Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  “Courage?” She widened her eyes in astonishment. “Courage? Why, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. What has this to do with courage? You were about to take liberties.”

  He stepped closer. “Liberties? I’ve never heard it called that before. Only an Englishwoman would call it liberties.” He made a funny face when he said the word. “Sounds almost revolutionary.”

  “And only a Frenchman would suggest a kiss was courageous.”

  “So you think I was about to kiss you?” He said it with such innocence on his face that now she was the one who felt like a fool.

  Perhaps he hadn’t meant to kiss her at all.

  “Not that I think it would be a bad idea,” he continued dispassionately. “Not a bad idea at all. While I’ll not risk stealing a kiss from any of the simpering virgins setting their sights on me here, you are different. And both of us know nothing can come of it. But I think it’s obvious that there is a certain attraction between us and—”

  “So you admit you like me,” she interrupted.

  “Of course, who could not admire an irregular woman such as you?”

  “So I’m irregular? Sounds singularly unattractive. Like a grammatical problem actually.”

  “Not at all. Your face is a symphony of features blended to perfection, and your manner? Nothing but pluck mixed with verve.”

  “I’ve never liked compliments.”

  He laughed. “Of course you don’t.”

  She tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Well, I’m married.”

  “No,” he said slowly. “You’re dead.”

  “And that makes it better?” she blustered and then changed course. “You know, perhaps I like Sussex more.”

  “Impossible.” The slight French accent made her all the more nervous.

  Ah, but there was a spark of worry in his eyes, she was certain.

  “He at least had the decency to ask me to dance before he might try to kiss me.”

  “So you will kiss a man who you dance with but not the man who saved you, and also took the trouble to attend your funeral? Not to mention housing and clothing you without anything more than an ugly ring in return?”

  “Exactly,” she retorted.

  “Then I claim the second dance.”

  “You haven’t even named the date of a soirée.”

  “But, of course, I did. If you hadn’t left your funeral early . . . It’s June twenty-sixth, at the ungodly early hour of seven o’clock for those we must feed, nine o’clock for those we must water.”

  “Well, perhaps I will be too hot from dancing the first with Sussex.”

  “Then, perhaps I should warn you that your husband has invited himself, so you might want to reconsider dancing altogether.”

  She suddenly felt deflated.

  The duke paused, and then tilted up her chin to examine her face.

  “You’re not going to cry are you?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m not the sort who cries about being an idiot for marrying a man who tried to kill me.”

  Alex had the most unnerving way of looking at her. She had not a clue what he was thinking, and she very much feared he knew precisely every last thought in her head. She lifted her chin.

  “You’re not going to attend the ball,” he said slowly.

  “That’s not what I was thinking.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Then what, pray tell, were you thinking?”

  She was so glad females had much quicker brains than men. “That you should be forewarned about my dear husband’s unusual diet.”

  His brows drew together, and a funny wrinkle appeared between them. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He only eats things with eyes.”

  “And dare I ask why he would do that?” Faint amusement teased the corners of his mouth.

  “He loves plants so well, he always said he could never kill fruits and vegetables and grains, only animals.”

  “What about potatoes? Potatoes have eyes.”

  She rolled her own.

  “Delightful,” he said dryly. “Well, then I shall terrify him with bloody raspberries and carrots, and maybe even fresh-cut asparagus, but not a hint of meat, fish, or fowl. I shall tell everyone that evening that I do not eat anything containing a heart except artichokes. It shall also have the added benefit of making the neighboring families think twice before accepting any future invitations.”

  She felt an enormous grin overtaking her. “It would be delicious to see the expression on his face during dinner.”

  “Look . . .” He exhaled roughly. “Much as it would entertain us both, I must ask you not to go about spying. I think Candover and the Prince Regent himself would publicly execute me on the spot if even a breath of scandal emits from the Mount.”

  “Well then, why are you helping me?”

  “Lord only knows.”

  Chapter 6

  She had the worst sense of déjà vu.

  When Roxanne had been two and ten, during the era when the former Earl of Paxton had resided at the estate that would one day become her home, she had shimmied up a tree and spied on the guests of a summer ball. Mesmerized by the shimmering ball gowns of every hue and design, she had clung to a branch in the shadows and watched the couples dance. Never had she seen so many beeswax candles dripping and glowing from chandeliers, wall sconces, and candelabras.

  It had been simply intoxicating. She had envisioned herself perfumed, and bedecked in finery, with a dance card overflowing with lords’ names on her wrist, all whilst smiling behind the back of a Chinese silk fan with a handsome gentleman before her. And he was smiling back at her, drowning in all the witticisms she would utter.

  Her vivid imagination had never served her well in her childhood.

  Now she was two decades older and wiser. But she was back in the shadows all over again. The only difference was that she was not up in a tree, but behind it; and it was St. Michael’s Mount, not Paxton Hall. At least she had no interest in trading barbs with any of the gentlemen she spied through the windows.

  She had enough of that every time she saw the Duke of Kress, whether she liked it or not. And she rather feared she liked it too much.

