Devil at the Gates

by Lauren Smith

  For the next hour, Harriet followed Mrs. Breland and became acquainted with the rambling old manor house with its progression of stately rooms. There was a great hall, which had once been the toast of kings, at least according to the housekeeper. Now it was a room full of marble busts and sculptures. The timber beams along the walls had been removed twenty years before and replaced with fluted stone Doric columns that reflected a pure Italian Renaissance style.

  Harriet had never seen such a grand home; it dwarfed Thursley Manor. There seemed to be a magic that had settled into the stones, sometimes a dark and frightening magic in the shadows of some rooms. But at other times, when sunlight streamed through high windows, it painted brilliant colors upon walls covered with damask silk wallpaper or intricately woven tapestries, creating a light, joyful enchantment. In those moments, she felt love burning clear through her, almost overwhelmingly so. This house had seen much over the centuries. Heartbreak and blinding love in equal measure.

  Harriet’s heart swelled as Mrs. Breland next ushered her into a portrait gallery. At its entrance stood a tall suit of armor. The metal was polished to a shine, but there was evidence of nicks and scratches on its surface. Whoever had worn this armor had seen battle. It had tasted the bite of a blade. She looked at the helmet and swore she could feel the grave gaze of a medieval ghost staring back at her. But the armor said nothing. It was a mute, stalwart guardian over the gallery of portraits just beyond.

  Mrs. Breland gestured down the massive corridor. “This is the long gallery.”

  Filmy red curtains caught the light, so as to prevent the sun from fading the abundance of oil paintings that covered the walls. Harriet strained to see each and every piece. In the center of the room, three portraits were hung close together. There was a man in the middle, flanked by another man on the left and a woman upon the right.

  “A fair likeness, I think,” Mrs. Breland mused next to Harriet.

  “That’s the duke in the center?” She knew it was—there was no mistaking his eyes and the red flame of his hair. He stood with quiet intensity, posing for the artist without flair or pomp. Harriet’s eyes drifted to the other man. He was beautiful, his features perfect in every way, and there was a glint of humor about his mouth that made him instantly likable. “Who is that?”

  “That is Thomas, His Grace’s younger brother. He passed seven years ago.”

  Harriet desperately wanted to ask how, but she dared not upset Mrs. Breland.

  “And that next to them is the late Duchess of Frostmore.”

  Harriet focused on the pretty woman with graceful features and dark hair. A tingle of foreboding rippled like quicksilver beneath her skin. She had no doubt that this was the woman she had dreamt about.

  “Mrs. Breland, how did she die?” She regretted the question the instant she spoke it.

  “It was a terrible accident near the cliffs. She fell. His Grace and his brother almost perished as well.”

  “His Grace was present when she died?”

  “He was.” Mrs. Breland’s brusque tone warned Harriet that she would have no more luck in obtaining answers on the subject. Mrs. Breland showed her the rest of the house, including the library. After that, the housekeeper left her on her own.

  Harriet trod softly now on the carpets in the corridors as she returned to the great hall, where she found the duke engaged in a game of tug-of-war with his giant schnauzer. Devil was growling and tugging hard on a large knotted rope. Devil thrashed his head from side to side, trying to wrench the rope away from his master, but without success.

  “Come on, boy. I won’t let you win that easily!” The duke’s laugh was deep and hearty, not the cold laugh she remembered from last night. Harriet lingered in the shadows at the top of the stairs, not wanting to intrude upon the happy scene. Finally, Lord Frostmore relinquished his hold on the rope, and Devil trotted off to another room with his prize. Harriet chose that moment to come down. Lord Frostmore’s back was to her, but he spoke as she reached the last stair.

  “I trust you slept well, Miss Russell?” His tone was soft, carrying a slight sensuality that made her think of beds and activities other than sleeping. She froze. She hadn’t made a sound on the steps, yet he had sensed her.

