Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel

  But that was the trick, Nathan decided. If he accidentally encountered the Frobisher-Pendleton party, he’d be stuck catching fainting ladies all morning and afternoon. He scanned the first items listed on the paper. A horseshoe, a feather, a pink rose, a smooth round stone for skipping.

  The list went on and on.

  He could find these items on his own, find them and complete the scavenger hunt without assistance or fainting ladies. He’d start with the skipping stone. It was in the middle of the list, and he imagined the teams would either begin with the first or last item and work from there.

  He remembered crossing a small stone bridge upon arriving the day before. Several ducks had been swimming in a pretty little lake. He’d start there in his search for the stone. While everyone else swarmed the stables or gardens, he’d have a nice walk by the water.

  Nathan started in the direction of the pond, encountering the Duke of Linton and Sedgemere’s great-aunt, Lady Lavinia, returning to the house.

  “Wyndover, join us,” Lady Lavinia said, after the initial pleasantries. “I remember quite fondly a scavenger hunt with your late father. This was before he met your mother, and I rather think we spent more time flirting than hunting.”

  “Yes, do join us, Wyndover,” Linton said hopefully, his voice raised so the deaf older lady could hear him.

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Nathan shouted. “I have my own plan of action.”

  Linton scowled, and Nathan made his escape, Lady Lavinia’s voice carrying over the lawns. “Who is the object of his attraction?”

  Nathan chuckled, crossing the lush green lawn quickly. Sedgemere’s estate was well tended. As a man of property himself, Nathan noticed the details—the manicured flowerbeds, the way the land sloped away from the house to aid in drainage, the gravel paths that were free of weeds. He would have liked to see some of the surrounding land and meet a handful of Sedgemere’s tenants, but that would have to wait until he’d played dutiful guest a few more days.

  Sedgemere had mentioned archery as an activity, Nathan remembered as he neared the lake. God in Heaven, anything but archery.

  At the edge of the water, he scanned the stones on the sandy bank. Several were quite smooth, but they were too round to skip well. He needed a flat and oval stone. He followed the edge of the water, head down, eyes narrowed for any sign of the perfect skipping stone. A duck quacked, and he looked out at the water, glinting in the morning sun. A drake, his mate, and a line of ducklings swam in the middle of the water, looking quite aimless. Doubtless the ducks were hunting insects for breakfast. He watched them for a moment, but when he might have gone back to his search for skipping stones, his attention caught and held on a flutter of something brown near the base of the gray stone bridge.

  It looked like a clump of brown cloth. A coat a groundskeeper had set aside and forgotten? He almost returned to his quest for the skipping stone, but something made him stare just a little longer. The coat was not empty. Someone was inside it.

  Wyndover stuffed the sheet of foolscap into his coat pocket and walked rapidly toward the bridge. His long-legged gait ate up the distance quickly, and the indistinct shape became clearer. It was a body lying on its side under the shade of the bridge. As he neared the form, he made out the mud caked on the coat and the matted hair falling over the person’s face. Probably a vagrant who’d fallen asleep there the night before.

  At least Wyndover hoped the man was only sleeping. The last thing the Duchess of Sedgemere needed was a dead body to put a damper on her house party.

  “Excuse me,” he said as he walked the last few steps. “Are you hurt?”

  The body didn’t move. The wind ruffled the brown material again, but now Wyndover all but stumbled. It wasn’t a coat whipping in the breeze. Those were skirts.

  A girl?

  Where he might have nudged the body with his foot had it been a man, now he hunched down and examined the form. She did wear a coat—a man’s coat—which was far too large for her small form. Beneath the hem of the coat, skirts covered with dry mud lay heavy against her legs, which were pulled protectively toward her belly. Her long dark hair covered her face, the muddy strands making it impossible for him to see her features.

  Still, this was no lady nor a guest of the house party. She stank of shit and farm animals. Wyndover looked back toward the house. Should he fetch one of Sedgemere’s servants? He winced at the thought. He could already hear the taunts from the other guests.

  Leave it to Wyndover to find a girl on a scavenger hunt.

  That desperate for a bride, Wyndover?

  He might not need to involve the servants, but he couldn’t leave her here. “Miss.” He shook her shoulder gently. It was surprisingly pliable under the stiff outer clothing. He’d expected to feel little more than bird-like bones. So perhaps she was not as malnourished as he’d thought.

  “Miss,” he said a little louder. He shook her again.

  She moaned softly and then came instantly awake. He stood just in time to avoid her swing as she struck out. She scrambled up and back against the bridge, her arms raised protectively, as though she expected him to attack. The matted hair fell to the side of her mud-streaked face, but her large green eyes stared at him with undisguised terror.

  Wyndover raised his own hands in a gesture of peace. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Such large eyes and so very green. They were the color of myrtle, a plant he knew well as he’d had to approve a hundred pounds for the purchase of myrtle at Wyndover Park. He’d stopped at his nearby estate before continuing to Sedgemere House, and the head gardener had insisted on showing him the myrtle, which had been in bloom with white flowers.

  “Do you understand?” he asked when she didn’t answer and continued to look at him in confusion. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes.” She rose, using the bridge for support. “I understand.”

