Duke of Midnight

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “Indeed.” Lady Penelope sat back, having delivered this terrible breach of etiquette. “I have both, naturally, but wouldn’t dream of serving anything but coffee in the red, although sometimes”—she peeked coquettishly at Scarborough through her eyebrows—“sometimes I do serve chocolate in the blue.”

  “Naughty thing,” the elderly duke breathed.

  Maximus did sigh aloud at that, though no one seemed to notice. Was this truly the type of conversation he would have to endure once married? He stared broodingly into his wineglass and then glanced down the table to where Miss Greaves was laughing too loudly at something Mr. Watts had said. Somehow he doubted he would ever grow weary of her conversation. The thought was disturbing. He shouldn’t even be meditating on Miss Greaves—there was no room for her in his carefully ordered life.

  “I suppose I ought not to blame poor Artemis,” Lady Penelope said with a thoughtful air. “She hasn’t my refinement—nor my sensitivity.”

  Maximus nearly snorted. If refinement was quibbling over the type of china to serve chocolate in, then he supposed that Miss Greaves did indeed lack it—and he for one regarded her the better for it.

  He looked down the table again and felt an irrational urge to push poor Mr. Watts out of his chair when Miss Greaves tilted her head toward him to hear something he’d said. He caught her eye briefly and she stared back in defiance, her mouth twisting tragically before looking away again.

  Something was wrong. She was leaking emotion.

  He sipped his wine, contemplating the matter. It was barely a few hours since he’d seen her in the woods this morning. Then she’d been as defiant as ever, no trace of weakness. The preluncheon entertainment had divided the ladies from the gentlemen. The latter had gone grouse hunting—with dismal luck—while the former had engaged in some sort of party game. Had something disturbed her during the games?

  The arrival of dessert caught him by surprise, but he was glad to finish the luncheon. As the guests rose he took an abrupt leave of Lady Penelope and started down the room toward Miss Greaves.

  But she was already making her way toward him.

  “I trust your hunting went well, Your Grace,” she said when they met in the middle of the dining room, her tone brittle.

  “It was awful, as I’m sure you’ve already heard,” he replied.

  “I am so sorry,” she said quickly. “But then I suppose you’re not used to hunting in a rural setting.”

  He blinked, slow to realize the direction she was taking. “What—?”

  “After all,” she said, as smooth as a striking adder, “you do most of your hunting in London, don’t you?”

  Mr. Watts who’d been lingering nearby, smiled uncertainly at her words. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Greaves?”

  “Miss Greaves is no doubt referring to my duties in Parliament,” Maximus said through gritted teeth.

  “Oh.” Mr. Watts’s brow crinkled in thought. “I suppose one could term some parts of a parliamentarian’s efforts as hunting, but truly, Miss Greaves—and I hope you’ll forgive my frankness—but it is an awkward way to characterize such—”

  “Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t referring to the duke’s role in Parliament,” Miss Greaves said. “I said London and I meant London—the streets of London.”

  Mr. Watts stiffened, his uncertain smile disappearing altogether. “I’m sure you did not mean to insult the duke by insinuating that he frequents the streets of London”—here a ruddy blush rose in Mr. Watts’s cheeks, presumably at the word street and all its connotations—“but you must be aware—”

  It was Maximus’s turn to cut the poor man off. “Miss Greaves misspoke, Watts.”

  “Did I, Your Grace?” Her chin was raised challengingly, but there was a desperate, vulnerable glint in her eyes. A glint that made him simultaneously want to shake her and protect her. “I’m not at all sure I misspoke. But then if you would like to have me quit this discussion, you know full well what you can do to stop me.”

  He inhaled and spoke without thinking, ignoring their audience. “What has happened?”

  “You know full well, Your Grace, for what—who—I fight.” Her eyes were glittering and he couldn’t believe it, but the evidence was clear.

  Tears. His goddess should never weep.

  He took her arm. “Artemis.”

  Cousin Bathilda was there, suddenly, beside them. “We’ve a ramble planned to see the Fontaine Abbey ruins, Maximus. I’m sure Miss Greaves would like to ready herself.”

