The Duke of Ruin

by Burke, Darcy

  Matthias looked pleadingly up at Simon, his brown eyes wide and limpid. “We need someone else.”

  “Can I be on your team, Matthias?” The boys’ mother had come out, and so had Mrs. Haskins and her daughter, who’d taken charge of the Tafts’ daughter.

  “What about Mary?” Mr. Taft asked before glancing back toward the inn, where Miss Haskins held the girl in her arms.

  “She’s fine,” Mrs. Taft said. “So how about it, Matthias?”

  He looked torn. Simon could tell he loved his mother, but that he maybe didn’t think she’d be good at this endeavor. Crouching down to the boy’s height, Simon whispered, “Are you worried that your mother won’t be able to make snowballs?”

  Matthias shook his head. “She’s not a good thrower,” he said gravely. And not too quietly. A quick glance toward Mrs. Taft and the quirk of her lip showed that she’d heard her son.

  “I bet she makes excellent cakes. Am I right?” Simon asked.

  Matthias nodded. “The very best.”

  “Well, then I wager she’ll be exemplary at making snowballs. Shall we charge her with that duty? It’s always best to have someone keeping up our supply.”

  The boy’s eyes lit, and his lips spread into a wide smile. He looked at his mother. “Mama! Mama! We have the best job for you!”

  She laughed and patted the boy’s head. “So long as you promise me this will be quick. It’s too cold to be out here long, and I swear I just felt a snowflake on my nose.”

  Simon looked up and was rewarded with a wet droplet landing square in his eye. He dropped his head down to his chest and blinked rapidly.

  “Are you all right?” Diana’s hand touched his bicep, jolting him to awareness.

  He wiped his fingers over his eye and blinked some more. “Fine, thank you.”

  She nodded at him and walked away from him to join her team.

  Everyone turned toward Simon and seemed to be waiting for him to take charge. It had been ages since anyone had looked to him. He hesitated, but only for a moment.

  Clearing his throat, he addressed the group in a loud voice. “Since it’s so cold, there will be a time limit on the fight. Five minutes.” The Taft boys’ faces instantly fell, but Simon jumped to reassure them. “It sounds short, but it will be a vast amount of time once you begin to get wet.”

  “I’m not going to get wet,” Jonathan announced. “I’ll be too fast to hit.”

  Simon smothered a smile at the boy’s confidence. “Even so, you’ll find it’s plenty long enough. No throwing snowballs in people’s faces—that will get you tossed out.” The Taft boys looked even more dejected, and their father gave them both reproving looks. “If at any time you wish to remove yourself from the game, simply step over to the overhang. Or, if you’re terribly freezing, go on inside.” He looked around at everyone. “Is that acceptable?”

  There were nods all around, albeit reluctant ones from the young boys.

  Their mother put her hands on her hips. “Perhaps we should just go inside right now.”

  The boys immediately stood straighter and shook their heads. They lost their air of gloom, and anticipation crept over their features.

  “We’ll take one minute to make snowballs before we begin. Go!” He hurried to the doorway of the inn and asked Mrs. Haskins if she could keep time.

  “I think Mr. Emerson has a pocket watch,” she said. “I’ll just run in and get it.”

  With a nod, Simon returned to his team, who were busily making snowballs under the guidance of Mr. Pickford, the elder.

  “Mama, you need to make them faster if you’re to be our snowball maker,” Matthias said rather sternly for a child his age. His admonition was tinged in irony because he was having the devil’s time with his own snowball.

  Simon crouched down once more. “Here, let me show you.” He scooped a handful of snow and curled his hand up around it. Then he covered the snow with his other hand and squeezed his palms together, keeping them rounded, to make the ball. “You want to press tightly to keep the snow together, but not too tightly or it will fall apart. It takes a bit of practice.”

  Matthias concentrated on doing precisely what Simon said. When he was finished, he opened his hands and smiled widely. “I did it!”

  “Indeed you did.” Simon stood and looked over at the small arsenal Mrs. Taft and Mr. Pickford had created. “And look how fast your mother has gotten. You must be very proud.”

  “Mama, you’re doing ever so good!”