  Her voice held a faint exotic quality, a lilt that was both familiar and foreign.

  She was no child; he could see that now. Although the coat hid her figure, he could see by the way she held herself that she was a woman and one of some standing. She held her chin high in a haughty manner, and her gaze swept down him with an imperiousness he recognized from more than one ton ballroom.

  She obviously decided he was no threat, because her gaze quickly moved past him to scan the area around her. She reminded him of a hunted animal, a fox cornered by hounds. He wanted to reach out, lay a hand on her and reassure her, but he didn’t dare touch her. The look in her eyes was too feral, too full of fear.

  “Where am I?” she demanded, her eyes darting all around her, searching, searching. What was she looking for? What was she scared of?

  “Sedgemere House,” he answered. “The residence of the Duke of Sedgemere.”

  “Are you he?”

  If she didn’t know Sedgemere, she wasn’t local. But if she didn’t live in the area, then how had she come to be on Sedgemere’s estate? He saw no evidence of a horse or conveyance. She must have walked. Another glance at the state of her clothing confirmed she must have been traveling for some time. Or perhaps not traveling but running. But from what or whom?

  “No. Miss, you look as though you need some assistance. May I escort you back to the house?” Damn the taunts and teasing. The woman needed help.

  She shook her head so violently that flecks of mud scattered in the breeze. “I must be going.”

  She turned in a full circle, obviously trying to decide which way to travel. Her muddy hair trailed down her back, almost reaching the hem of the thigh-length coat. Sections of it were still braided, indicating at one time it had been styled in some fashion or other.

  “Which way to London?” she asked.

  He almost answered. Her tone was such that he felt compelled to snap to attention, as though he were the butler and she the master. Something else was familiar about her. The way she spoke, that accent. She wasn’t English. Not French or Italian. He’d t
raveled the Continent years ago, when he’d been about two and twenty. He knew that accent, just couldn’t place it at the moment.

  “Why don’t we discuss it inside over a cup of tea?” he said. “If you’ll follow me—”

  “I don’t have time for tea. I have to run. Hide. They’re looking for me. If they find me…” She shuddered, and that one gesture said more than any word she’d spoken.

  “Let me help you.”

  Her gaze landed on him again, ran quickly over him, and dismissed him just as quickly.

  “If you want to help, tell me which way to London.” She shook her head. “Ne rien! I’ll find it on my own.”

  She swept past him, obviously intending to go on without his assistance. She might have climbed the embankment beside the bridge, but Wyndover suspected the exertion would have been too much for her. She would probably take the easier path around the pond and then double back and head south.

  Ne rien. He’d heard that before, and quite suddenly he knew exactly where she was from. Ne rien was a Glennish phrase meaning never mind or forget it. Glennish was the mix of Gaelic and French spoken in the Kingdom of Glynaven.

  He’d read reports of recent unrest in Glynaven. Another revolution ousting the royal family.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered as another thought occurred to him. He turned just in time to see her stumble. In two strides he was beside her, his arms out to catch her as she fell.

  He lifted her unconscious body, cradling her in his arms. She’d barely made it three feet before she’d collapsed from what he’d hoped was only exhaustion and not something more serious. She might smell of manure and rotting vegetables, but with her head thrown back, he could see her face more clearly now. The high forehead and sculpted cheekbones, the full lips. She had all the features of the royal family of Glynaven.

  But the unusual color of her green eyes gave her away—Her Royal Highness, Princess Vivienne Aubine Calanthe de Glynaven.

  “Welcome to England,” he said as he started back toward the house. She was light as a spring lamb, but he knew under the bulky clothing she had the full, supple body of a woman.

  A beautiful woman.

  She hadn’t even recognized him. Other women might swoon at the sight of him, but her gaze had passed right over him, just as it had when they’d first met.

  “You’re in danger,” he remarked to himself as he left the pond behind and started across the lawn. Not toward the house. He didn’t dare take her to the house. One of the outbuildings. His gaze landed on a small shed, most probably a boathouse. He’d tuck her there and then fetch Sedgemere or his duchess.

  “Princess Vivienne.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Bet you never thought I’d be the one to save you.”

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  She opened her eyes and blinked at the darkness. No, not darkness, she decided, but somewhere cool and dim. She hurt, everywhere. Her head felt as though encased in a helmet, and her legs and arms were leaden weights. She needed to sleep. She could sleep here in this cool darkness.

  She closed her eyes again and everything rushed back at her—the revolution, the assassins, Masson’s blood pumping out of his body…

  She had to run, to hide.

  She jerked up, thankful she’d been lying on the floor, because her head spun. She rolled to her side, bracing her palms on the cool dirt and hung her head. Slowly, she gained her knees and began to push to her feet.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” a voice asked.

  Vivienne jumped, her arms buckling and almost collapsing beneath her.

  “You can’t even stand. How far do you think you’ll be able to travel?”

  She turned her head, searching for the voice’s source. He stood in a corner beside a row of oars that had been hung neatly on a wall. This wasn’t a prison then. She glanced quickly about her, noting the watercraft. This must be where the nobles stored their boats, little more than rowboats, which made sense, as the pond was too small for anything more substantial.

