Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  Roxanne’s smile grew just the tiniest bit before Alex turned his attention to the daughter of the Earl of Dalton, struggling to keep her head above water.

  Alex sighed, and peeled off his coat. He was hot anyway, and watching Roxanne’s reaction was only making him hotter. “Come on, Barry. Help her,” Alex called out, but the duke appeared dazed and barely able to save himself.

  The boat shifted, and before he could say a word, another splash blossomed in the sea. Good God, Roxanne was determined to undermine his nonexistent gallant nature. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle her yet again or laugh.

  Despite the weight of her sodden gown, Roxanne easily reached the drowning couple and grabbed the scruffs of Barry and Christine Saveron. Awkwardly, she tugged them both to the side of the boat. Isabelle grasped Christine’s hands, while Candover dragged Barry starboard.

  “Do help Tatiana, Kress,” chirped Isabelle.

  “No, you help her. I’ll take Lady Christine.” Christine Saveron, the best little liar he’d yet to encounter. Family swimming races, my foot. Why Barry looked half drowned remained to be determined.

  The second boat from the Mount finally caught up to them, and the ensuing babbles of concern added fuel to the chaos.

  With much effort, and several inelegant, coarse shrieks by Lady Christine, Kress managed to haul her back into the boat, her every movement making it more difficult. Barry remained the stoic military officer that he was and received a vast measure of female concern when a large lump was discovered on his forehead, the result of falling on one of the oars. At least it explained his trouble swimming.

  Tatiana Harriet Barclay, also known as the Countess of Paxton in a former life, and Roxanne the tin miner’s daughter in another, managed quite well all by herself.

  Of course.

  Her full-blown, self-satisfied expression was seen by no one except Alex.

  That was because everyone was drawn to the vulgar display by Lady Christine Saveron once she spat out seawater and continued her histrionics.

  “Why anyone would allow a lady to row this stupid boat is beyond me,” she gurgled. “I should not have to put up with these ridiculous sorts of trials. Ladies do not row. Where is my mother?”

  “Yoo-hoo, dearest. Your father and I are over ’ere,” exclaimed Christine’s mother, with less of her French accent in evidence. Actually, the mother now sounded a trifle cockneyfied if anything.

  Alex glanced again to Roxanne and finally could not stifle his laughter any longer.

  Roxanne joined in despite the silent dismay of everyone around them, save Christine Saveron whose screeches were more deafening than those of the gulls swooping above the entire farcical scene.

  It was the first time in ages that she felt like her old self. Of course, the feeling would fade after a short while, but she reveled in it while she could. Roxanne felt happy, mischievous, while surrounded by a large group of characters endowed with varying temperaments.

  Soon after, only half the people remained. The other half had immediately rowed back to the Mount after their arrival at Penzance. It was no surprise to anyone that Lady Christine and her parents, along with the Duke of Barry and two cooing ladies, were among the deserters. Happiness suffused her every thought as she walked along the seawall with Isabelle and the Duke of Candover. She didn’t even mind that her damp, salt-encrusted yellow gown was sticking uncomfortably to her skin.

  For some absurd reason, she felt included. At her ease. The last time she had felt thusly had been before her ill-fated marriage.

  Those earlier years were her fondest memories. Mornings had been spent with a succession of tutors arranged throughout her life. Afternoons flew by with the most intelligent and amusing man she’d ever known, her father, who had only protested her presence in his bustling business affairs the first couple of years. She knew he secretly adored her interest in tin and copper mining, and loved her with every chamber of his heart. He was the most enlightened of fathers with the strongest capacity to love. However, this same heart had not been strong enough to support his life much past his fifth decade.

  But while he had lived, and before she had become a proper countess, Roxanne had found herself surrounded by her own kind. Common folk of little money but of much worth and good character, who liked her or respected her, at the very least, if they did not love her like her father.

  The Cornish nobles had always exhibited restrained disgust for her due to her low birth. But flanked now by these two aristocrats of the highest birth, she felt accepted. She wondered if they would still treat her as an equal if they knew her true roots. It saddened her to have to question it.

  She also knew that many of the other peers on the Mount privately questioned her relationship to the Barclay family. An impoverished third cousin, four times removed, indeed.

  Isabelle nudged her elbow. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course. Actually the water cooled me off nicely.” Roxanne was grateful that the seawater had also lowered the brim of her bonnet, which allowed her the measure of anonymity she desired.

  “That was a brave thing you did,” Candover admitted gruffly on the other side of her.

  “Not really. It was obvious they weren’t going to be able to get back into the boat without help.”

  “Which was the correct thing for her to do since she caused them to lose their balance in the first place,” Alexander said, coming up behind her.

  Why was he forever popping into view and surprising her? Was it one of those strange French customs like calling someone a cauliflower as an endearment? Actually she sort of liked the way he came up behind her for some perverse reason that was most likely very childish.

  Alexander Barclay walked around them and turned to face her.

  “Don’t make an idiot of yourself, Kress,” Candover ground out.

  “He can’t seem to help it,” Isabelle quipped.

  “Do you deny it?” Alex asked her with a hint of a smile.