  He swallowed, strangely loath to release her. His guests were turning to look, Lady Penelope had a slight frown between her eyebrows, and Mr. Watts seemed quite perturbed. He made himself unclench his fingers, take a step back, and nod. “Miss Greaves. Cousin Bathilda. In half an hour, shall we say? On the south terrace? I look forward to escorting you both to the ruins.”

  And he made himself turn and stride away.

  ARTEMIS COULD FEEL Miss Picklewood’s worried gaze on her as the house party tramped across a field toward the ruins of the old abbey. The older lady had made sure to pair Artemis with Lady Phoebe on the walk. Ahead of them, Lady Penelope was bracketed by the Duke of Wakefield on her right and the Duke of Scarborough on her left. Artemis squinted in the sunshine, watching Wakefield’s broad back. She sympathized with Miss Picklewood’s attempt to deflect a potential scandal, but she couldn’t let the other woman’s unease dissuade her from her own mission.

  Apollo was dying.

  The thought vibrated through her limbs with every casual step. She wanted to run to him. To hold her brother in her arms and reassure herself that she’d have at least one more moment with him.

  She couldn’t. She had to hold to her purpose.

  Penelope tossed her head and laughed, the ribbons on her bonnet fluttering in the wind.

  “She’s got them both on a string, hasn’t she?” Phoebe said quietly.

  Artemis blinked, brought back from her own dark thoughts. “Do you think so? I’ve always thought Wakefield a man to himself. If he wants to walk away, he’ll do so without a backward glance.”

  “Perhaps,” Phoebe said, “but at the moment what my brother wants is her. I wish sometimes that he’d pause a while and truly consider what it is he’s pursuing.”

  “What makes you think he hasn’t?” Artemis said.

  Phoebe glanced at her. “If he had, wouldn’t he have realized how ill-matched he and Penelope are?”

  “You make the assumption that he cares.”

  For a moment Artemis thought she’d caused insult with her blunt words. Then Phoebe slowly shook her head. “You forget. He may have a crusty exterior, but truly my brother isn’t as cold as the world thinks him.”

  Artemis already knew that. She’d seen his face as he’d looked at Phoebe, watched his mouth as he’d sung with that beautiful voice. Let him show her his mother’s folly, walked with him in his woods accompanied by his sweet dogs. She knew he was a living, breathing man beneath the ice.

  But she couldn’t think of him that way now. She must push aside the affinity she felt for him and sway him to her goal.

  If she could only find a way.

  She quickened her pace just enough that she and Phoebe began to overtake the trio in front of them. They were almost at the abbey ruins now—a row of gray stone arches that held up empty sky.

  “Do you know,” she said to Phoebe as they got within earshot of the three, “I met another such cold man the other day. The Ghost of St. Giles struck me as a man with a heart like an icicle. Very like your brother, in point of fact. I’m surprised that the comparison has never been made before, for they are quite similar. Well, nearly. The duke seems rather cowardly next to the Ghost of St. Giles.”

  Wakefield’s back stiffened in front of them.

  “Artemis…,” Phoebe began, her voice both puzzled and horrified.

  “Ah! Here we are, then,” Miss Picklewood boomed.

  Artemis turned to find Miss Picklewood right behind them. Her eye
s narrowed. The lady moved very quietly for her age.

  “Now, Your Grace,” Miss Picklewood said brightly, speaking to Scarborough. “I believe I once overheard you telling my dear cousin, the late duchess, some terribly interesting ghost stories about the abbey. Perhaps you’ll refresh my memory.”

  “Your memory, Miss Picklewood,” Scarborough said, bowing gallantly, “is as sharp as a razor.”

  “Oh, but do tell us a story,” Penelope said, clapping her hands.

  “Very well, but my tale is a long one, my lady,” the duke said. He drew out a large handkerchief from a pocket and dusted off one of the big tumbled stones that must have at one time made up the abbey’s walls. He laid the square of linen down and gestured. “Please. Take a seat.”

  All the ladies found places to sit—save Artemis, who preferred to stand—and the footmen who had trailed the party began serving wine and minuscule cakes pulled from wicker baskets.

