by Eloisa James
“Rose deliberately flirted with him to save me from a marriage that I didn’t want,” Diana said flatly. “She showed every sign of being affectionate toward him. For his part, he couldn’t believe his own good fortune.”
The story didn’t make sense to North but he was too tired to ask for an explanation. “His name?”
For once, she answered. “Archibald Ewing.”
The name sifted into his consciousness and floated there for a moment. He sat up straight. “Archie Ewing, as in the future Laird of Fennis?”
“Yes. Did you know him well?”
“There aren’t so many of us,” North said. He tried to sort through his memories of a pugnacious schoolboy with a thick Scottish accent and a chip on his shoulder. “How did he die?”
“Drunken coachman,” Diana said, getting up and moving around behind him. “Not his fault. He had no siblings.”
“This castle is haunted by dead people,” he said, knowing he sounded drunk. His eyes closed again, and this time he couldn’t open them. “Horatius and Rose. Archie and the rest of them.”
“The rest of them?” Her voice floated to him so softly that the words didn’t sound like a question.
He found himself answering. “John Goss, William Peach, Gower . . .”
“Who are they?” A warm blanket settled over his chest and he sank into a darkness that smelled like home: a moldering castle and English honey.
“My men,” he answered. “My men.”
North woke when the first birds were singing. The fire had burned itself out. He stood up, and the blanket fell to the floor. He stretched and raked his hand through his hair, conscious of an unfamiliar sense of bodily well-being.
It was dawn, and he had slept at least five hours, longer than he had in months.
Diana’s bed was empty. She hadn’t gone to sleep in the same room as a slumbering man, of course. She was a respectable governess. He’d driven her out of her own bedchamber.
He rubbed his chin, guilt making him feel awkward. He had entered a lady’s bedchamber without knocking, stayed for an irresponsible, improper conversation, and fallen asleep.
The high-pitched laughter of a little girl came from somewhere down the corridor. Diana was with Artie. Diana with her curves, her sensual mouth, her tender . . . He clenched his jaw and cut the thought off.
When he managed to make his way down the corridor without being discovered, his relief was directly proportional to the surprise of having had a refreshing five hours of sleep.
Chapter Seven
Late the following morning
Diana pulled Artie out of the bath and wrapped a warm towel around her wiggling body. She was determined to spend the day focused on her future, and not give a thought to her past.
North was her past. After he’d fallen asleep, she had picked up Godfrey and carried him back to his own bed, and slipped into one of the nursery beds herself. Before she fell asleep, she had decided that she could not allow North to approach the laird’s family.
It was only after Diana flatly refused to marry Archibald Ewing that Rose took matters in her own hands. Within half an hour of their second meeting, Archibald was desperately in love, Rose was agreeable, and only Mrs. Belgrave was furious.
Mrs. Belgrave had mandated a long betrothal, perhaps hoping that the marriage would fall through. Instead, Rose fell into Archibald’s bed, and when he died, months later, she was carrying his child.
If Archibald weren’t dead, Diana would love to kick him. Perhaps, if everything had gone differently, if she and North had married, North would have whipped Archibald to within an inch of his life for having the temerity to take her sister’s innocence before marriage.
Yet she had never seen the point of building castles in the air, and marriage to North would have been an ethereal castle, indeed.
“We will be fine,” she said aloud.
Artie patted her cheek. “Mama coming later?” she asked hopefully. She asked every day.
The Duchess of Lindow—or Ophelia, as she insisted Diana call her—returned to the castle as often as she could, and whenever she was in residence, she spent much of the day with Artie, Godfrey, and Diana.
It was unheard of among ladies, to the best of Diana’s knowledge. Her mother had seen her only during weekly appointments during which she and Rose displayed the skills their governess had taught them, playing the part of young ladies before they were dispatched back to the nursery. Mrs. Belgrave’s sojourns in London had been a source of relief for the entire household.