  Roxanne giggled. “Of course not.”

  Isabelle’s eyes rounded in disbelief. “Whyever would you do such a thing?” She paused before rushing on. “Please tell me Barry wasn’t trying to take liberties?”

  “He’s been trying since he got here,” Alexander Barclay answered for her.

  “He most certainly has not,” Roxanne corrected.

  Candover’s eyes grew darker. “Well, has he or not?”

  “Who?” Roxanne laughed and looked at Isabelle.

  “What do you mean who? Barry of course. Unless . . .” Candover turned his acidic gaze to Kress. “Oh, God.”

  “I rather think she means Sussex,” Alex retorted with an odd sort of expression, a little sour and a little amused. “The man of a thousand smiles. The one who tries to take liberties with any female he can. Why, the night of the bachelor—”

  “Kress, I would rather you didn’t sully the ears of the ladies.”

  “Tatiana and I don’t mind at all,” Isabelle chirped.

  “He only tried once,” Roxanne admitted. “Last night.”

  “What!” all three of them echoed, without a single more dignified “I beg your pardon.”

  “I think it was because I bested him at billiards. Thrice in two days. One would think Sussex would have been put out and all, but he appeared quite the opposite. I must say, I do like a man who doesn’t mind it when a woman trounces him.” Roxanne looked pointedly at Alex. While she had never bested him at anything, she had the strangest desire to do so.

  “I warned you to stay away from him,” Kress said, a little darker than usual.

  “You said the same thing about Barry and Candover.”

  Candover made an annoyed sound.

  “You were not supposed to tell anyone I said that,” Alex ground out.

  “Well, you were not supposed to tell anyone I caused Barry and Christine to tumble overboard.”

  “And I suppose you now think we’re even.”

  The Duke of Candover was rock
ing on his heels, looking at the sky for deliverance from this madness. Isabelle was looking, beneath lowered lashes, at the duke.

  “Excuse us for a moment, will you?” Roxanne murmured.

  Not waiting for permission, Alex took her arm and they walked to the end of the lane to stop and stare at one another.

  Roxanne fidgeted her fingers. “Now that you’ve asked . . . Yes, I do consider us even, actually.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I saved you from marrying a liar, and a shrew. And that is just as good as you saving me on that cliff.”

  “Just tell me one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did Sussex really try to kiss you last night?”

  “And why would you care if he did? You were touring the portrait gallery with Lady Pristine. Again.”

  “Jealousy is such an ugly trait,” he said, a smile teasing the corner of his lips.

  “You’re absolutely right. Which is the reason I cannot fathom why you would care a whit about what Sussex and I did.”

  The duke adjusted his neckcloth as if he were trying to loosen it. “I just don’t like the idea of Sussex pawing a married lady.”

  “Oh, I understand. It’s all right for you to have kissed me three nights ago, and then pretend that nothing happened between us, but it’s not all right for Sussex to try to kiss me, and then deepen our friendship by alternating between complimenting and teasing me this morning.”

  “You told me you didn’t like compliments.”

  “And you still haven’t said thank you for dunking that stupid, lying girl.”

  Both their hackles were up now. And then suddenly, he visably deflated, like a hot air balloon. “I cannot believe you’re doing this.”

  “What?”

  “Getting me angry.”

  “Pardon? You never get annoyed? I’ve seen you with Candover, don’t forget.”

  “He’s a man. I never get angry with a lady.”

  “And why is that? Are we not important enough to merit a good fight? Oh, you know how to charm”—she shrugged her shoulders—“but then once you’ve had your kiss, you become as cold as vichyssoise and bored to pieces. So you then ignore, and avoid the lady, and forget all about her. I’m guessing you’re already regretting that you said I could stay at the Mount as long as I want.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Until now you’ve been acting too much like a man. Clear-sighted, practical, fearless. You were scaring me by changing the natural order between men and women. But now I realize, you just managed to hide your insanity quite well.”

  “Insanity?”

  “Yes, the part when females imagine all sorts of ridiculous machinations of the male mind. I assure you that nothing of the sort passed through my head.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “So you contemplate the possibility of a deep, lasting commitment each time you kiss a woman?” She looked down and noticed a fine mist of salt dusting her skin. “Not that I have the slightest interest in pursuing a deep, lasting commitment, you understand.”

  “I think I may have to strangle you now,” he ground out. “And for the record, you do not bore me to pieces. Au contraire. You infuriate me like no other.”

  “Thank God for that,” she replied wickedly.

  Gentlemen, Roxanne thought, you can’t live with them, and you never, ever should—especially when they were incapable of love. And she was beginning to think all of them were, which was perfectly fine since she was in no position to ever marry again.

  It was unfortunate, to be sure, that she really did owe this particular specimen. And she knew very well that dunking one silly, spoiled girl did not erase her debt at all.

  Well, even if he wasn’t his usual unruffled self, she wasn’t going to lose the opportunity to help him whether he liked it or not.

  His eyes had become glassy. Or maybe he was just trying to be polite by acting as if he was listening when in fact he was concentrating on doing everything to ignore the words flying from her mouth. Yes . . . it was surely the latter.

