The Duke of Ice

by Burke, Darcy

  He refused to end up there again.

  Chapter 16

  Four days later, Nick rode through Hyde Park, the November wind biting through his clothing. He didn’t feel a thing. He hadn’t felt anything since he’d left Bath.

  He’d visited Violet the evening before his departure. They physician had just left, and Nick was glad to have missed him. Chalke reported that the man still suggested nothing to improve her condition. Beyond frustrated, Nick had found an accomplished physician in London upon his arrival and paid him handsomely to attend Violet in Bath.

  He’d received an update in the post that morning: Violet regained consciousness periodically but was too exhausted to do anything but eat and drink before falling back to sleep.

  Nick had to admit he’d lost hope that she would recover. That, or he’d convinced himself that he couldn’t care. This was too familiar, too painful. He’d rather move on without her of his own accord than risk losing her.

  The question was how to move on. In the time they’d recently spent together, she’d become a part of his life. He liked having someone to talk to, someone he looked forward to seeing. He didn’t want to go back to being the lonely Duke of Ice. Well, the lonely part anyway. He was destined to live behind his frigid wall. He couldn’t see another way.

  He considered running off as Simon had done. Maybe they could travel the Isles together.

  Consumed with his thoughts, he caught sight of another rider just before he rode directly into his—her—path. He realized at the last moment that the rider was using a sidesaddle.

  “Your Grace?”

  He vaguely recognized the voice, and once he’d calmed Oberon, he looked over at her. “Miss Kingman.”

  The petite brunette smiled. “Yes. I’m so pleased you remembered me.”

  “How could I forget? You were a charming presence at the house party. I enjoyed our tour of the cathedral.”

  Her eyes flickered with surprise, making him wonder what he’d done.

  She seemed to sense his confusion and let out a light laugh. “I didn’t realize you’d enjoyed it. That makes me quite happy.”

  Right, because he’d left the cathedral in a rush, following behind Simon. Plus, he’d behaved like an ass for a majority of the party. Hell, he’d behaved like an ass for years. And suddenly, he’d regained his ability to be pleasant.

  Because of Violet. He had to credit her.

  His chest tightened, and he pushed her from his mind. “What brings you to London?” he asked.

  “This is where we live primarily.” Miss Kingman glanced toward his black armband. “Are you going to Windsor for the funeral?”

  It was in a few days. “Yes, that’s why I’ve come.”

  She nodded, and he expected to see sadness in her eyes or that she would comment on the tragedy. Instead, she said, “At least she isn’t in pain any longer.”

  Her manner was so matter-of-fact, so…unemotional that it jarred him. Over the past several days, the miasma of melancholy that pervaded every corner of London had overwhelmed him. The pall had threatened to send him to cower in his bed for the duration of his stay.

  Miss Kingman’s pragmatism was a welcome respite.

  “Yes, that is a blessing,” he said.

  “It’s frightening, though, isn’t it?” she said serenely, without a hint of apprehension to accompany her question. “Bearing a child, I mean. I’m not sure I’d want to try.” Her frame shuddered delicately.

  “I’m sure your husband will want you to.”

  She pursed her lips briefly and exhaled. “Yes, I’m sure he will.”

  “I wouldn’t.” He surprised himself by saying this. “I lost my first wife in childbed. And the child later.”

  “I’d heard that.” Again she refrained from belaboring the tragedy of it. “But what of your title? You need an heir.”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t meant to inherit—the title came to me after a series of unfortunate events.” He opted not to say tragic since she seemed quite fine with leaving emotion out of their conversation. “There are others it will pass to.”

  “Well, then I can see why you aren’t inclined to marry,” she said with a smile. “How splendid.”

  “Splendid?” He was confused by her remarks. “You sound as if you are not in favor of marriage. Forgive me for saying so, but I had the distinct impression at the house party that you were on the Marriage Mart.”