  “Ever so well,” she corrected with a smile.

  “It’s time to start,” Mrs. Haskins called.

  “Mama!” The girl, Mary, now standing in the snow next to Miss Haskins, clapped and grinned at her mother.

  “I forgot one last thing,” Simon said, looking about. The men who worked in the stable, as well as his own coachman, had gathered to watch. Tinley waved, and Simon nodded in response. “No leaving the yard. Ready? Go!”

  It was as if the sky had decided to join in, because whereas small flakes had peppered him off and on, now large flakes floated down, adding to the mayhem. And it was mayhem. The other side had accumulated quite a few snowballs, and Mr. Pickford the younger was an excellent shot.

  It wasn’t long before Simon had taken a snowball directly in the gut. He looked for Diana and saw her making snowballs behind the others. She’d been given the same job as Mrs. Taft, apparently. Well, that wouldn’t do. He knew she wanted to participate in the actual fight. He could think of one way to provoke that.

  Throwing together a fresh snowball and grabbing one from their diminishing stash, he crept to the side and skirted the other team as they were focused on Mr. Pickford the elder—he was as skilled as his brother, hitting each of his opponents in equal measure. Jonathan was already rather wet. So much for his prideful prognostication.

  Diana’s attention was also on their advance, so she didn’t see Simon coming. His snowball hit her square in the shoulder, causing her blanket to slip down.

  Gasping, she turned. Her eyes narrowed at him. Without hesitating, she lunged for one of the snowballs she’d just made and tossed it at him. Unfortunately, it fell short.

  He moved closer and threw his other snowball, this time hitting her in the behind as she bent to get another ball.

  She jerked upright and gaped at him briefly before throwing two balls at him in quick succession. The first missed its mark again, but the second splatted against his chest. She laughed gleefully and grabbed two more snowballs. “Help me with Mr. Byrd!” she cried.

  Oh damn. This wasn’t going to be good.

  Both Mr. Taft and Jonathan turned their attention toward him, pelting him with snowballs. Trying to back away, Simon slipped. He fell backward into the snow. Jonathan approached him with a snowball and smashed it into Simon’s chest. “Did we win?”

  Simon looked past the boy and saw that Matthias and Mr. Pickford the elder stood over Mr. Pickford the younger, who must have fallen also. “It doesn’t appear so.” He pointed across the yard.

  “Time’s up!” Mrs. Haskins called.

  Simon looked over as Mary ran toward her mother. She didn’t get very far as her little legs sank into the snow. Mrs. Taft hurried to her and swept the child into her arms.

  “I like snow!” Mary declared.

  Mrs. Taft retrieved the last snowball she’d made and handed it to her daughter, whose eyes widened with wonder. Simon’s heart tugged. He could so easily imagine his wife and daughter…

  “Can I help you up?” Mr. Taft asked the question, but Simon’s gaze fell on Diana, who was staring at him in concern—and something else. Perhaps a bit of admiration. And damn, if that didn’t feel strange.

  “Yes, thank you,” Simon said, grasping the man’s hand and clambering to his feet.

  The boys were now simply playing in the snow, leaving no corner of the yard untouched.

  “Just another minute,” their mother cautioned.

  “You’re quite wet,” Diana said, joining him as sh
e wrapped the blanket around herself more securely.

  “You’re barely so,” Simon observed.

  “A bit.” Her lips curved into a winsome smile. “That was fun.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” It was perhaps the most fun he’d had in two years. Unless he counted the house party. Before things had gone to hell, he’d enjoyed himself, especially when they’d played Kiss the Nun. He couldn’t keep himself from staring at her lips for a moment. “I wonder if we could persuade the others to play games, after we change clothes and warm up.”

  “Kiss the Nun?” Her eyes sparkled as a snowflake landed on her cheek. Her mind had been in the same place as his. How extraordinary.

  With his fingertip, he brushed the snowflake away from her flesh. “Probably not that,” he said softly.

  The charged moment broke when Mrs. Woodlawn called from the doorway. “I’ve hot tea and coffee for everyone! And cakes, of course!”