  But right now she was far more interested in how she could scare her husband into an early grave. The skunk was sweating all over a petite dark-haired young lady Roxanne knew from their neighborhood. Miss Lillian Tillworth, possessor of a very modest dowry, was just out of the schoolroom. Barely.

  And they were waltzing.

  Anger had finally gotten the better of her self-pity.

  Why? Why had he left her to die such a horrid death? Alex might think it had to do with her fortune. But Lawrence had no way of ever finding it, nor was he even certain of its existence. And here he was falling all over the charms of a dainty miss without a fortune. Had she been a nagging wife? Or was the stink of trade on her person just too odious for her high and mighty husband?

  Lawrence’s black hair was drawn up in a fashionable queue, and he was wearing his finest blue coat; his lapel bore one of his ridiculous concoctions of feminine flowers. And for the first time since she had laid eyes on him, his striking face did not register as handsome at all.

  What she felt was anger, yes. That was the pain she felt in her sternum. It had to be. She absently rubbed the chisel she had hidden in the deep pocket of Mémé’s cast-off aubergine lace ball gown that had been lengthened for her.

  She had until tomorrow morning to come up with a plausible excuse for not having attended the ball. Mémé would not settle for a simple reason. Until then—

  A shadow fell across her in the moonlight. She edged farther around the base of the large oak.

  “Miss Barclay?” The deep voice was not one she recognized. “It is only I, Barry.”

  She exhaled in a rush and turned toward him.

  “Oh, Your Grace.” She curtsied slightly.

  “I see you are not over fond of entertainments,” he said
. “Nor am I.”

  She spoke too quickly. “Actually, I love balls, but it was too hot inside.”

  He laughed. “Finally.”

  “Finally, what?”

  “A lady who is not afraid to disagree with me.”

  “Has it been that awful this past week?”

  “Worse than you can imagine.”

  She smiled. “Well, if it shall please you, let us discuss all the things that I might like that you do not. You have nothing to fear from me. I’m not in search of a husband.”

  “And why is that? I thought all unattached females were in want of a husband.”

  As usual, she had managed to lead a gentleman to the very topic she least wanted to discuss.

  “Well, you see, Your Grace—”

  “Vere. I sense we are to become great friends.”

  “All right, then, Vere.” Think quickly—very, very quickly. “I am too old and set in my ways. For example, I cannot be persuaded to loath entertainments and most gentlemen prefer just about anything to dancing. Except, of course, the Duke of Sussex.”

  “Ah, so Sussex has the edge on the rest of us.”

  The man had a way of speaking that sent a shiver up her spine. It wasn’t of fear. It was just the opposite. His voice was like her father’s preferred whiskey, drizzling over ice. It was deep and mysterious, just like his true character she sensed under his careful, cool façade. “No, not at all.” Must change the subject. “So—other ideas we might disagree on . . . What food do you like least?”

  “Biscuits,” he replied immediately. “I think most in the militia would agree that a steady diet of hard biscuits is tiresome.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I adore biscuits. Chocolate ones, and sugar ones. Even hardened ones.”

  “I see,” he said finally, allowing a crack of a smile in the moonlight.

  “There,” she said sweetly. “That proves my point.”

  “And what point is that?”

  “We can only ever be friends.”

  “But, I’ll allow, chocolate and sugar biscuits are perfectly acceptable. You see, Miss Barclay, I am capable of compromise.”

  “Alas, but I am not. I will only truly adore a man who loves to dance, and who craves all biscuits.”

  A full smile overspread the Duke of Barry’s face, transforming the harsh, hollow angles into a thing of mesmerizing splendor in the night.

  “You should smile more often,” she said without thinking.

  He chuckled. “Care to dance, Miss Barclay?”

  “No”—another male voice, far more familiar, interrupted her answer—“she does not care to dance.”

  “Kress,” the Duke of Barry said with surprise.

  “Barry,” he replied curtly. “What are you doing here? I cannot allow you to cavort in private with my cousin. Are there not plenty of other chits inside, all panting after the chance for a dance with you?”

  “I’ve danced with half of them,” the Duke of Barry said. “And I needed a respite. Miss Barclay and I both agree”—he looked at her and winked—“that it is too hot inside.”

  “No, it’s that you loath all entertainments. Candover warned me about you,” Kress replied.

  “And what are you doing out here . . . deserting your post, are you?”

  “Not at all. It’s like an inferno in there.”

  Roxanne stifled a giggle. Both gentlemen looked at her.

  And then, to add to the absurd conversation, a feminine voice with an awful lisp called out from the balustrade. “Your Gwace? Oh, yoo-hoo, is the Duke of Bawwyy in the gawden? The minuet is fowming.”

  Kress’s smile widened. “Your future calls, Bawwy.”

  The Duke of Barry exhaled in annoyance. “As does yours, Kwess.”

  “Go on,” Kress purred.

  Barry departed with such reluctance that his ramrod straight posture sagged for the slightest moment.

  Kress watched him leave and slowly turned to face her.

  Again, she felt as if he was too close to her. And yet . . . she wanted him closer. Sort of. Another part of her wanted to push him away. She was tiring of the game and it was putting her off her main purpose.

