Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  The young butler motioned her forward and she silently followed. Her palms damp in dreaded anticipation of the meeting, she discreetly dusted them along the side of her skirts. Then, in the manner taught by her mama years and years earlier, she folded her hands demurely before her and prepared to face The Beast.

  Harris raised a hand to knock and froze; his fingers poised a hairsbreadth from the door. His pronounced Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared at the door. Unsettled nerves temporarily forgotten, she cast a glance up at the tall, slender servant. With his lips moving as if in silent prayer, he rapped once on the wood panel.

  An unexpected silence met his knock.

  Lily furrowed her brow. Perhaps the man was not here. She unclasped her hands and drummed the tips of her fingers together. If he was anything like George, he was even now out at his clubs, taking his pleasures where he would.

  The butler rapped again.

  “Bloody hell, Harrison, you have orders not to disturb me.”

  At that thunderous boom, Lily jumped. Heart pounding, she swung her gaze from the pale butler to the door and then once more to Harris. What manner of man was the new duke to yell at his servants so? This man who could not be bothered to know or use their correct names?

  The column of Harris’ throat moved with the force of his swallow. With the pallor of a man who’d downed a plate of spoiled oysters, he gave her an effortful grin that was more grimace than anything else. “I-it is Harris, Your Grace, and there is a visitor—”

  “I don’t give a bloody hell if it is the damn Queen of England for tea and biscuits. Do not darken my door.”

  She stared unblinking at that door. This was George’s brother? This foul-mouthed, mannerless brute? A more rational, sensible woman would be fearful of the beast that dwelled on the other side. The woman who’d given her virtue over to a shameless cad, who’d pledged marriage and then, instead, found herself a permanent position in an old man’s bed, however, was long past fearing a snarling, petulant duke.

  The muscles of his face contorting as though in physical pain, Harris looked at her. He held his palms up and gave a dismayed shake of his head. He tried once more with his employer. “I-it is about the g—”

  “If you say it is about the girl, I’ll have you hung by your ballocks.”

  Oh, that was really enough. Following her fall from grace, she’d been demeaned by all; including this man’s abhorrent family. She’d not tolerate such treatment in another. Lily reached past the butler and, ignoring his shocked gasp, she pressed the handle.

  Locked. She wrinkled her brow. Humph. Well, she’d not anticipated that. Lily tried again.

  “Harrison, if you jiggle my goddamn handle once more, I’ll remove your hand from your body, myself.”

  A small giggle cut into the end of the duke’s vile speech and Lily whipped her head to the right. A little girl in white skirts stood at the end of the hall. The widening of her cornflower blue eyes held shock at being discovered. Then the giggling imp ducked back behind the wall and disappeared.

  Lily gave her head a shake. What manner of place is this? Angry, shouting men. Giggling, unattended children, and those same unattended children giggling at the shouting, angry men? Poor Harris. The man appeared one more outburst from the duke away from casting up his morning’s accounts. Alas, she should have learned long ago from her own experience that ordinary people were capable of extraordinary courage.

  “It is about the girl.” The butler’s words emerged as a high-squeak.

  A flurry of black curses, the scrape of a chair, and then an odd thump-thump-thump met Harris’ pronouncement. And this time, Lily did know fear. Belated fear, but tangible and very real, akin to the terror that plagued her all those years ago. An ugly dread turned within her and she dug around inside for the strength and courage she’d cloaked herself in after she’d been hurled into the rain-soaked streets. The lock turned and position of governess aside, she opened her mouth to give the foul-tempered lout the dressing down he deserved for terrifying his servants.

  “You should…” The words ended a whispery death as the door opened. A chill stole through her.

  The beast on the other side drew the door back all the way and with that action, momentarily presented the whole of his scarred visage. “I instructed you to not darken my goddamn door,” the duke snarled.

  Lily swallowed hard, as all the blood drained from her face, seeped down her immobile frame, and then dripped out her toes. The Beast. This is why they called the new duke a beast. More than half a foot taller than her own five feet seven inches, his broad and powerfully muscular form would inspire fear in most for his sheer size and strength alone.

