Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  “Said the pot to the kettle,” inserted Sussex under his breath.

  “You shall each,” His Majesty demanded, “be given your particular marching orders in one hour’s time. While I should let all of you stew about your ultimate fate, I find . . . I cannot. I warn that exile from London, marriage, continuation of ducal lines, a newfound fellowship with sobriety, and a long list of additional duties await each of you.”

  “Temperance, marriage, and rutting. Well, at least one of the three is tolerable,” the Duke of Abshire on Alex’s other side opined darkly and discreetly.

  Alex could not let this farce continue. “Majesty, I appreciate the invitation to join this noble circle of renegades but—”

  “It’s not an invitation, Kress,” the Prince Regent interrupted. “And by the by, have you forgotten your return to straightened circumstances if this column is correct? You shall be the first to receive your task.”

  “An order is more like it,” the Duke of Barry warned quietly. The solemn man wore a distinctive green military uniform that reminded Alex of his own dark past. A past that would infuriate the Prince Regent if he but knew of it.

  Prinny glanced about the chamber in an old rogue’s fit of pique. “Kress, you shall immediately retire to your principal seat—St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall. Since a large portion of the blame for last evening rests squarely on your shoulders, I hereby require you to undertake the restoration of that precious pile of rubble, for the public considers it a long neglected important outpost for England’s security. Many have decried its unseemly state.”

  A departure from London was the very last thing he would do. He hated any hint of countrified living. The cool lick of an idea slid into his mind and he smiled. “But, according to that column, I’ve no fortune to do so, Your Majesty.”

  Prinny’s face grew red with annoyance. “You are to use funds from my coffers for the time being. But you shall repay my indulgence when you take a bride from a list of impeccable young ladies of fine lineage and fine fortunes”—Prinny nodded to a page who delivered a document into Alex’s hands—“within a month’s time.”

  Candover made the mistake of showing a hint of teeth.

  Alex Barclay, formerly Viscount Gaston, with pockets to let in simpler times, felt his contrarian nature rise like a dragon from its lair, but knew enough to say not a word. The ice of his English father’s blood had never been very effective in cooling the boiling crimson inherited from his French mother.

  “And you, my dear Candover,” the prince continued, “shall have the pleasure of following him, along with Sussex and Barry, for a house party composed of all the eligibles. While you are exempt at the moment from choosing a new bride, as homage must be paid to your jilted fiancée, I shall count on you to keep the rest of these scallywags on course.”

  Candover’s smile disappeared. “Have you nothing to say to His Majesty, Kress?” The richest of all the dukes coolly stepped forward to face Alex and tapped his fingers against a polished rosewood table in the opulent room seemingly dipped in gold, marble, and every precious material in between. The rarefied air positively reeked of royal architects gone amok.

  When Alex’s silence continued, all rustling around him eventually stopped. “Thank you,” Alex murmured, “but . . . no thank you.”

  Candover’s infernal tapping ceased. “No? Whatever do you mean?” A storm of disapproval, mixed with jaded humor erupted all around him.

  Oh, Alex knew it was only a matter of time before he would capitulate to the demands, but he just hadn’t been able to resist watching the charade play out to its full potential.

  The Prince Regent’s face darkened from pale green to dark purple. It was a sight to behold. “And let me add, Kress, one last incentive. Don’t think I have not heard the whispers questioning your allegiance to England. If I learn there is one shred of truth to the notion that you may have worn a frog uniform, I won’t shed a single tear if you are brought before the House of Lords and worse. Care to reconsider your answer?”

  It had been amusing to think that life would improve with his elevation. But then, he habitually failed to remember that whenever he had trotted on happiness in the past, there had always, always been de la merde—or rather, manure—on his heels in the end.

  The only question now was how soon he could extricate himself from a ramshackle island prison to return to the only world where he had ever found peace . . . London.

  Chapter 1

  Falling off a cliff was not the way Roxanne Vanderhaven had ever imagined she would die. It was far too dramatic for someone who led such an unremarkable life as she.