  “According to my father, yes. He’s hoping to match me with a grand title—like yours.”

  Sir Barnard had made that quite clear every time he’d spoken with Nick at the house party. “He just wants what’s best for you, I think.”

  She let out a rather unladylike snort, showing him a side of her he hadn’t seen at the party. “He wants what will elevate his position. If he truly cared what I wanted, he’d let me choose my own husband. Or not.”

  Yes, he had to conclude she was definitely not in favor of marriage. “You don’t wish to marry.”

  She glanced back toward her groom, who was stationed several yards behind her. “I didn’t mean to be so forthcoming. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I admire forthrightness.” It was one of the things he’d loved about Violet. When they’d first met, she hadn’t played the part of a blushing young lady out to woo a suitor. She’d been honest and plainspoken. He squeezed the thoughts of her from his mind.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She patted her horse’s neck. It was a fine animal, and from what he could tell, she had an excellent seat.

  “I’m terribly sorry for nearly colliding with you,” he said.

  “You didn’t come very close. Anyway, I’m skilled enough to have avoided you if necessary. I like athletic activity. Aside from swimming. Although I think perhaps I should learn in case I go tumbling out of a boat again. Thankfully I had a knight—rather, a duke—to save me.”

  “It was my pleasure. I enjoy the water, particularly fishing.”

  “I love to fish. But of course, the ladies weren’t allowed to at the party.”

  She liked to fish? “Have you ever fished in the ocean?” When she shook her head he said, “I live on the coast. It’s quite invigorating. Fishing in the waves is a bit different.”

  “I’d like to try that someday.” Again, she looked over her shoulder. “I should be getting home. It was a pleasure to see you, Your Grace.”

  “For me as well.”

  “I hope our paths will cross again while you’re in Town.” She inclined her head then kicked her horse into a canter.

  As he watched her go, her groom following, he realized he felt lighter than he had in days. Miss Kingman had been a welcome breath of serenity in the chaos of his life. He appreciated her undemonstrative demeanor and her candor. It was a pity she didn’t want to marry, for she really would make an excellent wife. She’d be a charming hostess, and she’d be undemanding. Furthermore, without children, one needn’t worry about losing them. He realized with a start that she was precisely the kind of woman he’d told Simon he wanted.

  But was that still true after he’d rediscovered Violet and what they’d shared?

  Hell yes. It was even more true now, since her accident. He wasn’t the man he’d been eight years ago, no matter how hard he’d tried to recapture that magical time he’d spent with her.

  Damn. She would have gotten her hopes up, despite them taking each day as it came. He was angry with himself for going to Bath and opening her up to heartache. She deserved better. She deserved happiness and light and warmth—things he couldn’t give her. Maybe it was time to set her free from the past and free from her tether to a beast like him.

  * * *

  “Surely I can take a walk around the garden,” Violet insisted.

  Her mother, lips pressed into a thin, white line, stared down at her. “The physician said you needed another week of rest.”

  She’d already been in bed ten days. Or so she’d been told. She didn’t remember much before about
five days ago. Apparently, she’d fallen on the sidewalk and become quite ill as a result. She’d suffered debilitating headaches, barely able to lift her head from the pillow, and her vision had been blurry. Today was the first time she wasn’t seeing two of everything.

  She blinked at her mother, glad there weren’t two of her anymore because, really, one was more than enough. “Then I should at least be able to walk around the room.”

  Her mother scoffed. “You’re a terrible patient.”

  Violet wanted to suggest she leave, but held her tongue. Instead, she glanced toward Chalke, who gave her a sympathetic smile. The maid had apologized many times for notifying her parents of Violet’s injury.

  At least Hannah would be arriving soon. She would have come before, but one of her children had been ill.

  If only Nick would return. But he’d needed to attend the princess’s funeral. Violet looked back toward her mother. “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday, the nineteenth.” She walked to the window where she had a chair situated in which she did needlepoint. Constantly.

