by Brooklyn Ann
“Offers?” Lydia asked, though she was afraid she knew what Miss Hobson meant.
“Of marriage,” Vincent said curtly, as if angry with her confusion.
“Marriage,” she repeated through numb lips. The purpose of the trip to London and all the training in preparation became clear. Of course it was to be more than a diverting vacation. Her stomach pitched.
The duke nodded, giving her a quizzical look, as if she were an interesting species of insect. It was no wonder, for she was behaving in an incredibly foolish manner. She’d known she’d eventually be encouraged to find a husband, but the suddenness struck her like a hammer on an anvil. She didn’t want to marry a stranger in London. She wanted to stay with Vincent.
The room was suddenly too hot, and the walls seemed to be closing in around her. She had to get away, to get fresh air, before she screamed.
“Please, excuse me,” Lydia said before fleeing.
***
“Well,” Ian drawled, leaning back in his chair. “That went well.”
Vincent ignored him and turned to Miss Hobson with an icy glare. “You did inform Lydia that she is to wed, did you not?”
The woman’s chin lifted in a vain attempt to hide her anxiety. “I’d assumed she understood her responsibility as a young lady of noble birth.” Her voice quavered defensively. “She’d spoken of having a Season in New Orleans. How was I to know things may have been different there?”
Vincent cursed as the matter became clear. “Because her father failed to perform his responsibility to Society when he married for love… Bloody hell, I should have known!”
“Vincent.” The duke’s voice was implacable. “My wife will not sponsor the young woman if she is not willing.”
Miss Hobson sighed. “Surely she could not expect something so fanciful as love.”
Vincent ignored the chaperone and faced Ian. “I am certain we can persuade Miss Price to see reason. She has been receptive to all other aspects of taking her place in Society.”
Ian swirled the brandy in the glass before giving a slight nod. “No doubt her grief remains for the loss of her parents.”
Miss Hobson nodded. “A reasonable assumption, Your Grace. I’m certain she’ll collect herself after a while and be down soon.”
Ten minutes later, a gunshot exploded in the castle bowels.
Miss Hobson froze, putting a hand to her throat. The duke’s eyes echoed the terror in Vincent’s soul. “Dear God, do you think she—”
Vincent didn’t hear the rest of the dreaded question, refused to hear it. In a burst of preternatural speed, he dashed from the room and up the stairs to the entrance to the secret passage, tracing the sound and the Mark between them.
“Lydia!” he roared as his heart threatened to pound itself out of his chest.
The moment he entered the tunnel, the scent of sulfur, gardenias, and salt consumed his senses…but there was no blood.
“Lydia?” His voice cracked with unadulterated hope.
“I’m all right, my lord.” Her voice echoed from far away, near the end of the passage.
Vincent released the enormous breath he’d been holding and nearly flew to her side. She sat on the steps, halfway down to the rear door. The smell of black powder and sulfur permeated the confines to the point of near suffocation.
Her large eyes blinked at him, swimming in unshed tears. The gun lay in her lap, quivering in her trembling hands. He took it from her, hissing as the hot barrel burned his palm.
“I could have told you it was still hot,” she muttered.
Vincent set the pistol out of reach, keeping an eye on her eerie calm. “What happened?”
Even in the darkness, he could see her cheeks color in embarrassment. “I saw a spider. I know it was foolish to take a shot at the damned thing, but it frightened me. I hate being afraid.”
“A spider,” he echoed like a half-wit. “You tried to shoot a spider.” Relief replaced his terror. “I thought you—”
Mirthless laughter broke off his tirade. “You thought I tried to do myself in?” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Do you truly think I would take such a drastic measure after hearing a bit of unpleasant news? And if I did, that I would utilize such a messy, crude method? In such a case I would likely use poison…or leap from one of those high cliffs into the sea…”
“Enough!” Vincent cut her off.
“I am sorry I caused you undue alarm, my lord.” Her voice remained unnaturally brittle. “I merely wanted a few minutes of solitude, a peaceful nighttime walk. Y-you may return to your guest.”
