”

  “That wasn’t my intent,” she said calmly. “As I told you, I was simply wading for no other reason but the enjoyment of it. However, I do think you incorrect.”

  “I…” He couldn’t follow her with her legs so alluringly exposed. “What?”

  “What makes you think I can’t provoke you?” She arched an eyebrow and untied the knot that held her skirts up. They fell, shrouding her gorgeous legs to the ankle, and that did not annoy him at all.

  “You’re not to go wading in my pond again,” he said.

  She shrugged and picked up her shoes and stockings where they lay on the path. “Very well, Your Grace, but it’s a great pity. I should’ve liked to go swimming.”

  She pivoted and glided up the path, bewitching bare ankles flashing under her skirts, leaving Maximus to imagine her swimming in his pond, gloriously nude.

  All. That. White. Flesh.

  For a second his mind seemed to stutter.

  When he looked up again, she and the dogs were nearly into the woods again, her bottom swaying enticingly. He actually had to trot to catch up.

  He glanced sideways at her when he did and saw her lips pressed firmly together.

  “You know how to swim?”

  For a moment he thought she wouldn’t deign to answer. Then she sighed. “Yes. Apollo and I were allowed to run mostly wild as children. There was a little pond on a neighboring farmer’s land. We’d sneak over there and after some trial and error, we both learned to swim.”

  Maximus frowned. Craven’s report had been very factual—the date of her birth, who her parents were, her relation to Lady Penelope—but he found there was more he’d like to know about Miss Greaves. It was always prudent to learn all one could about one’s enemies.

  “You didn’t have a governess?”

  She laughed softly, though it sounded sad. “We had three. They’d stay for months or even a year or so, and then Papa would run out of money and have to let them go. Somehow Apollo and I learned to read and write and do simple sums, but not much more than that. I have no French, can’t play any instrument, never learned to draw.”

  “Your educational lack doesn’t seem to bother you,” he observed.

  She shrugged. “Would it make a difference if I were bothered? I have some other skills not usually seen in ladies: swimming, as I told you, and how to shoot a gun. I can bargain down a butcher to within an inch of his life. I know how to make soap and how to put a bill collector off. I can do mending but not embroidery, can drive a cart but not ride a horse, know how to grow cabbages and carrots and even make them into a nice soup, but I haven’t the least idea how to trellis roses.”

  Maximus’s hands tightened into fists at his side at this recitation. No gentleman should let his delicately bred daughter grow to womanhood without the most basic instruction of her station.

  “Yet you’re the granddaughter of the Earl of Ashridge.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was terse and he knew he’d stumbled on some tender spot.

  “You never mention it aloud. Is your relationship a secret?”

  “It’s not.” She wrinkled her nose and amended her statement. “At least on my part it isn’t. My grandfather has never acknowledged me. Papa had a falling out with his father when he married Mama, and apparently stubbornness runs in the family.”

  Maximus grunted. “You said your grandfather never acknowledged you. Did he acknowledge your brother?”

  “In his way.” She strode along, the greyhounds at her side. It struck him that had she a bow at her back and a quiver of arrows, she could’ve posed for a painting of the goddess she’d been named for. “As Apollo was his future heir, apparently Grandfather thought it important he be properly educated. He paid for Apollo’s schooling at Harrow. Apollo says he’s even met Grandfather once or twice.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Your grandfather has never even met you?”

  She shook her head. “Not to my knowledge.”

  He frowned. The idea of abandoning family was anathema to him. He couldn’t conceive of doing it for any reason.

  He looked at her closely, a thought striking him. “Did you try contacting him when…?”

  “When my mother was dying and Apollo had been arrested and we were quite desperate?” She snorted. “Of course I did. He never replied to the letters I sent. If Mama hadn’t written to her cousin, the Earl of Brightmore, I don’t know what I would’ve done. We were penniless, Papa had been dead less than a year, Mama was on her deathbed, and Thomas called off our engagement. I would’ve been on the street.”

  He stopped short. “You were engaged.”

  She took two more strides before she realized that he was no longer beside her. She looked over her shoulder at him, that not-smile on the bow of her lips. “I’ve found a fact you didn’t know about me?”

  He nodded mutely. Why? Why hadn’t he considered this? Four years ago she would’ve been four and twenty. Of course she’d had suitors.

  “Well, I shouldn’t feel too bad,” she replied. “We hadn’t announced it yet, which was a good thing: it made it so much easier for him to call it off discreetly without see
ming like a cad.”

