Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  Christine tugged on his sleeve. “We shall take our leave of you, then, sir.” She lowered her voice, “As I promised.”

  “You are a treasure,” he whispered down to her pretty face.

  She managed to cajole the other ladies to join her, with the exception of Isabelle who lingered behind. An earl’s daughter knew better than to cross a female above her own station.

  “I’ve never seen you wager with a lady,” Isabelle murmured to Alex.

  “She is not a lady,” he retorted. “She’s my cousin.”

  “Careful, Alex.” Isabelle’s warm laugh tumbled from her pretty lips.

  “About what?”

  “Your sensibilities are showing.”

  “Lady Christine Saveron is, indeed, a treasure.”

  “I was speaking of Tatiana.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Alex said, loosening his collar which had grown hot during the last quarter hour.

  “There’s no reason you cannot choose her, you know,” Isabelle said gently.

  “Whatever are you talking about,” he said without much hope at ending the conversation. Isabelle was as dogged in her pursuit of a subject as Roxanne.

  “She is what again? Your third cousin four times removed? Or is she your fourth cousin three times removed?”

  He stared at Isabelle, and her pretty visage infuriated him. “My dear, I suggest you drop this absurd topic. And no, I will not ever marry my cousin.”

  “That is a good thing,” a low, feminine voice answered.

  He started and looked up to find Roxanne before him extending her arm, on which a basket of eggs resided.

  “For you see,” Roxanne said sweetly, turning her head toward Isabelle. “I will not have him. I would not take him if he was the last—”

  “Another reason I would not have her. I will not marry a woman who loves a cliché.” Alex took the egg basket she offered.

  “I was about to say, if you were the last old hen in the henhouse.”

  “You could at least admit I’d be a cockerel.”

  “I think not—since it’s painfully obvious you have not the slightest idea how to rule a gaggle of females.”

  He sighed and shook his head when Isabelle laughed.

  “I’m sorry, Kress,” Isabelle said, wiping her hand under her eyes.

  “Whatever for?”

  “For suggesting you and Tatiana might consider tying yourselves to each other. It would be bicker, bicker, bicker all day long.”

  “For once we see eye to eye, my dear,” he murmured and offered his arm to the petite duchess.

  “Says the man who detests clichés,” Roxanne muttered.

  John Goodsmith was making his way to the threesome.

  “Ah, the answer to our wager.” Roxanne smoothed a blond curl behind her ear. “John, is that not a Sussex hen over there by the water trough?”

  The young man studied the bird in question. “Of course, ma’am. Her name is Roxanne.”

  Alex threw back his head and laughed.

  The chicken debacle, as Roxanne liked to think of it, forced her to turn her mind to her absurd circumstances. She’d dabbled with these aristocrats, she’d tried to help Alex on several occasions, he had helped her, but now it was time to address her future, which her fortune would amply provide. Yet, she was having the most difficult time accomplishing anything of importance.

  As someone who was conscientiously trying to avoid the gentlemen here, while every other female residing within many miles of the Mount was attempting to corner them, the entire state of affairs had become something of a farce to Roxanne. It also proved a theory she had always held dear, that attraction bloomed in the face of indifference, especially if one was truly uninterested versus pretending to be indifferent, the latter being a strategy many females attempted and failed. Gentlemen appeared to have a better nose for matrimonial intentions than hounds on the hunt.

  Two times during the last two days she had tried to leave the Mount, cross to Penzance, and secure a horse to secretly go to the site where her father had told her he had hidden his fortune. She had never dared set foot near the place of her childhood since that awful day on his deathbed when he had whispered to her what he had done and sworn her to secrecy. By then she had known why he had done it.

  Eight years had taught her that her handsome husband was apt at completely draining an entire fortune in the most cavalier manner. Oh, he wasn’t a gambler, merely a man who liked to spend. He enjoyed luxury, and opulence, and doted on his horticultural projects. Lawrence had relished refurbishing his estate, along with acquiring an exorbitantly expensive fine art collection, a majestic townhouse in London, new horses, and new carriages of every sort every year and so forth and so on. Eight years of his indifference toward her had taught Roxanne that her father had been correct.

  So, she had kept her word and never revealed to Lawrence her father’s last gift. In some deep inner recess of her soul she had refused to examine, she had probably known Lawrence would ultimately let her down one day.

  And that day had come.

  Now it was just a matter of getting a few last affairs settled before she would start a new life far, far away from everything she had once loved and lost.

  But the Duke of Sussex was proving to be the proverbial fly in the ointment. On the two occasions she had set out to skulk about the area her father had named, he had come after her.

  It was as if he was watching her movements. She felt rather like the mouse being watched by the cat, who was being watched by a pack of wild female dogs. It had taken a while to notice it.

  The first time, when she had set off from the castle after the unfortunate henhouse incident to cross the wet sand to Penzance, he had intercepted her on the descent to the beach. She had been forced to come up with the vague excuse of wanting to pick flowers and he had insisted on helping her.

  Not that she had really minded it. He was an extraordinarily handsome, charming gentleman, who went out of his way to smile at her on every occasion.

  Oh, it was beyond ridiculous.