“Your mama will arrive very soon!” Diana said, giving the little girl a kiss and a celebratory twirl, holding her tight and spinning in place until Artie screamed happily. Then she put her down and suggested that Artie change her doll out of her nightdress while Diana bathed Godfrey.
Artie’s brows were like tufts of embroidery floss—until she began making a low noise like a teakettle on the hob. Then they turned into a straight line.
“What is the matter?” Diana asked, keeping her voice calm.
“You promised a story about Fitzy!”
The castle peacock reigned in solitary splendor over the lawns south of the castle, deigning to approach the Peacock Terrace on occasion. In their ongoing bedtime story, Fitzy led a thrilling life, in which he solved petty crimes and went to the theater in his spare time. He liked to show off for the queen, or so the story went.
“I tell you a story when you’re tucked into bed, not in the morning,” Diana said.
“No!” Artie’s face was turning red. “I want Fitzy now!”
Last night Godfrey had crawled into her bed, and now Artie was having a fit of temper, though she wasn’t hungry. Godfrey couldn’t tell her what the matter was, but Artie could.
Diana collected her little charge and sat down in the rocking chair. She immediately discovered that Mabel had informed both children that Diana would soon be leaving the castle and taking Godfrey with her.
“I want Mama,” Artie sobbed, collapsing against her chest. “And I want DeeDee.”
“I’m right here,” Diana said. “I’m still here, Artie.”
The girl curled her fingers into Diana’s apron front and pulled so hard that a few pins gave way, and the apron sagged over her bosom. “I want you to stay. Papa will make you stay!”
Goodness.
Somehow a two-year-old already knew the power that dukes had over lowly folk like herself. Diana rocked back and forth.
After a while, Godfrey came over to join them, and Diana began a brand-new story about Floyd, the friend whom Fitzy had left behind when he came to the castle.
“Who’s he?” Artie asked thickly. She was snuggled against Diana’s breast, her thumb in her mouth.
“Floyd is a beautiful peacock,” Diana said, thinking of a certain lord’s cheekbones in the light of the fire, and how strong his back and shoulders were.
North had worn no coat the night before, and all that snowy linen made his face gleam in the firelight. He wasn’t thin, but somehow she didn’t think he was eating properly. His skin was drawn taut over his cheekbones.
Floyd had been to war and back, it turned out.
The children were fascinated.
Chapter Eight
That evening
North paused in the door of the drawing room. The room was crowded with furniture, but he was used to seeing it thronged with family and guests. In their absence, it was startlingly silent.
“There you are, darling!” Aunt Knowe waved at him from a sofa facing the gardens.
He bowed with a flourish. “My best of aunts.”
“Oh, pooh, do sit down. I’m just going over a letter sent by Wilkins, the estate manager in Wales.” She folded the paper and set it on a table that dated to the first Wilde, an intrepid fellow who had survived a siege by bringing in food through Lindow Moss, the bog east of the castle. According to family legend, his enemy’s bodies disappeared without a trace in the same place.
“I was under the imp
ression that Alaric was going to help Father run the estates,” North said, as he sank into the seat beside her.
“My dear, he was miserable. So heroic, but your brother is an adventurer. I saw instantly that darling Willa was the perfect match for him. I simply had to convince him to follow his own instincts.”
“So you have been overseeing the estates?”
“I have,” his aunt said blithely. “I should have been doing it all along, but when Horatius died, your father was so terrified that he wanted to keep you close, and handing over management of the estates did the trick. Of course, Wilkins, Butterick, and Shell do a great deal of work.”
North digested that in silence. In retrospect, his father had given him oversight of three estate managers within weeks of Horatius’s death.
“I wrestled the ledgers from Alaric’s grip,” his aunt said. “After that, nature took care of itself; Willa is an adventurer just like her husband.”
“I would never have guessed,” North said, picturing his civilized sister-in-law. “Thank you for taking on my responsibilities.”