The smell of salt grew stronger as a tear spilled down her cheek. Vincent’s heart ached as the Mark between them pulsed in agony.
“I will not leave until you tell me what has upset you so.” He sat beside her on the dusty stone steps.
“I have been such a fool,” she choked out. “Papa would have allowed me to marry for love, and now he’s gone.” Her body shook with pent-up despair. “I know the rules are different now, yet I was so upset by the loss of my parents…”
Vincent placed a hand on her shoulder. Lydia took a deep, resigned breath and pressed on. “Then I came to this cold new land to reside in the care of strangers. My only remaining family didn’t want me.” Her chin tilted up, and she favored him with a watery smile that quickly shattered with her next words. “And now I realize I will go from one stranger t-to another.”
The declaration undid her, and she broke off with a muffled cry. Vincent pulled Lydia into his arms as she cried. Each gasp pierced his heart, while her tears burned through the front of his shirt.
“Hush now. Do not cry.” When the empty words had no effect, instinct took over. Vincent stroked her hair and her back in slow, soothing motions. He bent to kiss her forehead, but once his lips touched her delicate flesh, he could not stop there. His lips brushed her temples, her eyelids, her cheeks. Salt and sweetness drowned his senses, stirring his blood thirst. Recoiling at the predatory response, Vincent lifted his head, though he could not relinquish her embrace.
“Surely we are strangers no longer.” The words fell dry and as useless as ashes.
Despite the inane statement, Lydia clung to him tighter. “That is the very thing that makes this predicament more difficult. I’ve only just come to know you, you see. And I…” She shook her head. “I am such a fool.”
His chest tightened as the impact of her words struck him. No, Lydia. It is I who am the fool. The bitter truth lodged in his throat. He’d thought it would be so easy to take her into his home, polish her up, and foist her off into another’s hands. He’d thought of her only as a burden, a debt to a long-dead friend, and a means to spite her loathsome grandmother. Now, as he’d come to know Lydia, he’d only regretted his attachment to her, never considering that she’d form one to him. He’d thought only of himself.
“I will not be going anywhere.” Vincent regretted the words the second he uttered them. Eventually he would have to depart from her life. The sooner he did so, the better it would be for them both. He lightened his tone and continued to stroke her silken hair. “I am certain you will meet a fine man, one who will shower you with jewels and adoration.”
She snorted. “I don’t care about jewels or adoration. I only want a friend.”
Possessing a will of its own, his fool mouth responded, “I’ll always remain your friend.”
She met his gaze, her lashes spiky with moisture. “Do you promise?”
Unable to bear her tears, Vincent lied. “I promise.” Eager to remove himself from his deceit, he brought the subject back to her impending marriage. “And I will not see you married to just anyone. It must be a good man, who will treat you with kindness and respect.”
Lydia rested her head on his chest. “Will he love me?”
“Who could not love you?” Before they could venture further into dange
rous territory, Vincent reluctantly disengaged from Lydia’s embrace. Forcing a light tone, he said, “Come, we must assure the others you are all right. Miss Hobson was quite undone when she heard the gunshot.”
***
Lydia cursed herself as she met her chaperone’s panicked gaze. I’ve been such a ninny. “I apologize for causing you undue concern, Miss Hobson. I merely wanted some air, and when I went to fetch my cloak, I…tripped over my gun.”
“Are you feeling feverish?” Miss Hobson asked, worried.
“Not at all.” Lydia willed herself not to tremble at the duke’s intent stare. It was as if he knew what had transpired in the passageway, knew that Vincent had held her and kissed away her tears.
Her cheeks flushed at the memory. She turned away to pick up her glass of wine, draining the rest of it in one swallow. To hell with them if they thought her uncouth. She’d already discharged a firearm indoors, displayed hysterics before her guardian, balked at her womanly duties, and engaged in an improper embrace with a man…that man being none other than her guardian. A little wine could only improve the evening.