  “I slept tolerably well, but my head still pains me. No doubt a parting gift from the laudanum you gave me,” she replied coldly as he turned to face her. He wore no coat, only buff breeches, a white shirt, and a silver waistcoat. Seeing him dressed like this, more free to move about, made her stomach flutter with nerves. For a long moment his gaze swept over her, and she wondered what he could be thinking as he saw her in his wife’s old gown. But his contemplative look revealed nothing of his thoughts.

  “I gave you only a little laudanum. I wouldn’t wish your pain upon anyone, and you were in terrible pain.”

  “You could have asked me,” she argued.

  “You have my deepest apologies, but you wouldn’t have trusted me. We battled only minutes before.”

  Harriet stiffened as he approached her. “Because you threatened to ravish me.”

  “My solitude had been disturbed, and I was angry. I would never have harmed you.” He stepped closer into her space until she came level with his shoulders.

  “And how was I to know that?”

  He shrugged. “You couldn’t have, not with my reputation and the rather theatrical weather outside to enhance your mistrust. Hence my course of action. As frightening as it seemed at the time, I assure you my intention was only to assist you.” His topaz-colored eyes searched her face for something; for what she wasn’t sure, but it made her feel small and feminine in a way that excited her.

  She couldn’t deny her attraction to him now. He lacked the finesse a London dandy might possess, nor did he have the angelic beauty of his brother. But there was a raw, untarnished purity in his looks that made him physically admirable. With his red hair and proud patrician features, he was beautiful in his own way.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “You are welcome to stay for a time. I’ve decided it has been good for my staff to have someone else to fuss over.”

  “But I can’t. I must leave for Calais.”

  Lord Frostmore placed a palm on the banister next to her. Her heart jumped wildly, and her mouth went dry as he leaned in toward her. A strange yet exciting magnetism held her still as he peered at her. Other than her stepfather, she’d never been the focus of a man before, and she found that she liked the duke’s attention, even if it was a little frightening.

  “What awaits you in Calais?”

  The pit of her stomach tingled, and she couldn’t help but stare at his mouth, the full lips that looked impossibly soft. “My father had family there,” she whispered as his focus drifted down along the length of her body. The duke disturbed her in ways she had never imagined, yet he inspired more longing than fear in her. Such an attraction was nothing short of perilous, yet she could feel it building within her.

  “Stay.” He spoke the word as a mixture of a command and a plea.

  “Why? We are strangers, and hostile ones at that,” she reminded him.

  His lips twitched. “Oh, nonsense. I greet everyone like that.” He leaned in slightly, enough that the heat of his body emanated off him, warming her in the most delicious way.

  “With a sword fight?” She almost smiled, damn him.

  “No, that was only for you. But everyone who visits tastes my lack of charm and overall displeasure. You see, I’m a wicked man. A wicked man with wicked desires and a terrible past that is only whispered about in the shadows. But I’m sure you’re familiar with the stories.”

  “I have heard…,” she admitted.

  With their faces so close, there was a brief and wild moment she thought about kissing him, thought about how it had felt last night even when she’d been afraid of him. What would it feel like to kiss him now when she wasn’t?

  “Tell me, what do the villagers say of me these days? The stories seem to be getting positive
ly Gothic as of late.”

  His scent enveloped her as he raised her chin so their eyes locked. She could smell leather and rain. Had he been outside recently?

  “They say…you killed your brother and your wife.”

  He blinked and dropped his hand from under her chin, looking away, his eyes suddenly distant. “Some days it feels like the truth.”

  “It isn’t?” she asked, then immediately regretted it.

  “Not in the way you probably believe.” He stepped away and began to leave. Harriet stared after him, utterly baffled. She couldn’t let him walk away with her questions unanswered, but neither could she pry directly. She decided to follow him at a discreet distance, to see if he would volunteer more information, but he never did. It was only when he stepped into the library that he spoke.

  “Either come in or find your amusement elsewhere, Miss Russell. I’ll not have you stalk me like a black cat in the shadows.”

