by Corwin, Amy
That was a sad admission considering her guardians found gambling nearly irresistible.
“Miss Haywood, you were out on the terrace at Lady Beatrice’s ball a great deal of the evening, were you not?” he asked, grabbing a box of cards and moving to sit with her on the pretext of playing a game of écarte.
Miss Haywood sighed heavily and shook her head. “Your Grace, is there no other topic of conversation you could suggest?”
“Yes,” he held up a hand. “But I beg your indulgence. Do you remember who you saw in the gardens that night?”
“Again?” She folded her hands on the table in front of her. “There was you, of course.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know—I am not very good with names.”
“I am not either,” Nathanial admitted, leaning forward. “But try, or at least describe who you saw.”
“Well, there was that man you were just speaking to a few moments ago.”
Lord Jackson. “Yes? Who else?”
“There was a scowling, stout man. And there was a couple—I believe their name was Phillips.”
Sir Henry, and Lord and Lady Phillips, names he already knew. He nodded impatiently for her to continue.
“There was another man, blond hair….” She rubbed her forehead. “Must we discuss this now? I have the most frightful headache.” Her translucent skin was abnormally pale and a faint crease pinched her brows. “Would it be easier if I were to draw up a list? I will simply provide descriptions for those I cannot name.”
“Yes! Excellent notion!” When he laid his fingers over her clasped hands she pulled them away and placed them in her lap. Her withdrawal increased his determination. “When could you write such a list?” He didn’t really want the information and doubted it would prove useful, but it presented him with the excuse to see her again—perhaps privately.
“I will do my poor best tomorrow morning. Will that be soon enough?”
“I should think so. Thank you, Miss Haywood.”
“You have not seen the list,” she commented dryly. “It may be completely worthless. Now may we conduct a conversation about some other topic? Anything except murder would do.”
He stared at her for a heartbeat before grinning, remembering a rather heated discussion they had started the previous evening. “Certainly. I have been waiting to mention I disagree that Chaucer portrayed women more intelligently than Shakespeare,” he said. He was ill-prepared to resume their literary discussion, but he was determined to keep her near until the tired lines in her face smoothed out.
Miss Haywood laughed at his choice of subjects. He grinned and relaxed, idly shuffling the cards. Not that a discussion with her would be particularly relaxing, but it was good to see her smile.
After their conversation was interrupted the previous night, he had hurried home to search his library for Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and a volume of Shakespeare. To his disgust, he found his shelves contained neither.
Vexed, he’d tried his best to remember what he’d read in school, when he had bothered to read.
He met Miss Haywood’s critical gaze and felt his interest quicken.
A red-gold brow rose. “Have you ever read Shakespeare? Or Chaucer for that matter?”
“Yes. Of course.” He snorted inelegantly and looped an arm over the back of his chair. He idly tapped the frame with his dangling fingers, trying to appear as if he wasn’t aware of every movement she made. It was difficult to focus sitting so near that he could almost feel the warmth rising from her body. A wisp of violet fragrance swirled through the air between them.
If he moved his leg, it would touch hers.
“Well?” she prompted him.
His mind went blank. “Have you considered The Taming of the Shrew?” he asked at last. “Surely you must admit Shakespeare portrays Katherine in a very sympathetic and intelligent light.”
Miss Haywood laughed. “Nonsense. She is a termagant who must be subdued by a man. Contrast that with the wife of Bath and The Knight’s Tale. The wife of Bath is much older, has been married five times, and yet still is considered likely to marry for a sixth time. She is—umm—luscious.”
You are luscious, Nathaniel thought, distracted by the demure line of her bosom.
She continued unaware, her eyes glowing. “Chaucer’s women were not hopelessly old or unmarriageable simply because they passed their twenty-fourth birthday. And The Knight’s Tale showed a true regard for equality between the sexes in marriage. Which of Shakespeare’s plays even comes close to this? Which older women does he portray as lusty and worthy of a man’s love? All of his heroines are young and docile. Nothing but vapid ninnyhammers.”
“I still say that Katherine is portrayed as equally intelligent as her husband. She has spirit.” Damn it, why couldn’t he pay attention? And more importantly, why had not he read more Shakespeare? He couldn’t remember enough to prove his point.
He leaned closer.
Her eyes sparkled, and the pulse in her throat pounded as she mirrored his posture, closing the gap between them. They were so close, a mere hand’s breadth away from touching lips. The scent of violets grew stronger, pulling him nearer.
“And by the end, Katherine’s spirit is all but broken. She is as docile as Bianca.” Miss Haywood drew back an inch, her eyes focused on a spot beyond Nathaniel’s shoulder. Her voice was sad, wistful.
In that instant, he understood the vulnerability beneath her confident exterior. He forced his hands to remain still despite his desire—his need—to take her hand in his.
He replied gently, “Perhaps Shakespeare only meant to say that Katherine’s anger stemmed from a lack of attention, a lack of love. Petruchio loved her—”
“Petruchio dresses in fool’s clothing at their wedding! He berates her in front of the servants—he breaks her spirit!”
“Don’t you believe he had to get her attention to show her he loved her?”