As she met Vincent’s stormy gaze with her own, her mind raged with unsatisfied longing. I must not let this man affect me so. I must save these feelings for my future husband.
Yet, when the men departed for an evening walk, Lydia could not stop the cold ache of loneliness from piercing her heart any more than she could stop reliving the feel of Vincent’s embrace…and his lips caressing her flesh.
***
Vincent took a deep breath of the night air and regarded Ian as they walked toward the village. “Thank you for your keeping Miss Hobson occupied while I saw to Lydia.”
“She gave us all a fright. I am relieved no harm came of it. By the by, I could not help noticing that you are covered in her scent,” Ian noted drily. His eyes glittered molten silver in the moonlight.
“She needed comfort.” Vincent resisted the urge to look away.
The duke raised a skeptical brow. “You must have been very thorough. You’re not feeding from her, are you?”
Vincent stiffened and nearly tripped over a rock. “Good God, no!” Though I almost stole a taste.
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “You want to.”
Oh, yes. The beast within concurred. Self-disgust rose up at his desire. “My control is stronger than that.” Forcing a level tone, he tried to change the subject. “As the moon is all wrong for smuggling, we shall have to seek our meal at an inn. The Carp’s Head is usually full of sodden prey at this hour.”
Ian ignored the bait. “You cannot become too attached to Miss Price…unless you intend to make her one of us.”
“No!” Vincent roared, halting his rapid steps. “She is too full of life. It would be a crime to turn her into a monster.”
“I had thought the same about my wife,” Ian countered lightly. “I was wrong. Angelica has taken to this existence as if she were born for it.”
“No.” Vincent remained adamant.
“Then we must see her wed as soon as possible.” Ian’s brow creased in thought. “There is the matter of my wife to contend with. However, I am encouraged to believe Angelica will like Miss Price, as she tends to admire unconventional sorts. Will Miss Price take well to Her Grace? I daresay that would help the situation.”
“How am I to know?” Vincent said as the meager lamplights from the village came into view. “I’ve met your wife only twice.”
Ian shrugged. “Well, tell me more about the young lady and her interests. Perhaps I may find something the two have in common.”
Vincent sighed. “I’ve never encountered a mortal with so many interests as Lydia. It would take hours to catalog her pursuits. She paints, shoots, fishes, plays chess, and has a penchant for horrid gothic novels, to name a few.”
Ian chuckled. “Gothic novels, you say? Well, that certainly helps. I believe Miss Price will be eager to meet my duchess.”
“Why do you say so?” Vincent eyed two drunkards stumbling from the Carp’s Head.
The duke smiled. “Have you heard of the author Allan Winthrop?”
Ten
Lydia breathed a silent prayer of thanks that, after her lessons, Miss Hobson permitted her to retire to the library. Vincent and the duke had not yet come down for supper.
“It appears his lordship has left you a gift,” Miss Hobson commented as she settled near the fire with her embroidery.
A delighted gasp escaped Lydia’s throat. On her favorite settee lay a novel. “The Haunting of Rathton Manor by Allan Winthrop” was embossed on the cover in silver script.
Vincent had given her a novel to cheer her and perhaps apologize for neglecting her. Lydia hugged the book to her breast in delight before settling down to read.
The story was so chilling and engrossing it seemed she was halfway through in minutes. Dusk had fallen in the blink of an eye.
Lydia looked up from the novel as she heard footsteps approaching. “My lord, thank you for the book. It is so delightfully ghastly, it is giving me the shivers! Do you—” The words died as the duke’s imposing form filled the doorway.
“Miss Price.” He bowed courteously.
“Your Grace!” She leaped to her feet and sank into a deep curtsy, darting a nervous glance at Miss Hobson. “I apologize. I had thought you were Lord Deveril. He left me a book, you see.”
The duke chuckled. “No, it was I who left it for you. Vincent told me you enjoy such tales. Do you like it?”
Her cheeks flushed at his kind gesture. “Oh, yes, very much, thank you.”
“Very good.” Burnrath smiled strangely. “I am well acquainted with the author.”