  A little ruffled, she came into the library and watched him collect a few volumes of political treatises and set them on a nearby reading table, which he then sat down at. The light coming in from the windows lit his hair like flames.

  “I did not take you to be an avid reader, Lord Frostmore.”

  He arched a brow as she settled down across from him and stole the next book in his trio of chosen volumes.

  “Given the brief duration of our acquaintance, I could say the same of you.” His tone was half-amused, half-frustrated. Harriet suspected he was not accustomed to conversation.

  “Well, I do like to read.”

  “And fence,” he added.

  She blushed. “My father used to take me to his lessons with the young lords. I learned much. My father believed women ought to have as much physical activity as men. My mother was very healthy until…” Her breath caught in her throat, and pain tore through her. How had she so easily buried thoughts of her mother?

  “What? What’s the matter?” Frostmore observed in concern.

  “I…” She bit her lip and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the duke had risen from his chair and came over to kneel at her side. He offered her a handkerchief. She accepted it, feeling so very silly to cry and even sillier when she glimpsed a stag’s head crowned by briar roses embroidered on the cloth. His family crest, no doubt. The Devil of Dover had given her his personal handkerchief.

  “When I left my home, my mother was dying. I think she must be gone now. She was already so close before…I had to leave. I managed not to think of it until now. And that makes me a wretched daughter.”

  Frostmore watched her, his eyes suddenly warm. He reached up and covered one of her hands with his.

  “You were injured and ill. Your mother wouldn’t blame you for that. Dry your eyes.” She dabbed at her tears and drew in a shaky breath, then returned the handkerchief to him. He tucked it into his trouser pocket. “Tell me, why did you leave?” Frostmore leaned back on the edge of the reading table beside her. His question caught her off guard, and she was tempted to answer openly and honestly, but she still didn’t trust to tell him the truth, at least not all of it.

  “Do you know a man by the name of George Halifax? He owns Thursley Manor in Faversham.” She held her breath, waiting to see if her fears would be confirmed.

  “Halifax?” He thought it over, then slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t know the man. I spend little time in Faversham, and since my wife and brother died, I haven’t been there except perhaps once or twice a year.” His face held an honesty that she decided she would try to trust. If he was lying, she was doomed, but if he wasn’t…she might find an ally.

  “My mother remarried after my father died. But the man she chose was vile. That man is George Halifax. While she was healthy she kept him away from me, but when she fell ill he saw his chance, and my mother told me to flee. So I did. I left her alone with him…” She feared deep down that George may have hastened her mother’s death.

  She wasn’t sure what she expected Lord Frostmore to say, but he simply picked up the book she’d been about to peruse and handed it to her.

  “You did as your mother wished. You did not fail her.” Then he sat down and opened his book again. After a long moment, he spoke. “And I do like to read. It is one of the few pleasures I allow myself to indulge in.”

  She’d never been one to be overly open, and it seemed Lord Frostmore was the same, yet she didn’t feel lonely sitting here with him. He knew she was in pain, both of the body and the spirit. He’d offered comfort and kind words, but he hadn’t pushed her to speak of it again. It was a relief not to be pressed about it.

  They both read in silence until the shadows stretched across the library.

  “You truly wish for me to stay here?” she asked.

  Frostmore raised his eyes from the page. “I do. Christmas will be here soon, and the Channel will be full of icebergs. You don’t want to make the voyage, even one so short, in poor weather. Wait until spring.”

  “But I only have enough money to pay for my voyage and a few days beyond. I must find work in order to pay for lodgings and food.”

  The duke steepled his fingers, looking at her in silent contemplation. “Stay here until spring. You need not pay me anything.”

  “Your Grace, I cannot—”

  “Oh, what are you concerned about? Scandal? Who would care? No one comes on my lands. No one would know you are here. Consider my home a private refuge until you are ready to voyage in the spring.”