  His Grace shifted and that slight movement obscured half of his face.

  This was the new Duke of Blackthorne? The boy and then young man she’d caught glimpses of during his infrequent summer visits to Carlisle bore no resemblance to this menacing beast. All reason for being here fled when presented with the terrifying more monster than man before her.

  He flicked a frosty, ducal glance up and down her form and then his gaze grew shuttered. And Lily proved she was more coward than courageous, for she sank back as His Grace turned his fury on the poor, quaking servant at her side. “Did I not indicate I was not to be bothered?” His words may as well have been wrapped in icy steel for the coldness of them.

  “Y-yes, Your Grace.” Harris gave a jerky nod. “But—”

  “And did I not say to leave my bloody door alone?”

  “Y-yes.” The servant slid his gaze over to Lily and then returned his focus to the duke. “But it is about the g—” The man swallowed audibly, and flushed red. “That is, Mrs. Benedict is here regarding the post of governess to Lady Flora,” he amended.

  Through their exchange, Lily took in the coolly disdainful man she intended to commit theft against and ice thickened her veins. This was the devil’s lair and in being here, she played with fire. Were she to be discovered in this dark act, he’d destroy her. Then, haven’t I already been destroyed in all the ways that matter?

  The duke took a step toward Harris and Lily involuntarily retreated. His black, palpable rage, however, was reserved solely for the poor servant who’d roused his fury. Well, technically she had roused his fury. But… “Get. The. Hell. Away. From. My. Door.” Again, he passed his hard stare over Lily.

  She detested her slight audible intake of breath; that ever so slight indication of her fear. By God, she’d not be so disdained by a Winters again. Not allowing him the luxury of unsettling her, at least openly anyway, Lily tipped her chin up.

  The duke’s thick, black lashes swept down, but not before she caught the faint flash of surprise. But then his wintry fury was promptly back in place so that she wondered if she’d merely imagined any other hint of emotion there. “Have Mr. Davies deal with her, Harrison.” The unscarred portion of his mouth turned up in a snarl. That patent disdain showered on her for too many years.

  His Grace made to close the door and she thrust her foot out and forced it open. “How dare you?” she seethed as the good sense to fear him fled. The duke swung a hard, one-eyed stare at her. At the fierce glint trained on her by this bellowing beast, her heart hammered wildly.

  “How dare I?” The jeering note to his words roused greater terror than his earlier bellowing.

  Fear danced in her belly, and yet… Do not say another word, Lily… Do not say another word. She dampened her lips. “His name is Harris.” She’d never been one to go silent in the face of a challenge. The duke gave no outward reaction to her insolent correction, which only further stirred irritation with him. “My name is Lily Benedict and I am here to meet with you.” Then, with the years of politeness ground into her years ago, she remembered to add, “Your Grace.” She forced her chin up another notch. She’d wager her meager bag of possessions that the beast who snarled and hissed at his servants was unaccustomed to shows of rebellion.

  The Duke of Blackthorne continued to study her with a darkly co
ol, inscrutable expression. She curled her toes into the soles of her slippers, prepared for the jeering laugh of his dead brother. At long last, he said, “Meet with me, you say?”

  A flare of respect shone on the butler’s face and he quickly averted his gaze.

  The young duke stepped aside, daring her with that slight movement to enter his lair.

  What he could never realize is she’d spent the past years in a hell of her own making, so what was one more foray into the devil’s den? In a desperate bid for control, with her chin held high, she yanked her skirts and swept past him.

  The door closed with a soft, ominous click and she jumped, wheeling back around. The Duke of Blackthorne stood with his face in profile.

  Did he seek to deliberately shield that marred half of his once perfect, chiseled features? Another mocking grin formed on his partially-scarred lips. Unnerved by his icy blue stare, she dropped her gaze—to the gold-headed serpent under his gloved hand.