Her voice sounded dull with disappointment when she replied, “He made her obedient. Men believe love is merely obedience, don’t they?”
Her withdrawal left him abandoned, cold despite the warmth of the room around them.
“No,” he said at last, hoping he could find the response that would bring the life back into her face.
“Frankly, the idea of a tame, obedient wife combined with a dull, routine marriage makes me want to visit the closest tavern and drink myself into a stupor.”
Her eyes flashed as she grinned. “My thoughts— precisely.”
Unfortunately, before Nathaniel could formulate a rebuttal to Charlotte’s argument, the Archers wandered in and kidnapped their ward.
With Miss Haywood gone, Nathaniel had no desire to stay at the party. He left abruptly and spent the next day aggravated by Mr. Cooke’s insistence that they go over the household receipts. Nathaniel found it sorely trying to stay bent over his desk staring at small bits of paper.
He couldn’t concentrate. His mind wandered. By the time Cooke left with a smile on his face, Nathaniel wondered if his inattention had made him agree to something he normally would not have.
Day wasted, Nathaniel didn’t get a chance to go to the Archers’ townhouse even though Charlotte’s offer to list everyone she saw in the gardens was the perfect pretext.
Thankfully, another soirée was held that evening. The end of the Season was upon them, and no one wanted to give up a final opportunity to host a party.
Nathaniel waited in his carriage until he saw the Archers arrive and followed them inside. However Miss Haywood didn’t seem as pleased to see him as he anticipated. He found her in the corner of the ballroom, ill-inclined to talk.
When he could not get her to respond to his questions, he found his uncle and asked for an explanation.
Archer harrumphed and rocked back on his heels, clearly trying to decide what to say. “Well, we received a report from Miss Haywood’s estate in, um, South Carolina, I believe they call it. It was not pleasant news, I am afraid.”
“What is wrong?”
“I had not realized that her previous guardians never allowed her to participate in the management of her estates. Rather badly done, if you ask me.”
“And? Get on with it—what is wrong?”
“I may be mistaken, but it appears her agent in the Carolinas may have been slipping a few pounds into his pockets now-and-again.”
“Is she—is she ruined?”
“No,” Archer replied thoughtfully. “I would not say ruined, precisely. But she is not quite as affluent as we had assumed.”
“Does she know?”
“I went over the information with her, but as I mentioned, it was inconclusive. Certainly she is aware that her estates are not as profitable as they once were. The profits have been dwindling steadily for the last eight years.”
Nathaniel swore, running a hand through his hair and thinking of her plans to travel to Egypt. No wonder she was quiet tonight. Her dreams were on the edge of disappearing.
Hurrying back to her, he found her still in the corner, gazing sightlessly into the crowd.
“How are you feeling?” Nathaniel asked. Then, he nearly swore at the idiocy of the question.
“I am quite well, thank you.” She stared at him for a moment. “Does it strike you as odd that men twice your age come to you for advice, simply because you are a duke?” There was something in her voice that made him think she was looking for an argument, some way to distract herself. Nonetheless, her remark felt like salt poured on an open wound. His back stiffened.
“Why don’t we discuss it while we waltz?” he asked, aware that his invitation sounded more like an order.
“I don’t—”
“However, we will.”
He grabbed her wrist and whirled her against him so forcibly she was pressed tightly against his chest. Her body felt warm and supple against his. She gazed up at him in surprise, her eyes wide.
Without thinking, he pulled her closer and brushed her open mouth with his lips. Her mouth felt soft and warm beneath his. He felt her relax, her body languid, before she took a quick breath and pushed him away.
She glanced behind him. “What are you doing? We are in public!”
“I had not noticed,” he replied, his voice hoarse. It was the simple truth. When she was near, the rest of the room vanished into a haze.
“I am not going to waltz with you. Release me at once,” she said through clenched teeth. Her eyes darted past him to the couples surrounding them.
“You are, so you might as well stop protesting.”
They took a step together.
“Don’t you think the nobility are anachronistic?” she asked in dulcet tones.
He grinned wolfishly, bringing her just close enough for her to feel the steel in his arms. She flushed and after a slight push, she gave up.
“No,” he replied coolly. “Not at all.”
“England’s upper classes—the bon ton—are simply leeches. They are no longer necessary,” she said firmly.
With a small shove, she increased the gap between them to what was considered proper. “We have proved that in the United States, have we not? We have a government run by ordinary men—men without titles—and are doing splendidly. What possible need is there for lords and dukes?”
He whirled her around, tightening his grip. Why should he defend his position? His family had earned their titles and took their duties very seriously.
He studied her face, noting again the vulnerable curve to her mouth. “Do you think we do nothing but play cards and dance?” he asked, trying hard to make his tone light.
“Well yes, that is precisely what you do, is it not?”
“You have no idea what our responsibilities are,” he said, circling faster. Her skirts brushed his legs as his gaze lingered on the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
She was so vulnerable and yet….