  Maximus glanced away so she couldn’t examine too closely the expression on his face. “Who was he?”

  “Thomas Stone. The son of the town’s doctor.”

  He sneered. “Beneath you.”

  Her gaze hardened. “As you so kindly pointed out, my father was notorious for his flights of fancy. Too, I had no dowry to speak of. I couldn’t very well be choosy. Besides”—her tone softened—“Thomas was quite sweet. He used to bring me daisies and violets.”

  He stared, incredulous. What sort of imbecile brought such common flowers to a goddess? Were it him, he’d shower her with hothouse lilies, peonies overflowing with perfumed bloom, roses in every shade.

  Bah, violets.

  He shook his head irritably. “But he stopped bringing those flowers, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Her lips twisted. “As soon as the news of Apollo’s arrest got out, in fact.”

  He stepped closer, watching her face for any minute signs, wanting to see what would break her. Had she fancied herself in love with the doctor’s son? “I detect a trace of bitterness.”

  “He did say he loved me more than the sun,” she said, her voice as dry and brittle as ashes.

  “Ah.” He looked up as they emerged from the woods at the brightly shining sun. The man had been an idiot and a cad, no matter if he’d managed to save his own good name. Besides. Anyone could see she was tied to the moon, not the sun. “Then I wish I had it in my power to make him live without the sun for the rest of his pitiful life.”

  She stopped and glanced at him. “That’s a romantic thing to say.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a romantic man, Miss Greaves. I don’t say things that I don’t mean. I find it a waste of time.”

  “Do you?” she looked at him oddly for a moment, then sighed and glanced toward the house. “We’re no longer in the woods, are we? The day is about to begin.”

  He bowed. “Indeed it is. Don your helmet, Lady Moon.”

  She lifted her chin. “And you yours.”

  He nodded and strode away without looking back. But he couldn’t help wishing it were different. That they could lay aside their armor and find a way to have the woods around them always.

  A far too dangerous thought.

  Chapter Eight

  The Dwarf King was very pleased with King Herla’s wedding present, and when at last the feasting ended and his guests were leaving, he bid farewell to his friend with the gift of a small, snow-white hound.

  “I know your love of the hunt,” said the Dwarf King. “With this hunting dog in your saddle, your arrow will never miss the quarry. But mind that you do not dismount before the dog leaps down of its own accord. In this way you shall always be safe.”…

  —from The Legend of the Herla King

  Artemis entered Penelope’s room just before eleven of the clock to find her cousin seated before her vanity mirror, turning her head one way and then another as she scrutinized her coiffure.

  “What do you think of this new style?” she asked. Curled tendrils framed her face, artfully interwoven with seed pearls. “Blackbourne suggested it, but I’m uncertain if it truly complements the roundness of my face.”

  Blackbourne was at the far end of the room tidying Penelope’s stockings and could clearly hear their exchange—not that Penelope seemed to care. “I like it,” Artemis said truthfully. “It’s quite elegant, yet very modern, too.”

  Penelope flashed one of her lovely smiles—the real one that not many people saw. For a moment Artemis wondered if Wakefield had ever seen that smile. Then she shook the thought aside. “Do you want your shawl?”

  “I suppose you’ve already been out.” Penelope touched a curl.

  “Yes. I had a ramble with Bon Bon.”

  “I had wondered where Bon Bon had got to.” Penelope nodded at herself in the mirror, apparently satisfied with her hair. “No, I’ll leave the shawl and then if I get cold I’ll send Wakefield or Scarborough to fetch it for me.”

  She grinned over her shoulder at Artemis.

  Artemis shook her head, amused at the thought of her cousin using dukes as her errand boys. “Then if there’s nothing else, shall we go down?”

  “Yes.” Penelope gave a last careful pat to her hair. “Oh, wait. There was something…” She began rummaging in the mess of jewelry, fans, gloves, and other debris that in the short time they’d been at Pelham House had taken up residence on the vanity. “Here ’tis. I knew I forgot something. This arrived for you this morning by special rider ’round about eight. Ridiculous. Who sends notes so early?”

  She held out a rather tattered letter.

  Artemis took it, prying off the seal with her thumbnail. There was no use chiding Penelope about the lateness in delivering the letter. Her cousin was perennially absentminded—especially in matters not her own. Hastily, she scanned the cheap paper, words suddenly jumping out at her as she realized that the letter was from the guard at Bedlam that she’d bribed long ago to send word if anything terrible ever happened.

  Your brother… dying… come soon.

  Dying.