  “Now then,” Scarborough began, assuming a dramatic pose—feet braced wide apart, one hand comfortably tucked between the buttons of his waistcoat, his other hand gesturing toward the ruins. “Once this was a grand and mighty abbey, erected and inhabited by monks who had taken a vow of silence…”

  Artemis paid little attention to Scarborough’s words. She watched the assembled group dispassionately, and then began slowly moving around the outer edge of the guests. She slipped behind Mrs. Jellett, paused a moment, then moved again. Her object was to circle around to where Wakefield stood beside Penelope.

  “… and when the maiden woke up, she was served a most wonderful meal by the monks, but of course none of them spoke because they’d all taken their vow of silence…”

  Artemis glanced down to maneuver around a crumbling stone with its base obscured by weeds, which was why she didn’t see him until it was too late.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Wakefield growled in her ear. He clamped his hand on her upper arm.

  Wisely, she kept silent.

  He drew her toward where part of the wall still stood. They were at the back of the group and thus few noticed them. Miss Picklewood raised her head, a bit like a guard dog with its hackles high, but Wakefield shot her a rather filthy look.

  And then they were out of sight of the others.

  But the duke didn’t stop. He hustled her through the ruins and into the stand of trees that edged one side of the abbey. Only when they were sheltered by the cool branches of the great trees, did he stop.

  “What”—he turned and seized both her arms—“has gotten into you?”

  “He’s dying,” she whispered furiously, trembling within his grasp. “I didn’t receive the letter until almost noon—because Penelope didn’t think it important enough to give it to me earlier. Apollo is lying in that hellhole dying.”

  His jaw set as he searched her face. “I can have a carriage readied for you to return to London within the hour. If the roads are—”

  She slapped him, quick and hard.

  His head turned slightly with the blow, but other than that his only reaction was the narrowing of his eyes.

  Her chest was heaving as if she were running. “No! You must go to London. You must get him out. You must save my brother because if you don’t, I swear upon everything I hold holy that I’ll ruin both you and your illustrious name. I’ll—”

  “Little bitch,” he breathed, his face turned fiery red, and he slammed his mouth against hers.

  There was no softness in him. He claimed her lips like a marauder: hard and angry. If she’d once thought him cold as ice, well, that ice was burned away now by the fire of his rage. He shoved his tongue into her mouth, his breath a hot exhalation against her cheek. He tasted of wine and power, and something within her trembled in answer. His chest was pressed to her, and each frantic breath she took shoved her breasts into his waistcoat. He wasn’t gentle and he wasn’t at all romantic, and despite that she almost lost her way. Almost found herself wandering in the wildness of his lips. In the passion of his anger. She almost forgot everything.

  She remembered the brother who needed her just in time.

  She pulled back, gasping, trying to find words as his hands tightened, preventing her from escaping entirely.

  He ducked his head to look her in the eye. “I don’t have to do anything you order me to do, Miss Greaves. I am a duke, not your personal lapdog.”

  “And here, now, I am Artemis, not Miss Greaves,” she blazed. “You’ll do as I say because if you don’t I’ll make sure you’re the laughingstock of London. That you’re banished from England forever.”

  His eyes flared wide with anger, and for a moment she was sure he was going to strike her down. He shook her roughly instead, sending her fichu slithering to the ground.

  “Stop demanding. Stop trying to be something you’re not.”

  The pain bloomed in her breast, so sharp, so cold, that for a wild moment she thought he’d stabbed her with a dagger rather than words.

  He yanked her close, his mouth against her exposed neck. She could feel the scrape of his teeth, sharp with warning.

  Artemis let her head fall back, her eyes closed, her lips suddenly trembling. Apollo dying. “Please. Please, Maximus. I’ll refrain from provoking you anymore. I’ll stay in the shadows with my stockings and shoes on and never swim in your pond again, never disturb you again, only please do this one thing, I beg you. Save my brother.”