  “May I have some time to think upon it?” she asked. He answered with a nod and then stood and left the room. This time she didn’t follow him.

  How strange that she would find refuge with a man whom so many others feared. Perhaps he was less of a devil than they believed—at least, that’s what she hoped.

  6

  Redmond strode out the front of Frostmore and whistled sharply. Devil bounded into view and joined him outside as a groom brought his horse forward. The white Arabian mare, Winter’s Frost, was his favorite. Many men favored stallions or geldings, but not Redmond. He had purchased her after burying his wife and brother, and her gentle spirit and exceptional speed were a balm to his soul. He rode her for miles, especially when the weather was fair, and it helped him feel like he was escaping his sorrows, if only for a little while.

  As he mounted her and rode out across the lands of his home, he watched the fall leaves turn from gold to brittle brown, a sure sign that winter was on the way. The promise of snow was carried upon the wind, its bite bringing Redmond’s thoughts more clearly into focus. Had he really asked Harriet to stay through the spring?

  In truth, he admitted he wanted her to. She was rash, bold, and uncompromising, but she wasn’t like the other women who had come to him. The ones who came to tempt him into offering marriage. Marriage was far from Harriet’s thoughts. It was her mother she was grieving for, a loss deep enough that it rattled the cage he had placed around his own heart.

  Her tears today had tugged at him, beckoning him closer to her. Perhaps because her grief was genuine, as his own had been seven years ago. To lose a wife and brother had emptied his heart of feelings and left him in a dark, cold abyss. Seeing Harriet face that same dark pain as she realized her mother was likely gone, and that she’d not been there to help her…

  He felt a sudden chill inside. How long had it been since he’d felt something, truly felt something? All it had taken was a hellion to attack him with a blade and then weep over her mother’s death, and all of his own pain, which he’d thought long buried, had come flooding back.

  A desperate desire to see the cliffs drove him in their direction. When he finally pulled back on his mare’s reins, he was but twenty feet away from the edge where he had tried to end his own life seven years ago. He always rode this close—the cliffs called to him, asking him to take the leap he had promised back then. But he didn’t dismount, didn’t do anything but stare out at the wintry sea beyond the edge.

  Heavy clouds rolled in, and whitecaps top
ped the waves. The pull toward the edge faded. Instead, he felt an invisible thread tied to Frostmore Hall, and a glimmer of hope seemed to fill it with a pulsing energy, like a guiding light on the shore. Devil barked suddenly and began to jump, though there was nothing around to be seen. Redmond’s mare danced back and forth uneasily.

  “Quiet, Devil,” Redmond commanded.

  The dog barked at thin air for a few seconds longer and then stopped. Just then, Redmond swore he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Something that made no sense, something that wasn’t possible. He had seen Thomas. And just as quickly, that sense of someone being there on the cliffs with him was gone. Devil became docile again, and the horse steadied herself.

  Redmond dug his heels into her flanks and rode back to the manor house. The turreted structure stood proud beneath the overcast skies as sunlight surrendered to the approaching winter storm. The gates stood open, and he raced past them to the front door. A groom met him to collect the horse’s reins. Devil darted up ahead of Redmond and into the house.

  As Redmond jogged up the stone steps and entered his home, a flash of soft crème and green caught his eye. He froze as he watched her stunning gown illuminate her gold hair and paint her like a nymph who had escaped the woods she had been born into.

  He’d once believed Millicent should have worn that dress, but now he was glad she never had. He could imagine no other woman but Harriet would do it justice. He wanted to run up the stairs, catch her waist, and bury his face in her neck, covering her throat with kisses before he stole her lips and…

  What is happening to me? He was losing his mind, that was what. His attraction to this woman was overpowering. Perhaps he’d simply been alone for too long? Or maybe it was something more, something that scared him because he couldn’t open his heart again.

  “Your Grace.” She came toward him with tentative steps, the slight train of her gown whispering over the stones of the hall.