  “Is the funeral today?” Violet asked. They’d discussed it a few times, but she couldn’t quite recall.

  “Yes,” her mother answered. “At Windsor. Now that you’re feeling better, I’m looking forward to hearing all about your time with the Queen. How splendid that you met her.” Mother had brought this subject up several times. “Maybe next time she’s in town, you’ll invite me to come.”

  The implication was clear—why hadn’t Violet extended her influence to her mother? Maybe because she found her mother’s company grating and her behavior self-serving. She and Father had worked very hard to purchase a titled groom, largely so they could enjoy the benefits. They’d been far sorrier than Violet when Clifford had died.

  “I do believe it’s time for luncheon,” Chalke said, bustling to the side of the bed and needlessly adjusting Violet’s bedcovers. “Then it’s probably best if Lady Pendleton rests.”

  “I could do with a walk myself,” Violet’s mother said, looking out at the garden below. She flashed a smile at her daughter. “I’ll walk for you, how’s that?”

  “That’s perfect, thank you.” Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  After her mother departed, Chalke patted Violet’s arm. “Hopefully she won’t stay much longer. Now that you’re on the mend, I think your father plans to leave.”

  It was just as well. He was anxious to get back to the brood of puppies his favorite hound had just birthed. Violet couldn’t really tell if he was glad to see her or not. Her mother had at least demonstrated concern and care, helping to feed and dress Violet, much to Violet’s chagrin. She hated taking help from her, as irrational as that was.

  “Has there been no word from Nick?” Violet asked Chalke.

  The maid shook her head. “Not yet, but don’t fret. The physician he sent is drafting a letter right now to inform him of your positive progress. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.”

  Violet could only imagine how distraught he must be. He’d already been a wreck following the princess’s death, and Chalke had told her of his anguish following Violet’s injury. She hated that he was at the funeral alone and wished she could be by his side to offer support. And love.

  “Hear from who?” Her mother came sailing back into the room. “I forgot my needlepoint.” She didn’t go anywhere without it.

  “No one, just a friend,” Violet said. She didn’t want to tell her mother about him, not when she’d ruined their happiness eight years ago. A small voice at the back of her head told her it might well be worth her mother’s reaction to learn that the man she’d prevented her daughter from marrying was now a duke.

  Mother picked up her embroidery and walked to the side of the bed. “He must be a good friend if you’re hoping to hear from him.” Her coffee-brown eyes lit up with interest. “Dare I hope you’re planning to remarry?”

  Not planning, but she had to admit she was hoping. She wasn’t sure about Nick, however. She wanted him, loved him, but feared he was trapped in the web of past tragedies.

  “Not at present.” Violet glanced toward Chalke.

  “He must be someone important if he sent a physician to care for you. Perhaps I’ll just ask him.” In other words, she’d find out who “he” was one way or another.

  Violet decided to listen to the voice in the back of her aching head. “It’s the Duke of Kilve. We’ve actually been acquainted for some time. We met here in Bath eight years ago.”

  Her mother looked aghast, her eyes widening and her hand fluttering to her chest. “You met a duke eight years ago? How did we not know about this? My sister would have told me.”

  Violet’s aunt would have told her, if he’d been a duke. “His name was Nicholas Bateman. He wasn’t a duke then.”

  Mother’s eyes widened even more—to the point that Violet feared they would pop right out of her head. “That… Oh. How wonderful that he’s a duke now and that you’ve found your way back to each other.” She didn’t look apologetic in the slightest. But had Violet really expected that? She was satisfied that she’d at least registered shock.

  Still, she couldn’t resist needling her a little. “Just imagine if I’d been allowed to marry him. I’d be a duchess.”

  The wrinkled flesh around her mother’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you will be after all.”

  “You mustn’t count on it, Mother,” Violet said. “The Duke and I are friends, nothing more.” She kept her gaze averted from Chalke’s, lest they reveal the truth. She and Nick were more than friends, but how much more? And for how long?