  This absurd thought filtered through her mind as the sodden precipice high above Kynance Cliff gave way beneath her feet. She twisted and clawed at the jagged face of the crag during the terrifying descent toward the crashing surf far below.

  Miraculously, her hand caught a stunted piece of scrub thirty feet down as a shower of stones pelted her. “Lawrence!” she gasped. “Oh, God, help me.”

  “Roxanne, Roxanne, where are you?” Her husband’s voice echoed high above her.

  She coughed, barely able to breathe for all the dirt. “Help,” she choked out, her heart in her throat. Grime burned her eyes but she didn’t dare close them.

  “If you can hear me, darling Roxanne,” Lawrence called out to her, “I’m off to find help—or a bit of rope.”

  Just then the roots of the half-dead bush loosened and she slipped a few more inches downward, her feet finding purchase on a small jut of rock. A moment later, a large boulder plummeted past her shoulder, glanced off one of the ancient fragments of rock standing tall in the violent sea, and disappeared into the swirling depths.

  Lord, she really was going to die.

  The roaring in her ears almost blocked out the faint neighing of one of the carriage horses as the pair presumably galloped away under Lawrence’s hand. She was paralyzed, barely daring to breathe lest her perch disintegrate.

  Roxanne darted another glance below the crook of her arm and quickly shut her eyes against a burst of dizzying nausea. Her favorite hat, the lace blue confection her father had given her on her wedding day, lost the fight to gravity and fell from her head only to crash below. She dared not look.

  Why, oh, why had she ventured so close to the edge? She was such a fool. Everyone knew to stay clear of cliffs, especially after a storm. It was just that she adored her dog and had not been thinking properly when he went missing.

  Not five minutes ago, her husband had stopped the curricle and looked at her sadly. “I’m so sorry, my dear, but I really do think dear Edward went over. See his trail in those grasses over yonder? You know how he loves to give chase to the rabbits in the warrens here. So many dogs perish this way each year. Perhaps we should have a look?”

  Desperate, Roxanne had run into the thick sea oats bordering the edge, her love for her dog overcoming her good sense. A gust of wind at her back had fluttered the loose ribbons of her hat before . . . Oh, she wished she could turn back time.

  Roxanne sagged against the cliff face and clenched the prickly branch tighter, refusing to acknowledge the numbness already invading her arms. How long could she hold on? How long before the rock she stood on might give way? She began to count seconds, then minutes, in an effort to retain her sanity. She concentrated on the rich scent of the minerals and earth so familiar to a miner’s daughter. Oh, how she wished she was stuck in a mine. At least there she would find calm in the familiar darkness.

  Her muscles burned from the effort to remain motionless. Surely, it would not be much above a half hour before Lawrence returned. The minutes ticked by with maddening sluggishness.

  At first she thought she imagined it . . . but, no . . . There it was again, sounds drifting above her. Lawrence was surely back.

  No. It was Eddie’s raucous yowling that pierced the air. A few pebbles trickled past her, and she glanced skyward only to see her dog’s clownlike piebald face looking down at her. He howled.
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  “No, Eddie! Go away.” She urged him to quit the dangerous rim, but he would not. Lord, it was severely concave below the long ledge, only the tight weave of tall grasses had held the edge intact when the rains had eaten away at the cliff. In her effort to see better, one foot slipped and her leg swung wildly before she found a better foothold in one of the deep cracks of the hardened clay.

  She bit back any further words. She had to concentrate on not moving.

  It could have been an hour, perhaps two. Lord knew, it felt like twenty, but at some point Roxanne had the uneasy sensation that too much time had lapsed. The intervals between Eddie’s rounds of barking and silence grew too long. If she hadn’t been so scared, she would have cried. It appeared even her dog was giving up hope.