He was fairly crushed by the responsibilities that came with his title. She showed no sympathy for him. He swallowed his temper and continued in a low tone. “If you bothered to do any research, you would know a duke is responsible for everything regarding his land. We address our tenants’ grievances and ensure the health of the farms. We are responsible for the roads and bridges crossing our properties. We sit in the House of Lords to debate and institute our country’s laws and reforms. In fact, have you forgotten the structure of your own Congress? The House and the Senate, if I am not mistaken? Your government is modeled after our own—” He stopped, awaiting a response.
Her mouth pursed and her eyes remained fixed on his face.
“What are you doing?” he asked, aggravated by her silence.
“Dancing. And listening to you,” she replied demurely.
He choked. “What do you mean, ‘listening?’” He waited for her argument. Surely she would have some ill-informed riposte.
“As I said, I am listening. Do go on.”
“Then you admit you are wrong!”
“I have not come to that conclusion, Your Grace. However I am considering that I may not have been in possession of all the pertinent facts.”
“So you do think I am right!” He was so elated he nearly twirled Miss Haywood into another couple on the floor. After apologizing, he swept her into a small alcove where a few tables were set with refreshments.
“I have not come to that conclusion, precisely. However, I am willing to admit that not all dukes are utterly useless.”
He laughed and was rewarded by her light, breathless giggle. “I am right.”
“I am sure Your Grace has the right to believe anything he wishes.” She accepted the crystal cup of wine punch he handed to her.
“Have you had a chance to make that list, yet?”
“I started it.”
“May I visit tomorrow? It is important.”
“I suppose it is if you wish to prove you are not guilty of murder.”
“I am not guilty.”
“I have no doubt that is true. The Archers have assured me you are perfectly trustworthy.” She made it sound vaguely insulting. She’d obviously been associating with the Archers far too long already. Their penchant for gambling and Archer’s oft-times shady activities made them less respectful of honesty than Nathaniel.
He eyed her sternly. “Why don’t we go in to supper?”
“Certainly. However tell me, Your Grace, have you gotten your Shakespeare yet?” She asked in such an innocent tone that he wanted to strangle her on the spot. “Not yet. Next week. Then we’ll see who portrays women more accurately, Chaucer or Shakespeare.”
“And you will find that on this subject, I am right,” she murmured.
Chapter Thirteen
In order to complete the arrest, the officer must actually touch or restrain the offender. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
The Archer dinner party was held the following night. Nathaniel watched Miss Haywood throughout the meal. Despite Lady Victoria’s attempts to find congenial dinner companions for their ward, Miss Haywood’s blue gaze remained mostly uninterested.
Nathaniel flattered himself by thinking she missed conversing with him. But as he studied her, she seemed withdrawn and silent, more subdued than warranted by her inability to argue with him.
When the meal was over and the musical part of the evening began, Miss Haywood made a hasty exit to the terrace. Nathaniel expected it and followed, wondering if she was going out to observe the moths again. She seemed inordinately fond of insects and night air.
Or perhaps it was just her excuse to escape the cream of British Society.
“Good evening,” Nathaniel said as he eased through the curtains to join her on the terrace.
He heard an exasperated sigh before she faced him.
The crescent moon glowed behind her, leaving her face in shadows. But she clasped her hands in front of her skirt and twisted her fingers as if nervous.
“Miss Haywood?”
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said. She sounded mute
d, sad.
His heart twisted. “What? No ‘Your Mindless Exaltedness’?” he asked, teasing her. He hoped to see the sparkle in her eyes despite the fact that the shadows nearly prevented him from seeing any expression at all.
She stiffened. “I hope you will forgive me that nonsense. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t be insipid,” he replied bracingly. “Surely you don’t think I am such a stuffed shirt that I cannot take a little teasing.”
For several seconds, he thought she would not answer. She turned slightly, her profile dark against the moonlit sky. The sad slope of her lips made him think she was frowning. “No. I didn’t think that. At least, I don’t think so. Now.”
“Did you have a chance to finish the list?”
“Yes.”
When she started to leave, he stopped her. “Don’t go. You don’t have to get it now.”
“I can send a maid after it. The list is in my room.”
“There is time. I will come tomorrow.”
She nodded and then seemed to forget he was there.
“Are you out here looking for moths? The Buttoned Snout?”
Her head snapped in his direction. “You remembered?”
“How could I forget?” he said lightly. “And the Garden Tiger, was it not?” He couldn’t resist showing off that he could remember a few things. “It is a trifle early for them, is it not?”
“Perhaps. I was never really sure. It flew away….”
“If you ever wish to go moth-hunting, I can—I mean—I am willing—that is….”
She laughed, but he heard the unmistakable razor’s edge of bitterness in the sound. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. I would never suggest you accompany me. I know you fear being compromised. I have no wish to place you in an awkward position.”
He touched her arm, feeling protective and ashamed. “I don’t fear that.”
In all the years she had been in England, it was apparent no one had ever tried to make Miss Haywood feel at home. The Archer family, mad though it was, extended fierce loyalty and love to all its members, regardless of rank or position. He could not imagine what his life would have been like without his sisters, Oriana and Helen, and his uncle. His heart still ached when he remembered his elder brother, killed during the war with France.