  He was flirting with her and she could not help but flirt back.

  And now, here in the dead of the very next night, along the very same stone path, Sussex fell into step alongside her yet again.

  “You are not going to tell me you are out here picking flowers again, are you?” He offered his arm as she negotiated the steep decline.

  His touch and his warm baritone voice made her almost leap out of her skin. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t want you to,” he said quietly. He cleared his throat and continued louder, “Hey, why are we whispering?”

  “I don’t know, Your Grace,” she replied with a forced laugh. Roxanne wasn’t at all sure what she should do, and so she continued down the treacherous path, her hand on the rusted iron railing. “I thought everyone had retired for the evening.”

  “Yes, they were for Bedfordshire, except for me, of course. Can’t get used to these terrifying country hours. Who goes to bed at ten o’clock? Why, that’s when the best part of the day begins in Town.”

  “Really?”

  “What? Don’t tell me you’ve never been?”

  She dared not lie in case he questioned her. “No, I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  He made a disgusted sound. “Your cousin is more draconian than I thought. He has not provided you with a season?”

  She could not help but laugh. “A season? You must be joking. That is for young ladies of marriageable age, not spinsters.”

  “You always do that.”

  “I beg your pardon?” They were nearing the bottom of the steps and she could not figure out where to go next since Sussex had ruined her plans.

  “You always insist you have no interest in dabbling in the high stakes game of finding a spouse. You know, the single-minded devotion of every female in Christendom.”

  “Perhaps I have reason,” she murmured. Where to go? The small do
ck and tiny port was deserted. And there was not one candle burning in any of the rustic cottages dotting the base of the Mount. She stopped in the evening shade of a tree next to the cobblestone lane and faced him. His sculptured face stared back at her without a hint of his usual carefree smile. This was not a good sign.

  “Care to tell me the reason or perhaps where we are going?” he murmured softly.

  “Not at present.”

  “Good,” he said, finally breaking into his good-humored grin. “I like surprises.”

  This was his favored diversion. The game of flirtation, an amusing activity, thank the Lord, she apparently knew how to engage in when there was not anything to lose. “I’ve suspected that you do.”

  All at once he was very close to her and she had the unnerving feeling that he was about to kiss her.

  The irony of it made her giggle. As a rich tin miner’s daughter, nobles had never taken any interest. As an impoverished distant relation to a duke, it was another story. “Oh . . . I’m so sorry,” she said quickly.

  “For what?” he murmured.

  “You want to kiss me and it was rude to laugh.”

  He shook his head, but she could see the whiteness of his grin. “You are singularly refreshing.” He took a small step closer to her and she took a small step back.

  She couldn’t find a word to say in response.

  He stared at her for a long moment, his smile fading. “You have me behaving in the oddest fashion,” he whispered. “Usually, I don’t bother asking a lady if I may kiss her.”

  “That’s because you know they all want you to kiss them,” she replied.

  “But with you . . . I’m not at all sure.” He brushed her cheek with one hand. “May I kiss you, then?”

  She looked away. “No,” she answered quietly.

  “Do you love another? Do you love—”

  “No,” she replied quickly. “I don’t love him. Or rather, I don’t love anyone.” What was wrong with her? Why had she said—

  “Him?” Sussex’s eyebrows rose. “Hmmm. I would wager that ‘him’ is—”

  She interrupted. “What I told you was true. I’m not inclined toward marriage. The only ‘him’ I love is my dog. I’m so sorry if I misled you in any way.” She slowed to a close, unsure if she had hurt his sensibilities.

  He smiled finally. “No, you really needn’t go on. Have a care. Rejection is new to me, my dear. And to be bested by a tiny beast no less.” His expression turned serious as he stroked her cheek again. “It’s too cool to be outside without a shawl. May I escort you inside? You must allow me at least one chivalrous act, my dear.”

  Well, there was no question that she would not be able to go on her exploration tonight. It would just have to wait. But come hell or high water, she was going to try again.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter 8

  The tides ruled all activity on the Mount, as it had from the moment it had risen from the sea. When the shingle path was exposed during low tide, it was the easiest way the occupants of St. Michael’s Mount could make their way to the mainland. Oh, of course, there was always a boat that could be engaged during high tide, but that required servants to help row. And servants were in short supply at the castle, thanks to his great-aunt.

  None of this made the slightest difference to Candover, who Alex delighted in painting a prig whenever possible. It was for that reason alone that Alex had privately declined the aid of the Cossack footman when Candover had insisted on forming a party to visit Penzance three days after the ball.

  If the truth were told, all the gentlemen were so weary of being imprisoned and surrounded by a herd of ladies, that they would have latched on to any idea involving a respite from the formal mating process, which had included tedious conversation, false laughter and compliments, tepid spirits, gargantuan dinners, ridiculous card games and charades (of all things), endless tours to nowhere, and gallons of tea. At least the female herd had been culled by one. The most tedious young lady, the one who loved horses, had been confined to her room, after her attempt to ride Bacchus without Alex’s leave. For some odd reason she had decided to race his stallion on the tidal flats. It was a near thing the foolish girl hadn’t broken her neck in the fall.