  What could have happened to Lawrence? The lane from here to Paxton Hall was a straight, easy distance without any hint of danger. The horses were dependable. Could her husband have suffered apoplexy in his distress? Her mind considered a thousand different possibilities, all increasingly ridiculous. Lawrence was in exceptional good health for a gentleman in his third decade. Surely at this minute he was gathering a troop of people to help and devising a brilliant scheme to rescue her.

  She could no longer feel any portion of her hands and arms. It was as if they had become petrified. Even her legs, which were strong from long walks along the sinuous paths of her childhood, began to tremble with fatigue.

  And then she realized she had made a critical mistake. The tide was retreating. She might have had a better chance if she had shoved away from the cliff face earlier and fallen into the sea. Now it was becoming shallower by the minute. She closed her eyes. She was going mad. With those jagged rock formations below, she would not have had a prayer of a chance.

  When the first gust of cooling wind cut through the languor of the long, hot summer afternoon, Roxanne’s mind reeled with the realization that Lawrence was not going to return.

  And he had probably known all along that the ledge would easily give way. Had he not walked to the nearby promontory point only yesterday in his never-ending horticultural quest to find the rare Kidney Vetch? He must have seen the precarious state of the cliff from that vantage point. And had he not suggested she take a closer look?

  Sod it all.

  She had to face the cold, hard truth. She was married to a handsome, blackhearted, calculating, murderous clod.

  Hope whimpered one last time. Nothing made sense. She ran the estate with care and precision, took an interest in every detail from sheep shearing to soap making. She arranged country balls for neighboring noble families, brought baskets to the poor and infirm, and oversaw the creation of a school for less fortunate children in the parish. Most importantly, she saw to Lawrence’s every need before he even realized he wanted something. Her husband had only to engage in the gentlemanly pursuits he favored—his horticultural experiments, riding to hounds, evenings with neighboring members of the peerage, and reading journals.

  Her aim in life was to provide Lawrence his ease, anticipate every need in the household, oversee the entire estate during Lawrence’s trips to search out new, exotic plants, and to do him proud as his countess. The worst thing that could be said was that she was not of noble birth, but she had thought her immense dowry eight years ago had helped Lawrence overlook her father’s very prosperous tin and copper mines. Then again, he’d never liked the stink of trade.

  She was being ridiculous. Had he not always called her his perfect wife?

  Oh, she was perfect all right. Perfectly stupid.

  The Duke of Kress halted at the end of the eastern sandy path and dismounted his favorite new possession, Bacchus, a fine prize of a beast. He had purchased the striking black stallion before the night of debauchery because the steed gave the appearance of a brave, yet elegant warhorse suitable for someone on his way up in the world.

  But during the endless ride down from London, Alex had determined three things. First, he should have taken a carriage. Second, the stallion might be a looker, but he had the most bone-jarring gait of any creature foolish enough to carry a man on his back. And thirdly—and perhaps worst of all—the animal was an out and out ninny-hammered, vain coward.

  The horse refused to allow his hooves to be dirtied by a single drop of muddy water—not even the smallest puddle would he cross. The animal did not like to travel long distances and complained long and loud if the bedding and feed were not to his liking. Bacchus shied from anything and everything that moved in the countryside—birds, leaves, other horses, even, it appeared, small, harmless dogs. His horse, in short, reminded him of . . . almost every female, Alex thought with a half-smile.

  He liked him very much.

  The mongrel, dashing in circles around them, produced the most godforsaken howling noises in between those high-pitched yips and yowls. Bacchus’s ears lay flat, and his raised hind leg promised swift corporal punishment.

  The dog stopped to dance a jig in front of him, as if he were bred for herding. The mongrel was truly the ugliest canine in creation. Wiry white hair covered the short-legged creature, save for one large patch of black encircling his eye—his only eye. Lopsided ears framed his uncomely head—one stood up at attention, the other drooped in retreat.

  “Away with you,” Alex demanded halfheartedly. “Go on, then.”

  The dog sat down and cocked his head.

  Alex removed his hat and raked back his hair. Damn, but it was hot. And now he was lost yet again. It had been madness to embark on this trip without a forward rider at the very least.