  “Come, boys, time to go inside.”

  When they didn’t immediately come, Mrs. Taft added, “There are cakes.”

  This drew their attention, and they ran toward the inn.

  Simon escorted Diana inside where Mrs. Woodlawn was addressing the group. “I’ve set up two areas with hot water to get everyone out of their wet clothes and cleaned up as quickly as possible. I’ve gathered new clothes from your rooms—the women can go into the kitchen, and the men can stay out here.”

  Mrs. Woodlawn had pushed two tables together, and on them sat several bowls of steaming water, toweling, and some blankets—and clothes were piled on several chairs. He noticed a table with breakfast dishes, but it wasn’t where any of them had sat. He wondered if the mystery guests who hadn’t come to dinner had eaten breakfast while they’d been outside. They must prefer to keep to themselves.

  “Come, ladies,” Mrs. Woodlawn said, turning toward the kitchen.

  Diana gave him a charming smile before disappearing toward the back of the inn with Mrs. Taft, Mary, and Mrs. Woodlawn.

  Simon watched her go, feeling more content than he had in ages.

  “You and your wife seem very much in love,” Mrs. Haskins said approvingly. “I hope my daughter can make such a fine match one day.”

  He pushed a smile onto his face. “Thank you.” Too bad it was all a lie.

  Chapter 8

  Dinner was a lively affair, with all the tables pushed together and the guests sharing the meal as if they’d planned to be snowed in together. Afterward, they played cards—which Diana fumbled through with Simon’s guidance—while Miss Haskins read to the children by the fire. When Mrs. Taft left to put Mary to bed, Mrs. Woodlawn appeared in the common room with a large, shallow bowl.

  “Time for Snapdragon!” she announced, clapping her hands together.

  The boys cried with glee, and Diana couldn’t help but smile. Snapdragon could be terribly fun—so long as her parents weren’t around. And luckily for her, they were not.

  Mr. Woodlawn hurried to move one of the smaller tables away from the others, and Mrs. Woodlawn set the bowl in the center. She looked down at the boys, who stood on either side of her. “You’ve played Snapdragon, then?”

  They nodded. “You’re going to light the brandy on fire, and then we must grab as many raisins as we can and eat them,” Jonathan said eagerly.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Woodlawn said with a smile. “However, we’re not going to eat them in this version. I don’t want anyone burning their mouths. Here comes Mr. Woodlawn now to set the brandy alight.” She looked about the room. “Who else is joining us?”

  “Me,” Mr. Pickford the younger said, moving toward the table.

  His older brother followed. “I will too.” He looked back toward Miss Haskins, who’d risen from her chair by the fire.

  She blushed prettily, and Diana wondered if a match was in the making. “I’ll play too,” she said, joining them at the table.

  “Anyone else?” Mrs. Woodlawn asked. “Or is this just for the unmarried folks?”

  Diana nearly raised her hand to say she wasn’t married, but quickly bit her tongue. Simon seemed to catch on to her near mistake and chuckled softly. “Do you want to play?”

  “I think I do,” she whispered.

  “Then by all means, do. Be careful—don’t burn yourself.”

  She stared into his deep brown eyes, the golden flecks near the center glowing like the bowl of brandy soon would. “You aren’t coming?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll watch.”

  Diana stepped toward the table, “I’ll play.”

  The six of them stood around the table, the anticipation palpable as Mr. Woodlawn lit a spill from the hearth and brought it to the bowl. “Only one hand allowed—unless you’re under the age of twelve.” He winked at the Taft boys. “Ready?”

  “Yes!” the young boys cried in unison.

  The innkeeper lit the brandy and the bowl was immediately aflame. Dozens of raisins bobbed about the liquid. It should be relatively easy to grab a few, at least. But one had to brave the flames.

  Diana sucked in a breath and plunged her fingertips into the brandy near the edge. Heat licked her fingers, and she pulled back without a single raisin. Blast. Exhaling to settle her nerves, she tried again, working to recall how she’d done this last time. That had been a few years ago, Christmas at Beaumont Tower, after Verity’s husband had gone missing. Perhaps Diana would spend this Christmas at Beaumont Tower too. No, she couldn’t afford to stay that long—her father would find her.