  “It’s not as if you and Father will be able to persuade him into marriage.” As they’d practically bribed Clifford—a viscount in need of funds—to wed her. “He doesn’t need anything.” Except the ability to put the past behind him and reach for a happy future. The question was if he’d changed too much to do that, if he was too weighed down with the burden of loss.

  “I suppose not.” Mother’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t he have one of those nicknames?” She looked at the ceiling as if she’d find the answer hidden in the carved plaster. She shook her head. “Ah well, I’ll remember. Have a good lunch and rest, dear.” She left again, and Violet relaxed into the pillows.

  “How’s your head?” Chalke asked with concern.

  “It hurts again.”

  Chalke stared at the doorway where Violet’s mother had just gone. “Yes, I imagine it does. I’ll fetch some soup and willow-bark tea for your headache. Then, if you’d like, I could read to you until you fall asleep.”

  Violet settled into the bed, which was beginning to feel more and more like a prison cell. She wished she could go after Nick, to be the light he surely needed right now. Would he let her?

  Chapter 17

  The day after the princess’s funeral, Nick had contemplated returning to Bath. However, the prevalent aura of grief had worked its way into his heart and mind, thrusting him back to the dark period following the loss of Jacinda and Elias. As a result, he stayed in his room all day, and the day after, he’d ventured only as far as his study downstairs.

  He’d received a brief note from Violet’s physician notifying him that she was improving, but that the progress was slow. His relief hadn’t been enough to drive him back to Bath. He was too numb. And afraid. The threat of losing Violet in his current state of despair had incapacitated him. He’d fought against the shadows of the past and was now battling the darkness of the present. Just as he’d decided to try to live again, really live, disaster had struck, reminding him that he was cursed.

  He wanted to go back to feeling protected, even if it meant he was alone. Over the past five years, and particularly the last three, he’d found a way to manage his grief and loss. Allowing Violet close had opened him back up to that pain. As much as he cared for her, as much as he loved her—and he did—he didn’t want to be vulnerable. His heart couldn’t bear it if she were taken from him, so it was best that he retrea
t behind his wall of ice.

  Pulling on his gloves, he strode to the hall, where his butler hovered near the door.

  “I’m going for a ride.”

  Bexham, Nick’s London butler, an imperious man of nearly sixty years, reached for the door. “It’s good to see you back to your regular self, Your Grace.”

  Nick didn’t know what his regular self looked or felt like anymore. Violet had reminded him that he was Nicholas Bateman, and yet he was as much the Duke of Ice as he’d ever been.

  After an invigorating run in Hyde Park, Nick felt marginally better. He picked his way back toward the gate, and, as had happened on the days prior to the funeral, he came across Miss Kingman.

  She drew her mount to a halt just off the path, and he moved his horse to stand alongside hers. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. I’d despaired of seeing you here again. I was afraid you’d left London after the funeral.”

  He should have, but he’d shut himself away instead. “I’ve been busy.”

  If she detected any upset in his tone—which he didn’t see how she could—she didn’t reflect it. He had the sense that even if he had displayed a flash of emotion, she would have ignored it. Their conversations had been devoid of weight or importance. They’d talked of fishing, the ocean, and her parents’ appalling desperation for her to wed someone Important.

  “I hope you weren’t reading the newspaper,” she said, for the first time revealing a hint of something…anxiety judging by the tense set of her jaw and the glint of concern in her eye.

  “No.” He’d read Hamlet, which had suited his mood, and then a horrid novel, undoubtedly placed next to his bed by Rand, who’d most certainly gotten it from Bexham, who, amusingly, possessed a small library of such work.

  “Ah, well. There’s a bit of…speculation about you and me. Our rendezvous here in the park have been noted.”

  The first thing he thought of was her parents and their desire to see her upwardly wed. “I’m certain your father is thrilled.”