“They weren’t yours, but your father’s. I have no intention of giving them back,” she said, tapping his knee with her fan. “You know how much I love telling people what to do. I took up the sketches you had made for water mills and had them built, by the way. I’ve increased profits by eleven percent in the home estate, and I’m hoping to eke out a few more percentage points in the next years.”
“Brava,” North said.
He was free. The thought sank in slowly. If his aunt truly meant it, he was free. Until he inherited, hopefully a great many years hence, he had no need to stay at home.
Diana and Godfrey wouldn’t be living in the castle. Not that the fact was relevant.
“I just had a letter from Alaric,” his aunt said. “Willa leads him about with a crook of her little finger, but luckily for the marriage, her passion for travel seems to be as great as his.”
He’d always wanted to see the Colosseum. He could be on a boat in a few days. Leaving Diana behind.
“Yes, you ought to travel,” his aunt said, noticing his expression. “Everyone is abroad these days. Did Diana tell you that her cousin Lavinia and her mother moved to Paris?”
He nodded.
“Lavinia conquered the French court as easily as she did the English.” His aunt rarely left the castle, but she could generally be counted on to know any gossip worth repeating.
Prism entered and bowed. “May I offer you refreshment, Lord Roland? Sherry, perhaps, or champagne?”
North glanced at his aunt, who was sipping a glass of liquor that shone like old pennies in the candlelight. “I’ll have the same as my aunt.”
A moment later he held a substantial glass of brandy.
“Prism believes ladies should drink sherry before dinner,” his aunt said, as the door shut behind the butler. “I am a constant disappointment to him.”
“What does Prism think of Diana’s role in the household?”
“I never interfere with domestic matters,” his aunt said, quite untruthfully. To his memory, she was always getting involved with a lovelorn maid—or dropping a new governess into the household without warning. “Diana has turned the household upside down, but he seems to be managing. She’s remarkably impulsive.”
“How so?”
“Last summer, she decided the children should have the experience of caring for a pet—this was when your younger siblings were on leave from school—so she brought a young goat into the schoolroom.”
“And?”
“He remained in the castle for two days, in which time he managed to eat the wardrobe belonging to Artie’s doll, three pairs of slippers, the schoolroom curtains, a hearth rug, several nappies, and a few prints of Lord Wilde’s adventures.”
No wonder Diana had sewn a nightdress for Artie’s doll. That might explain the ugly shoes Diana was wearing as well.
“Moreover, when your brothers were home from Eton last August, Diana had the idea of taking them to the country fair. They played the coconut shy until they won a sow and all ten piglets.”
“Impressive.”
“Diana had given them an impromptu lesson the afternoon before, using turnips. The boys decided they needed more practice, so in the evening they absconded with the melons Buckle was growing under glass. Many of them split, naturally enough, and Buckle was not pleased.”
North laughed.
“The boys wanted to keep one of the piglets, but Diana persuaded them to give the sow and her piglets to Buckle.”
“Who paid for the coconuts?” North asked.
“Diana,” his aunt said. “The boys repaid her out of their pocket money, but Diana also bought flowers for the housekeeper when she was ill. She bought a potion from a Gypsy that was meant to cure one of the footmen’s toothache.”
“Did it work?”
“It did not. She bought a lace collar for Agnes, the second housemaid who is courting, and a blue Dresden bowl for the castle butcher, on the occasion of his marriage.”
“She doesn’t understand money,” North said.
“Not unusual in a young lady,” his aunt commented.
“What do you know about her sister Rose?”
Lady Knowe took a sip of brandy. “Since I knew that Godfrey couldn’t be yours, I hired a Bow Street Runner to investigate. At some point that boy is going to want to know who his father was and why he is not playing a role in his life. Rose Belgrave became a mother at fifteen years old.”
Fifteen was shockingly young to bear a child, although young ladies often were affianced at that age.