  Only one of the ladies had not driven Alex to the brink so far. Lady Christine Saveron. He studied her a few feet away from him in the boat.

  “Come now, Candover,” Alex finally uttered, rowing the first boat crammed with three gentlemen and four ladies. “Care to lend a hand? This was your idea, was it not?”

  The other duke regarded him with his usual cool disdain. “Thank you, but no.”

  Isabelle and Candover’s eldest sister, Faith, both laughed. Roxanne looked at him, in a way that proved she knew very well his game of needling Candover, but refused to encourage him.

  Christine smiled too, but in her typical pleasing fashion offered something more. “Your Grace, I would be most happy to come to your aid. My brothers and I always loved to form little rowing and swimming races on our lake in Surrey.”

  “Finally, someone who is willing to take on a share of this infernal rowing,” Alex replied with a grin.

  Her eyes widened slightly, as if she was just the tiniest bit surprised to have her offer accepted. A moment later, Lady Christine Saveron, with her sea green eyes, lovely smile, and light brown hair reseated herself next to him and accepted one oar with her gloved hands. “I always take pleasure in helping, sir.”

  A small cough from Roxanne punctuated Christine’s remark, and Alex smiled. He knew Roxanne did not like her, and it made him want to laugh, just like an adolescent. Which was absurd. But there was something about Roxanne that always spurred his good humor.

  They settled into a rhythm after a false start, Alex adjusting his stroke to Christine’s awkward, weaker one. She had been wearing down his natural bachelor defenses all week.

  He glanced at the cool beauty of the lady beside him, who had exhibited not one serious imperfection of nature, character, elegance, or form. She was kind, she was young but not too young to be tediously silly, she was gracious, and she tried to please at every opportunity.

  The problem was . . . she had not one flaw he could detect.

  It was entirely too suspicious. No woman or man was without fault. She was also the exact opposite of Roxanne.

  Alex turned his gaze toward his false cousin, who trailed her hand in the water. Barry, despite his usual rigid manner, was sitting beside her, mesmerized. It had gone thusly all week with both Barry and Sussex. And Roxanne? Why, she appeared completely unflustered by the attention of not one but two dukes.

  Not that anything would ever come of her acquaintance with Barry or Sussex. But the thought that she might be interested in either one if she was not already married was nonetheless irritating. Like an itch in the middle of one’s back that could not be reached. And worst of all, he had no earthly idea what she was thinking.

  Hang it all. Roxanne’s mind was none of his concern. Nor was the mind of any female for that matter. None of it mattered in the grand scheme of life.

  Life was merely a rootless existence with the occasional brush of a mirage of happiness promising refuge. And one could never for a moment count on another being. Indeed, searching for lasting happiness only promised future unhappiness. Fiercely solitary, he refused to rely on the chimera of anything or anyone being everlasting in his life. It was an illusion worse than any enemy he’d faced during his years as a young Hussar.

  He glanced at Lady Christine Saveron, whose brow now had a fine gleam of exertion below the brim of her modest hat.

  He was going to have to offer for her. There was but two weeks left of the house party. Two weeks of relative freedom.

  But that was also an illusion. Prinny’s scribe had sent couriers with letters for each of the dukes every other day, demanding reports, insisting on declarations to feed the growing, furious masses in Town. Indeed, the price for becoming a duke was high: complete loss of independence a
nd anonymity.

  St. Michael’s Mount appeared smaller and smaller as he rowed away from it. He forced back the bittersweet remembrances of his youth at Mont-Saint-Michel. He would never live here after he married. Depending on his future wife’s true nature, she might never live here either, or the reverse. She might live here permanently. The latter seemed more appealing, yet neither option seemed very important.

  “Christine,” a feminine voice roused Alex from his thoughts. “Please allow me to take your place. I long for a bit of exertion.” Roxanne’s words were kindly spoken, but the expression on her face was odd.

  Barry rushed to her aid. “Miss Barclay, you must allow me. I shall spell Lady Christine.”

  “My dear,” Alex insisted to Christine, “I should not have allowed you to row so long. It is too taxing.”

  “Indeed,” said Roxanne smiling.

  “Do take Barry’s place,” Alex insisted to the lady beside him.

  “No, I said I would—” Roxanne began.

  “No, I insist,” Barry interrupted as Christine Saveron rose.

  The combination of three people rising at the same awkward moment, all on the port side, caused the small vessel to precariously list.

  Isabelle and Faith squawked, and held on for dear life. Christine Saveron lost her balance, and Barry didn’t even try to maintain his own, given that it was a lost cause. Only Roxanne did the proper thing. She threw herself starboard and ducked down. Two splashes erupted white in the deep blue.

  In the next instant Candover’s eyes met Alex’s and he nodded toward the flailing couple. Candover obviously expected him to go in after Lady Christine. But she was an expert swimmer. Had she not just mentioned it? And surely Barry could maintain his own, being a former naval officer.

  Alex swiveled his head to see Roxanne’s lips curve into the smallest smile.

  “Oh, my dear Christine, do grab the end of this,” Isabelle cried, extending her parasol. She was the only sensible person among them.

  “Or swim to my arms,” Faith insisted, proving to be the second sensible person.