  No, this couldn’t be true. Not when she’d finally found a way to get him out.

  But she couldn’t take that risk.

  Dying.

  “Penelope.” Artemis carefully folded the letter, creasing it between her fingertips. Her hands were trembling. “Penelope, I must return to London.”

  “What?” Penelope was peering at her nose in the mirror now. She dabbed on a bit of rice powder. “Don’t be silly. We’ve another week and a half at the house party.”

  “Apollo is ill. Or”—Artemis drew in a shuddering breath—“he’s been beaten again. I must go to him.”

  Penelope sighed deeply, in the same manner as she would if she’d been presented with a new gown and found the lace edging the sleeves not quite up to what she’d expected. “Now, Artemis, dear. I’ve told you again and again that you must learn to forget your… brother.” She shuddered delicately as if even the mere word somehow acknowledged the relationship more than she wished. “He’s quite beyond your help. It’s Christian, I know, to wish to give comfort to him, but I ask you: can one comfort a beast maddened by disease?”

  “Apollo is not diseased, nor is he a beast,” Artemis said in a tight voice. Penelope’s lady’s maids were still in the bedroom. They acted as if they had no ears, but Artemis knew full well that servants could hear. She would not succumb to humiliation. Apollo needed her. “He was accused falsely.”

  “You know that’s not true, darling,” Penelope said in what really was an attempt to be gentle, Artemis was sure. Unfortunately it only made her want to scream at her cousin. “Papa did all he could for your brother—and you, for that matter. Really, this harping on about that poor, insane thing isn’t very grateful of you. I do think you can do better.”

  Artemis wanted to stomp out of the room. To fling Penelope’s rote words back in her face and finally—finally—have done with all this artifice.

  But that, in the end, would not serve Apollo.

  She still needed her uncle’s help. If she left now, abandoned Penelope and the Earl of Brightmore’s protection, then she might reach Apollo, but she’d have no way of getting him out of Bedlam. Only a powerful man could do that.

  Perhaps, in fact, only the Duke of Wakefield.

  Yes. That was what she must do. Stay here at the house party—though it near killed her not to fly to Apollo’s side—and make the duke help her. Help Apollo. If she had to, she’d scream the Ghost of St. Giles’s secret identity from the rooftops.

  She truly had nothing to lose now.

  THAT AFTERNOON MAXIMUS took luncheon with his guests. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the great hall at Pelham House and wished for perhaps the first time in his life that one did not have to dine in order of precedence. For what gave dukes the right to sit at the upper end, also decreed that lowly lady’s companions were seated so far away at the bottom of the table that on
e might as well send a carrier pigeon if one wanted to communicate with said lowly lady’s companion. Not that he did, of course. Whatever had caused the hectic flush in Miss Greaves’s cheeks, the almost manic gesturing, the nearly desperate light in her fine gray eyes… all of that was of no concern to him.

  Or shouldn’t be in any case, for he found himself quite unable to keep his attention on his table companion’s chatter.

  Not that it was easy at any time to understand Lady Penelope.

  That lady fluttered her eyelashes as she said, “And as I told Miss Alvers, one might suggest chocolate after four of the clock, but to actually drink it—and with pickled cucumbers, no less!—can never be correct. Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

  “I haven’t formed an opinion about chocolate, before or after four of the clock,” Maximus replied drily.

  “Hadn’t you, Wakefield?” Scarborough, sitting to his left, looked shocked. “I find that deplorable, though no offense is meant—”

  “And none taken,” Maximus murmured as he took a sip of his wine.

  “But all persons of manners must have an opinion on chocolate,” the older man continued, “and indeed other beverages, and when they ought to be taken, how, and with what other suitable foodstuffs. Lady Penelope shows great sensitivity to have such a pretty turn of mind on the matter.”

  Maximus arched a brow at his rival. Really, the man had certainly won this round by the simple expedient of having been able to articulate such nonsense with a perfectly straight face. What was more—he checked Lady Penelope’s expression closely, sighing silently when he found the expected—the lady had swallowed the sweetly wrapped offal, hook, line, and sinker. Maximus discreetly tipped his wineglass to the older man.

  Scarborough winked back.

  But Lady Penelope was already leaning forward, nearly dipping her abundant cleavage in her fish, to say earnestly to Scarborough, “I’m so thankful you agree, Your Grace. You would not credit it, but Artemis just last week said she didn’t care one way or the other if her tea was taken with blue figured china or red!”

  Scarborough inhaled sharply. “You don’t say!”