  Shaking those thoughts from her brain, she refocused on the task at hand before the fire went out. Or worse, before there were no raisins left.

  Tensing her muscles, she narrowed her eyes at the flames. The key was to set aside your fear. Don’t think, just act. It was, she realized, the opposite of how she’d been taught to live.

  That only increased her resolve.

  She thrust her hand into the flames, using her thumb and forefinger as pincers to snap up as many raisins as she could. She didn’t think, just acted, moving with quick audacity. She was vaguely aware of Miss Haskins sucking on her finger and no longer participating, and of Mr. Pickford paying her attention.

  But Diana was intent on her task. She didn’t count the raisins, just plucked as many as she could before the fire went out. The flames began to die down, and there were only a few raisins left. Diana moved quickly and was the last to steal a raisin from the bowl, just before the fire was gone.

  “Huzzah!” Mr. Woodlawn clapped, and the adults joined in as the Taft boys began counting their raisins.

  It happened that they had the exact same amount, a disheartening fact to both of them.

  “I wonder if Mrs. Byrd has won, however,” Simon said, drawing everyone to look at the substantial pile of raisins in front of Diana.

  He set about counting them, and when he was finished, she had won.

  The boys seemed pleased with this turn of events, but not so much when their father informed them it was time for bed.

  They said good night, and Matthias even gave all the women, including Diana, a hug before chasing his brother up the stairs. The rest of the guests said their good nights, but Diana noticed the lingering glances between the elder Mr. Pickford and Miss Haskins. Soon it was just Diana and Simon alone in the common room.

  She scooped up all the raisins and put them into the bowl. “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Woodlawn said, picking up the bowl. “Can I bring you two a nightcap?” She looked to Simon. “Or tea?”

  He smiled at her thoughtfulness. “No, thank you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Woodlawn,” Diana said.

  When they were alone, Simon peered at her with interest. “You were shockingly good at that game. How are your fingers?” He reached for her hand and held it up so he could inspect her reddened flesh.

  “A bit sensitive, but it will pass.”

  He blew on them gently. “Does this help?”

  A shiver danced over her hand and traveled up her arm, then shot down her spi
ne. “A bit.” Whether it helped or not, she didn’t want him to stop.

  “Do you think we can leave in the morning?” she asked.

  He blew again before answering. “I’m optimistic. We had a good melt this afternoon.” After the snow had finished falling that morning, the sun had come out and turned the yard into a muddy mess. “We should rise at first light just in case.”

  “Mmm.” She was having a hard time focusing on what he was saying because of the way his thumb was stroking her hand and the proximity of his mouth to her fingers. She fought an urge to trace his lips.

  She couldn’t do that. Searching about for something to distract herself, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “You did well with the children today.”

  Blast, she probably shouldn’t have said that. She didn’t wish to dredge up bad memories, not when this moment was so lovely.

  “They’re good children,” he said softly. “Matthias seems quite taken with you. I think you have a mother’s instinct.”

  She wasn’t sure she agreed. “They were enthralled with you. They spent most of the day reliving that snowball fight, and you indulged them—quite happily, it seemed. You even acted it out again in here.” That had been after luncheon. The boys had taken on the roles of Simon and Mr. Pickford, who’d both fallen down in the snow. Simon had told them they didn’t have it quite right, so he’d demonstrated the correct way to slip and tumble on his arse.

  He dropped her hand and moved to the fireplace, his back to her as he stared into the flames. “I was looking forward to being a father.”

  She almost didn’t hear him, but was glad she did. Moving slowly, lest she make him tense, she joined him at the hearth. “You still could.”

  He flicked her a look filled with doubt—and something far more sinister: self-loathing. “That’s unlikely. I’d need a wife.”

  “Yes, you would. Don’t you want one?”

  He focused on the fire, his face impassive. “I did.”

  She turned toward him and moved closer, so that they were barely a hand’s width apart. “What changed?”

  “I don’t think any woman would have me, not when she heard of my past. And I would never enter into marriage without telling her the truth.”