  It had been absurd. But he’d had little choice given the Prince Regent’s fury. Indeed, he’d been ordered to decamp Town within an hour of that memorable morning-after audience.

  Well, he would just have a look at the coast for a recognizable landmark—not that he knew a bloody thing about Cornwall—and then he would return the way he had come until he found a signpost or a person to guide him.

  He made a motion to remount, and the dog immediately lunged and closed his ineffective jaws around the ankle of Alex’s boot. The cur made an awful whimpering sound, and dug in his paws in an effort to drag him away from Bacchus.

  While he could not feel the dog’s teeth, this made for another perfect moment to add to another wretched day on a journey that would not end. “Let go, damn you,” he said with a laugh.

  The dog obeyed at once and emitted a long whine that ended on a yawn as he sat back on his haunches.

  “Stay,” he ordered, and then sighed when the animal whined again. Alex turned and strode along the path parallel to the cliff, searching for a better vantage point. Strangely, the dog did not move. Oh, but the howling. The hound sounded like a dying cat.

  The trail curved outward to the sea, toward a lower promontory point, and he followed it. After many minutes, he stepped onto a secure rocky ridge and scanned the vast wild beauty of the coastal landscape and crimson rays of the setting sun. Not twenty miles to the southwest, he could see his future—St. Michael’s Mount. The magnificent castle was perched on an outcropping of granite, rising from Mount’s Bay. All was swathed in an eerie, golden mist.

  A long-dormant emotion pushed past the hard edges of Alex’s heart and a sudden sense of déjà vu filled him. He forced the emotion back into the compartment he rarely opened.

  Throwing out his arms, he embraced the strong wind that had traveled all the way across the Bay of Biscay from France and now whistled past him. What in hell was wrong with him? He was not normally given to such theatrics. He abruptly dropped his arms. Lord, he hoped this was not one of the effects of becoming a duke. He would have to guard against it in future.

  His eyes suddenly caught on the bobbing white form of the dog higher up on the cliff to his right. A blue and gray length of material fluttered near the edge. His gaze moved lower.

  Christ . . .

  He started running before his mind could form words. A female was clinging to the cliff face, her skirts billowing. “I see you,” he s
houted as he ran, yanking off his gloves and coat. “Damn it, don’t let go—don’t bloody move.”

  Alex stripped Bacchus of every last bit of tack and quickly cobbled together the oddest length of salvation. A pair of reins buckled end to end and attached to the saddle’s cinching, followed by a lead shank. The dog danced and yipped, urging his efforts. He added the durable portion of the bridle and breast strap for good measure.

  Crawling, like the former Hussar he had been, toward the edge where the dog danced and howled, he hoped for the kind of luck that always eluded him. “Hey, ho . . . Can you hear me?”

  “Here,” a hoarse voice called out. “I’m here. Oh, please hurry I’m . . .” The rest of her wispy voice was carried away by the wind buffeting the coast.

  “Lowering a line,” he barked, putting his words into motion. “Shout when you see it.”

  He continued to let out length after length of buckled leather and cinching.

  “A little to the right and . . .”

  And what? He hoped it was to her right. He adjusted the angle and stopped.

  “I’ve . . . ”

  He lowered a few inches more of the breast strap. His muscles tensed.

  “ . . . got it.”

  He let out his breath. “Wrap the end around your arm and secure it.” He gave her as much of the rest of the makeshift line as he dared. “I’m going to pull at your signal. Whatever happens, don’t let go. Shout if you need me to stop.”

  The dog was in a frenzy, running to and fro, but thankfully now silent. Alex moved as far away as the end of the line would allow and dug his heels into the moist, grassy earth.

  “Ready.” The word floated on the same updraft a gray and gold falcon used to rise and troll the cliffs.

  Lord, he hoped she wasn’t stouter than the line could bear. It was going to be hellish as it was. He gripped the end around his arms and wrist to anchor it and then slowly he backed away from the precipice.