  She put the pieces together, her head throbbing with the effort. She’d fainted—how absolutely mortifying! She had never fainted in her life. But she was so weak now and losing strength. As humiliating as it was to realize it, she knew he must have carried her here after she fainted.

  Why? To keep her until the assassins could be contacted?

  She studied him again. No, she didn’t think so. He was an Englishman. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be in league with the assassins. They must have some Englishmen on their side, or at least willing to aid them for a handful of coins.

  But this man was no farmer, no innkeeper. His clothes were too well made—a blue coat of superfine, a pale green waistcoat, a white linen shirt with an expertly tied neckcloth. He wore fawn-colored breeches and polished riding boots. The breeches were tight enough to mold to muscled legs.

  She’d noticed that before—his broad shoulders, slim body, firm buttocks. But all of that was nothing when one took into account his face. He had the face of an angel. His skin was bronze, his cheeks smooth and, she imagined, soft and free of any stubble. His sunny blond hair fell over his forehead in a dashing sweep. His blue eyes were the color of the Mediterranean Sea before a storm and were framed by lashes several shades darker than his hair and thick enough that they provided a picturesque frame for eyes already striking.

  No man should be so beautiful. She hunkered on elbows and knees before him and felt like the lowest worm. She would have felt lacking beside him even had she been wearing her tiara and finest gown. She didn’t like pretty men, didn’t like men too vain to dirty their hands.

  “Do lie back down before you fall,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I must go. I’ve lost too much time already.”

  “You’ll lose even more if you collapse on the road.”

  This was true. Perhaps he did want to help her, and she would be wise to accept food and water. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning and then only a crust of bread and weak wine.

  “If you would be so kind as to gift me bread and cheese, I would be grateful. I have no money, but perhaps when I reach London, I could send you—”

  He waved a hand, looking quite offended. “I don’t want your money. I’m trying to keep you alive, Princess.”

  She started and fell back onto her behind. She would have been embarrassed if she hadn’t been so shocked at his use of her title.

  “How do you—?”

  “You don’t remember me?” He stepped away from the wall, into a thin shaft of light that made a weak attempt to penetrate the spaces between the wooden boards that comprised the building’s walls.

  She didn’t need the light to know his features. Should she know him? He did look familiar, now that she considered the possibility they’d met before. Not recently. Years ago, perhaps. But then, she met so many people, so many men.

  There were no counts in England. “Are you an earl?”

  “A duke.” He made a sweeping bow that would have perfectly graced her father’s throne room. “The tenth Duke of Wyndover.”

  The name seemed familiar. If her head hadn’t felt as though it would crack open at any moment, she might have remembered him. As it was, all she knew was that dukes had money and power. She needed food, a carriage, a coachman to take her to London.

  Slowly, she rose to her feet, intent on acting the princess even if it killed her. She wobbled, and he jerked as though he might help her. Something held him in check. Perhaps he knew her well enough to realize she wouldn’t welcome his support.

  “I thank you for your assistance, Duke. And since we are such old friends, I wonder if I might beg a favor.”

  “Old friends? You still don’t remember me.”

  He sounded almost offended. Why should she remember him? He’d not been her lover nor had they ever kissed. They might have danced, but then, she’d danced with thousands of men in the palace of Glynaven. She closed her eyes and willed the memories away. Memories of happier
times.

  “Of course, I remember you,” she lied. “I couldn’t place you at first. I’m not at my best at the moment.” That was true enough.

  He shook his head, clearly doubting her. “I suppose this is no more than I deserve.”

  He did step forward then and took her elbow. Out of habit, she began to jerk away. Before she did so, she realized she’d been tilting to the side and his grip had steadied her, prevented her from falling over.

  “Do sit down, Your Highness. I’ve asked the butler to send the Duke and Duchess of Sedgemere, when they return. This is the duke’s land, and he is a friend of mine. I instructed the butler to be discreet. You’ve stumbled upon a house party.”

  “I don’t have time to wait for your friend. I must go before they find me. They will have no compunction about killing you, killing all of these people, if it means they slit my throat in the end.”

  To her ears, her rapidly rising voice sounded hysterical, but he did not look at her as though she were mad. Instead, he gently lowered her to the floor, where she now saw he’d laid a burlap cloth of the sort one might use to keep dust off a boat.

  “Who is after you? Do they have something to do with the political unrest in your country?”

  Political unrest. Yes, that was one way to describe the revolution. That was a polite way to refer to the slaughter of her family before her eyes—her mother, her father, her siblings. They’d killed the royal family and all who were loyal to them. Vivienne had stumbled over the dead bodies of maids who’d done nothing more than launder her sheets. None of them deserved such gruesome deaths.

  But the assassins were intent upon finishing what they’d begun in the revolution of ninety-eight. This time they intended to make certain no member of the royal family lived to hold any claim to the throne.

  “Assassins,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “They’re searching for me. The head of the guard smuggled me out of Glynaven to Scotland. We’d made it as far into England as Nottinghamshire before the assassins caught up to us.”