  Lily took in the cane for a long moment. If she required the assistance of a cane, she’d not find that support from a slithering serpent—

  “You are suddenly shy, Miss Bennett?”

  Miss Bennett? Her mind stalled. Hadn’t she used the false name she’d adopted all these years? Surely she’d not been so careless!

  Oh, God. A loud buzzing filled her ears. He knew. Her thoughts spiraled out of control like a too-fast moving carriage careening out of control. Except…as the moments ticked on, she peered at him, searching for any hint of recognition from this man whose brother had ruined her life through one lie and that one shameful, forbidden act. But there was none.

  “Is there something wrong with your vision?”

  That taunting whisper jerked her head up and she blinked back her earlier fear. A giddy relief slammed into her. He didn’t know who she, in fact, was. Just as he saw Harris as Harrison, he’d commandeered ownership of her name. “There is nothing wrong with my vision,” she said, her voice faintly breathless from the force of her relief. He stood but a handful of feet away. For one of his size and strength, and… She looked to his cane once more, and of his condition, he moved with a remarkable grace. “And I am not shy,” she blurted, warming at those inane, useless words. Still, she was three and twenty, a woman past the prime of her first youth. Seasoned by his late brother’s betrayal.

  He presented his back. “I do not care what you are or what you aren’t,” he said with a chilling aloofness that set her teeth on edge. No, one cut of the same proverbial cloth as George would not care about her or others—in any way.

  With that reminder slipping to the forefront, she drew on the purpose that had driven her into this dark, miserable home. Back still presented to her, the arrogant duke could not even deign to look at her. Then, she’d always been invisible to his vile family. If only that had been the case for his blighter of a brother. God rot his soul. At the protracted silence, she snapped. “My name is Lily Benedict,” she said firmly. Lilliana Bennett had died long, long ago.

  At that, he turned his face and met her gaze squarely. She swallowed hard. With the barrier of the door from their first meeting now gone and no effort made by him to obscure his face from scrutiny, she stared with something akin to horror, wonder, and regret.

  Half his face was the chiseled beauty of that famed David. The other appeared a horrified masterpiece thrown hastily together by the artist, Michelangelo. On one side, the olive hue of his rugged features hinted at his Roman roots. The other side, a collection of angry scars; the skin whitened and yellow from those burns. A black patch over his left eye lent him the look of a menacing pirate. She swallowed. Yet, for his scars, there was a splendorous power to him. Her heart quickened to a dangerous rhythm that had nothing to do with fear of him, but rather an awareness of this broad, powerful man who, with his unassailable strength, harkened back to warriors of old. In that strength, he was so unlike any she’d known before…and all the more terrifying for it.

  He leaned down, sticking his face so close, their noses brushed, and she who’d long believed herself past blushing, went warm under his scrutiny. “Did you have a good look?” he jeered.

  In her haste to get away from the great, hulking stranger, Lily took a hurried step backward and stumbled against a mahogany side table. She shot her hands out and found purchase on the top of the leather sofa. “I daresay your foul temper is merely a means of protecting yourself, but all the same, you don’t have to be so rude.”

  “Protecting myself?” He stalked over and for a moment she contemplated retreat. Instead, she rooted her feet to the floor and met his challenging stare. He leaned close, forcing the vicious scars into her direct line of vision.

  A twinge pulled at her heart. The man was odious to his servants. He was kin to the man who’d ruined her. And yet, she still would never wish the kind of horror and pain forever memorialized upon the duke’s face.

  He snapped black eyebrows together in a flat, angry line. “Do you think I need protecting from a slip of a lady such as yourself?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that she was under no one’s terms or standards, a lady, but that would be as extraneous as mentioning the whole “I’m-not-shy-business”, particularly when one was seeking the post of governess to his ward. She bit her lower lip.

  He sent one black eyebrow up in a devilish arc that roused terror in her breast. “Is something wrong with your hearing as well as your mind, Miss Benedict?”

  The brute made it nigh impossible to feel sympathy or pity or anything less than mild disdain for him. “Is something wrong with your manners?” she demanded, the question exploding from her lips.