“Godfrey’s father, Archibald Ewing, was the only son in a family that was here before the Norman kings, with estates in Scotland and England,” his aunt continued. “Barring an inebriated coachman, Archibald would have become the Laird of Fennis. Do you know who is definitely going to be the laird?” She tipped up her glass and finished it.
North frowned. “Surely not.”
“Illegitimacy is not grounds for disinheritance in Scotland,” his aunt said. “The eldest male inherits. Godfrey will be the laird someday.”
They sat in silence for a moment. “Why haven’t you told Godfrey’s remaining relatives of his existence? Presumably they have no idea.”
“I decided against it. I haven’t said a word to Diana either.”
“Why not?”
“An heir who can’t speak? Better to be an illegitimate scion of the Wildes than a laird who can’t lead his clan. I am hopeful that Godfrey will talk eventually. Horatius didn’t bother to speak until he was three. One day your nanny came shrieking downstairs to report that he had informed her that the soup was cold and should be returned to the kitchen.”
“He was a stiff-rumped fellow, wasn’t he?”
“Came out of the womb a little duke.” Her voice didn’t wobble or break, but her eyes grew shiny.
“I am glad you brought Diana here,” North said, taking his aunt’s hand. “I’ll take care of her from now on.”
“I doubt she’ll accept your help. She’s as stubborn and proud as you are, and that’s really saying something.”
North’s jaw clenched. She would accept his help. He’d make bloody sure that she was safely housed, with servants he would choose.
Prism reappeared in the doorway, signaling that the evening meal awaited them.
“Your father sent a groom ahead; he should arrive tomorrow,” his aunt said, rising. “I want to hear about your military service tonight.” It wasn’t a request, it was a demand.
North bit back his instinctive refusal.
His aunt tucked an arm through his. “Keeping it to yourself won’t help,” she said briskly. “Tomorrow morning we’ll go around the estate on horseback, so you can see the improvements I’ve made. Perhaps hunting the day after. The partridges have become so numerous that they’re fluttering out in the road and startling the horses. Two or three days of good shooting and we’ll have enough to give one bird
to every tenant.”
North grunted. She was trying to ensure that he slept, but exertion had no effect on his nightmares. The only thing that had helped, he thought with bemusement, was a plate of toast and honey.
“Do you have any of those prints of me?” he asked. “I’ve only seen one, and I’m curious.”
“Leonidas brought home a few at Christmas.”
“And?”
“Not as bad as they could be.” His aunt patted his arm, smiling mischievously. “You figure as the devil incarnate in high heels. All the prints purport to warn of the nobility’s wicked ways, so every young woman in the kingdom is collecting them feverishly, and nightly dreaming of conquering your cruel heart.”
North swallowed another curse.
“I’ll show you my favorite later,” Lady Knowe said, her grin broadening. “It’s entitled Too Wilde to Wed. You’re dressed for court, with patches, rouge, and a wig fit for the Lord Chancellor.”
North groaned.
“A young woman representing Diana is kneeling at your feet, her hands clasped in entreaty. Very dramatic. All you need is a playwright to pen your life in order to sell out a theater. A play about your depraved habits might well outsell the play about Alaric’s love life. Or perhaps they could do a back-to-back matinee! Wilde in Love followed by Too Wilde to Wed.”
“Thank goodness, the only dramatist we know is not free to write that play,” North said, adding, “She isn’t, is she?”
A couple of years ago a deranged playwright named Prudence Larkin had fallen in love with Alaric and been unable to curb her jealousy. The Duke of Lindow had eventually placed her in a comfortable sanitarium.
His aunt shook her head, her face sobering. “I’m afraid not. The poor girl has fastened her attentions on the chaplain.”
“Has she written a play about him?” North asked, fascinated. Having met Prudence, he could imagine her smuggling a play out of the asylum and having it presented at Theater Royal in Drury Lane.
“Worse. A few weeks ago she tore off her gown in the chapel. He was mortified, and the mistress of the house wrote me that Prudence had to be given a sedative, as she is convinced she is being kept from her lover.”