  “Look, you asked me to help you,” she finally continued. “And I’m doing it by narrowing the field. By now you should have realized that there are only three females here of any worth, and one of them is out of the running.”

  He shut his eyes and inhaled, shaking his head.

  “Isabelle is in love with Candover, of course. So that leaves Faith or Hope. Charity and Chastity are too young. All the others are not to be endured.”

  “Faith and Hope,” he repeated quietly. Dangerously.

  “Yes. They are both wonderfully adventurous, highly intelligent, and have been raised to become duchesses from the moment of their birth.” She knew enough from debating with her father that this was the moment for her to stay quiet and for her excellent advice to sink in.

  “So,” Alex said, finally opening his eyes, “you think I would do very well waking up and staring at an image of Candover every morning for the rest of my life?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Faith has the most extraordinary eyes and kind heart, and Hope has such infectious good humor.”

  “You can forget it. I will never marry either of them. While I refuse to disparage either of your new friends, suffice it to say, I will not marry into Candover’s family for that would mean seeing his image in far too many faces on far too many occasions for the rest of my life. It would be insupportable.”

  “You know, I’d hoped you were more intelligent than other gentlemen who are notoriously shallow. Don’t you know that looks fade? And the most beautiful lady can become ugly in one’s eyes if their character is flawed, and the reverse is true, too. Just because these marvelous ladies might have foreheads a little too prominent, noses somewhat pronounced, and they might occasionally wear spectacles does not lessen them in any way. Their cheerful nature and intelligent conversation guarantee your future happiness.”

  “Just remember, you described them—not me.”

  She sighed. “So which one will you choose?”

  “I’m not going to tell you, if only to protect the future mother of my heir—if your display this morning was an example of what you are capable of.”

  “You asked me to help you ward off any ineligibles so you could make up your own mind.”

  “And I just told you I’ve made up my mind.”

  She was highly annoyed that she had not a shred of her usual intuition to imagine who he might be contemplating taking as a wife.

  “Now, do be a good girl, and go with Candover to choose new hats, while I escort Isabelle to the draper.”

  Roxanne felt heat rise to her neck. “I see.”

  “No, you don’t see at all. Now off with you. And do try to stay out of trouble, will you?”

  She pursed her lips and then forced herself to relax and speak slowly. “Of course. Whatever you say.” She smiled and mimicked Lady Christine Saveron, “I always take pleasure in helping.”

  He looked at her dubiously and then steered her back to the other couple who appeared anything but comfortable. Isabelle was trying to force a smile to Candover’s stiff face, and Candover was trying not to stare at the pretty, young duchess.

  “Your Grace,” Roxanne said to Candover, “I do believe the footman mentioned there were hats to be found at the top of this street. Shall we not look together since you lost yours in the melee and mine is but a lost cause?” An understatement if ever there was one. Now there were two bonnets that needed to be replaced, her pretty blue one buried at St. Ives and this ruined confection of Mémé’s. She would repay Alex as soon as she recovered her father’s gold guineas.

  The couples switched partners, and made their way to different spots in the village. After quickly choosing a simple straw hat with a wide brim, Roxanne excused herself from the duke with a flimsy reason. Candover was sure to take an age to make a selection for he was fussier about his appearance than any wo
man she knew.

  Roxanne was still on a mission to find her father’s fortune. And Lord knew that when she was on a mission, nothing could stop her.

  It was a simple enough matter. Her only fear was that someone with whom she was acquainted in her former life might chance to see her.

  First, she went to the livery stable in Penzance, where most of the guests of the Mount had arranged to keep their carriages and horses that could not be accommodated in the smallish mews on the island. She informed the stable boy that she required one of the Mount’s horses. She had been prepared for the ride and had chosen the most durable of the morning gowns, the yellow one with the wide hemline. She draped herself to the best of her ability in the sidesaddle.

  In the end, Roxanne changed her mind. Instead of continuing northward, she eventually made her way to the isolated cemetery in St. Ives. It had been a toss-up really. She had a difficult time deciding whether she should use these precious moments of freedom to prepare for her ultimate escape from eight years of humiliation, or for revenge.

  In the brilliant sunlight, she deduced she had all the time in the world to go away but not much time to send one last message to Lawrence.

  The graveyard was empty of anyone mourning the lost souls, for no one stood before any grave. Those who strolled the high path above the cemetery were there to take in the air and the beauty of the seaside landscape.

  Roxanne located her tombstone and fished from Mémé’s borrowed reticule the small chisel she had taken from the armory as well as a mallet she had found among the tools of the workmen beginning the reconstruction of the turret. Kneeling in the turned sod, which was already losing signs of its recent disturbance, she faced the words on the stone. A sudden ball of hurt arose in her ribs—a hurt that she had thought had dimmed just the merest bit. It annoyed her that she couldn’t stop the emotion welling inside.

  She easily handled the tools of her youth. Everyone familiar with mines knew how to chisel. She had just never thought her talent would ever be put to use again.

  She stared at the words and tried to regulate her breathing. Anger raced in her veins before a tinge of humor slowed the speed.