  Distance. What she needed was distance. “You were right.”

  “Of course I was right.” Confusion darted across his face. “About what, precisely?”

  “That I shouldn’t be here. Spying. I shall see you tomorrow. I’m going to take a roundabout way back to the servants’ entrance.”

  Before he could reply, she turned and walked quickly away from the castle, running headlong into the darkness. She skipped down the three little stone steps to the lower lawn and then continued on, a gurgle of emotion, something like laughter and sadness, rushed past her throat.

  She knew not if he followed her, but she darted to the left and continued toward the one place she doubted anyone would find her.

  She’d discovered a small pool behind some of the very tall sea grasses on the southern portion of the outcropping. Carved into ancient granite, the pool appeared as if a giant had punched the rock and placed moss about the edges in remorse.

  Roxanne tossed off her borrowed slippers, now surely grass-stained, and rolled off the fine white silk stockings. She sat on the cast-off items to protect the back of the ball gown, and dangled her feet in the cool water.

  Heaven. This was heaven. She wished she could stay here all night and pretend that none of the last few weeks had ever happened. Instead, she drowned in memories of the past, when she knew who she was and where she belonged.

  There was a little pond on the Paxton estate and she had sometimes gone there late in the evening with Eddie—during those overwarm summer nights when her husband had consumed too much from the wine cellar, and then snored in his leather chair in the study. She had dared to do what she had done as a girl near the small lake on her father’s property. She’d shed her gown and her undergarments, and dove into the water stark naked all to recapture the joy of her girlhood.

  But now, she did not dare. She was too old for that sort of nonsense.

  “Why am I guessing you prefer swimming to dancing?” A male voice came from behind her.

  She didn’t need to turn her head. “I’ll tell you why I like swimming if you tell me why you always like to sneak up behind me.”

  “I suppose it’s a reflex from a former life,” he said quietly.

  “I suppose you will refuse to explain?”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, then I shall say the same. Swimming is a reflex from a former life, too.”

  “Fair enough,” he murmured. “Everyone is allowed their secrets.”

  In her heart, she had known that he would find her. And she had a very good idea of what might happen. There was a small part of her that wanted this—wanted to prove that she was not too old, not so unappealing that someone would leave her to die on a cliff. Could she still be the same girl she had been when she was much younger and life had held so much promise?

  There would be no harm and certainly no future in it. But at least there would be something other than the pain of the past—even if it meant more pain in the future. And most importantly, it would hurt no one other than herself. She heard rustling just behind her and then her throat clogged and she could not manage a single witty comment.

  Alexander Barclay sat down beside her, his elegant black velvet footwear gone, his fashionable stockings below his black satin knee breeches drawn off as well. He dangled his lower legs in the water beside her.

  For once not a single word was spoken between them.

  Time drifted. And for the first time since her father had died, she felt the simple pleasure of sharing silence with someone, without the discomfort of feeling the need to fill it with nonsense, which it seemed she was only capable of uttering to this gentleman.

  A few minutes later, she felt the warmth of his palm cover her hand, resting on the moss between them.

  She turned to stare at him, only the sliver of moonlight guiding her visio
n. His brown eyes were black in the evening shade, his skin shadowed white.

  She inhaled and leaned toward him. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  “I thought—”

  “Stop talking,” she interrupted softly.

  Suddenly, strong arms drew her across his lap, and she didn’t care that the hem of the gown was getting wet.

  He drew her into the crook of his arm, and tucked her tight against his chest. He stared down at her and brushed a lock of her hair from her cheek. “You know,” he whispered, “this is the best idea you’ve had so far.” His expression defied his words.

  She wrapped her free arm around his neck and tugged him down to her. “Well, do you want to kiss me or not?”

  It was the first time in her life that she had instigated a kiss. She strained to get closer to him. His scent was vibrant—of man, of ardor, of clean sweat, and old-world elegance. He searched her eyes for a long moment before he bent toward her.

  His mouth caressed hers, nudging, nibbling, and finally urging her lips to part. She could barely breathe with the insanity of it. She shivered involuntarily at his slow, deep kiss—and he pulled her ever closer to his body until there was no space dividing them.

  His tongue played at the seam of her lips and then beyond, finally intertwining with her own. All this while he caressed the nape of her neck, and teased the curls there before he cradled her head in his hand.

  Great waves of emotion flooded her, leaving her numb with shock. But she would not shrink away from the intimacy of it. She was parched, but now filled with desire, and something else she could not name. It all felt so wonderful, and yet . . . wicked and wrong.

  But wicked was better than where her proper, virtuous life had led her until a fortnight ago.

  His mouth eased from hers. “Mmmmmm . . .” he murmured. “You taste divine. Like—”

  “No ridiculous compliments,” she whispered raggedly.

  She felt his mouth curve into a smile as he dragged his lips along the column of her neck. Her heart was hammering and she could feel the blood pounding in her veins.

  He tenderly kissed the wild pulse point on her neck. “Thank you for making this seduction so easy.”