  His Grace went still and her heart climbed into her throat as she braced to be tossed bodily from his office. What will you do now, you stupid chit…? But the duke limped past her. The thump-thump-thump of his cane marked his progress over to his desk chair. He slid his powerful frame within the folds and after he’d rested his cane against the mahogany and brass side table, he spread his arms wide. “You stormed my home and my office; get on with whatever is of such importance to you.”

  Lily sidled over to the desk, all the while keeping a close eye on the volatile duke, as she took the seat opposite him. She fished around her reticule and withdrew her false references. “I am here seeking employ—”

  “I didn’t give you leave to sit.” He wrapped those words in a lethal edge.

  Arm frozen mid-movement with the documents clenched between her fingers, she lowered the pages to her lap. Her mind ran. Hadn’t he? She wrinkled her brow. Well, no. She rather supposed he hadn’t. She searched his face for any hint of warmth; some slight penetrable crack that indicated he was not solely the harsh monster who’d scared the butler into a near run. Of their own volition, her eyes lingered on the planes of his cheeks. Regret struck her. He’d truly been a remarkable man, the manner of man a vicar’s young daughter would toss her virtue away for.

  The duke rested his elbows on the desktop and leaned closer. “Do I meet with your approval, madam?” He peeled his lip back in a sneer.

  Then, an unexpected twinge of compassion pulled at her heart. For a moment, she forgot the subterfuge that brought her into his home. This man’s surly bid to terrify was merely a means of protecting himself from cruelties he’d, no doubt, encountered. As one who’d sought to protect herself from hurt through the years, she recognized that attempt in another.

  A hard, knowing glint lit his eye and he sat swiftly back in his chair. “I do not need your pity.”

  She snorted. Just then, it was hard to feel anything but annoyance at a foul fiend like the duke. “Well, that is all well and fine. You don’t have it.” Terror, however, was an altogether different matter. That she knew plenty of around the Duke of Blackthorne.

  He sat forward in his seat once again. “For even scarred as I am, Miss Benedict, I’d still not put my co…”

  A shocked gasp escaped her and ate into the remainder of his crude words. Lily flew from her seat
and slapped him into silence. The echo of her vicious blow blared like the firing of a pistol in the quiet. No doubt he sought to be rid of her with his vile innuendos and crude words. Even in her role as gentleman’s plaything, she’d not been spoken to in such a manner.

  His Grace froze. Then, as if he delighted in that crack in her veneer, a jeering grin marred his lips.

  Her chest heaved and she shook, partly from fear of crossing such a black-hearted soul, partly with shame for having put her hands to his face, partly with embarrassment for the vile words she’d cut short with her well-timed slap. Still, she’d not look away and give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d shaken her. She tossed her tresses and made a show of studying him.

  “You do like what you see, then,” he said on a jeering whisper.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Hardly.” The great lummox was a beast, but such had nothing to do with the marks upon his skin and everything to do with the words on his lips.

  He stiffened and then came slowly to his feet.

  Lily swallowed hard and inched her gaze up his towering frame. Goodness, the man was a veritable mountain. Weren’t there rules on the frame and form of these pompous dukes? Weren’t they supposed to sport monocles and stuff their garments with padding the way Sir Henry had? Or douse themselves in fragrant cologne and oil their hair like George? The hint of sandalwood that clung to this duke was potent, and masculine, and muddled her senses.

  “Oh?” he whispered.

  Do not say anything. There was the whole matter of the diamond and her future… Focus on that. Anything but on how this man set her teeth on edge and roused this peculiar stirring in her belly, all at the same time. Alas, she’d never been known for her self-control. “You’re about four inches too tall and a stone too wide—”

  The Duke of Blackthorne took a step around the desk. “Are you calling me fat, Miss Bennett?”

  “Mrs. Benedict.” She took a hasty step back. “No,” she said hurriedly. There was not an ounce of fat to his muscle-hewn frame. “Your nose is crooked.” As though it had been broken, and not just once. No doubt deserved.