  His lips left her throat. She could hear Scarborough’s voice somewhere back at the ruins, still telling his silly children’s stories. She could hear a bird trilling a series of high, bouncing notes, suddenly cut off. She could hear the rustling of the eternal trees. But she couldn’t hear him.

  Perhaps he wasn’t there anymore. Perhaps he was merely a figment of her imagination.

  She opened her eyes in panic.

  He was staring at her with a face entirely expressionless, as if made from cold stone. Nothing showed at lips or brow or cheek. Nowhere save in his eyes. Those burned with an impassioned fire, reckless and deep, and her breath caught at the sight as she waited for her—and her brother’s—fate.

  A GODDESS SHOULD never have to beg. It was the one thought, clear and simple, that ran through Maximus’s mind. Everything else—his rank, the party, their conflict, seemed to fall away from that one truth. She should never have to beg.

  He still tasted her mouth on his tongue, still wanted to crush her breasts against his chest and bend her until she bared her throat to him, but he made himself let her go.

  “Very well.”

  Artemis blinked, her sweet lips parting as if she didn’t believe what she’d heard. “What?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  He turned to go, his mind already making plans, when he felt her fingers clutch at his sleeve. “You’ll take him from Bedlam?”

  “Yes.”

  Perhaps his decision had already been made from the moment he’d seen tears in her eyes. He had a weakness, it seemed, a fault more terrible than any Achilles’s heel: he couldn’t stand the sight of her tears.

  But her eyes shone as if he’d placed the moon itself into her hands. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, and then he was striding in the direction of Pelham before he could linger and be drawn again into the seduction of her mouth.

  He emerged into the sunshine and was almost surprised by the sight of his guests. His tête-à-tête in the woods with Artemis had seemed like an interlude in another world, a journey of days, when it had in reality been only minutes.

  Cousin Bathilda looked up with a crease between her brows. “Maximus! Lady Penelope was wondering if you might show us the famous abbey well. Scarborough has been telling us that some poor girl flung herself into it centuries ago.”

  “Not now,” he muttered as he brushed past her.

  “Your Grace.” Bathilda had never been mother to him. His own mother had died when he’d been fourteen—old enough to no longer need a parental hand. Yet when Bathilda—rarely—used that tone
and the courtesy of his title, he always paid attention.

  He turned to face her. “Yes?”

  They stood a little apart from the group. “What are you about?” she whispered, frowning. “I know Lady Oddershaw and Mrs. Jellett have spent the last five minutes muttering between themselves over you and Miss Greaves, and even Lady Penelope must be wondering what you can have had to say to her lady’s companion that necessitated dragging the poor woman off into the woods.” Bathilda took a deep breath. “Maximus, you’re on the very brink of causing a scandal.”

  “Then it’s a good thing that I have cause to go to London,” he replied. “I’ve had word that a business matter cannot wait.”

  “What—?”

  But he had no time to make further ridiculous excuses. If Artemis was right and her brother was truly dying, he must get to London and Bedlam before the man perished.

  The thought prompted him to start into a jog as soon as he was away from sight of the abbey. Maximus was panting by the time he made Pelham. He detoured by the stables to order two horses saddled, then ran inside the house. He wasn’t surprised to see Craven eyeing him askance at the top of the stairs.

  “Your Grace seems out of breath. I do hope you’re not being chased by an overly enthusiastic heiress?”

  “Pack a light bag, Craven,” Maximus snapped. “We’re going to London to help a murderous lunatic escape from Bedlam.”

  Chapter Nine

  King Herla and his men traveled back to the land of humankind, but what a surprise met them when at last they saw the sun. Brambles hid the entrance to the cave, and where once there had been fertile fields and plump cattle, now a strange, thorny forest had grown, and in the distance they saw the ruins of a great castle. They rode until they found a peasant to question.

  “We have no king or queen here,” stuttered the peasant. “Not since noble Herla King disappeared and his queen died of grief—and that, my lords, was nigh on nine hundred years ago.”…

  —from The Legend of the Herla King

  Artemis could hear voices as the duke met his guests at the abbey ruins. The tones rose and then fell, and then it was nearly quiet enough that she might imagine that she was by herself in the little wood. Alone and safe.