“You know Allan Winthrop?” She tried to suppress her excitement.
“Yes, I know her very well.”
Lydia frowned. “Her?”
The duke winked. “Mr. Winthrop is my wife, Angelica Ashton, Duchess of Burnrath.”
Her jaw dropped. “Truly? I look forward to meeting her!”
“I am certain she will be delighted.” He smiled and left them with another bow.
“Well,” Miss Hobson said the moment the duke was out of earshot, “His Grace seems to approve of you. That is a very good sign for your future prospects.” The clock chimed the seventh hour, and the chaperone smiled. “It is time to change for supper. You may wear the mauve silk tonight.”
Lydia brightened. At last she was in half mourning, and the gowns the Sidwell sisters had delivered were divine. She couldn’t wait for them to finish the rest of her wardrobe. Right now they were working on her court dress.
As if to celebrate the reintroduction of color to Lydia’s life, the dining room was adorned with flowers. When Vincent rose from the table, she observed he wore new clothes as well. From his snowy neckcloth, down to his gleaming black boots, he radiated gentlemanly elegance.
Lydia smiled in appreciation. “My lord, you look very dashing.” His eyes were such a stormy blue she felt she could drown in them.
The duke cleared his throat, and her cheeks heated. “And you do as well, Your Grace.”
Burnrath looked down at his equally fine garb and sighed. “Perhaps I am due for a new wardrobe.” His silver eyes gleamed with teasing laughter.
The meal was another dull affair with all proprieties observed. Miss Hobson’s extreme scrutiny of Lydia’s use of her utensils and how she held her napkin was vexing. Lydia knew it was because they were going to leave for London in a month. Her appetite fled as excitement for the unexplored warred with apprehension at the unknown.
Miss Hobson’s instructions continued after supper. Lydia ground her teeth behind her fan, on the verge of pleading a headache. Then she heard Vincent utter a muffled curse when the duke corrected his manner of sitting.
My God, he has to endure nearly as much preparation as I! Her eyes widened at the realization. The earl ha
d been a recluse before she’d arrived on his doorstep. Of course he would be unaccustomed to Society. A twinge of guilt gnawed in her belly. If it were not for her, Vincent wouldn’t have to suffer this discomfort.
When the duke suggested they practice their dancing, Lydia and Vincent shared a pained smile.
***
By the time Vincent and Lydia perfected the quadrille, his ward was nearly panting in exhaustion. Her breasts heaved within the confines of her gown, and Vincent almost groaned in desire. With her flushed cheeks and parted lips, she resembled a woman finished with a more pleasurable activity.
“I find it overwarm in here. Would you care to walk in the gardens?” Vincent asked before Ian or Miss Hobson could subject them to further exertion.
“I would like that very much.” Palpable relief filled Lydia’s eyes.
“You must fetch your cloak and wear your walking boots,” the chaperone admonished. “It is likely damp out.”
Lydia met Vincent at the door, and he offered her his arm. The cool breeze was indeed a relief after hours of dancing. Appreciatively, he breathed in the scent of rain and newly bloomed roses. A lantern glowed from the parapet above. Vincent waved at Ian, concealing his annoyance. Lydia glanced at Miss Hobson’s reserved figure and sighed. As if by mutual agreement, they walked to the edge of the garden, out of earshot.
“How are you getting on with the dressmakers?” he inquired carefully. He’d lurked in the shadows outside the castle during those sessions, senses tuned for the slightest tremor of danger.
Lydia gave him the first genuine smile he’d seen all evening. “Very well, my lord. Not only have they produced the most exquisite garments I’ve ever seen, they also told me about Thomas Lawrence, my favorite painter. I’ve been wanting to ask—may we visit the Royal Academy and meet him?”
Those clever minxes. Vincent bit back a chuckle. They wish to make certain the painter and I cross paths. At least there is little harm in it. “Perhaps.”
“The flowers are lovely in the moonlight.” Lydia’s voice was oddly tremulous.