“I owe you nothing,” he reminded her sharply. “We have been joined for one purpose and that is the only bond that exists between us still.”
“But there can be more,” she promised him on a breathy whisper. In one fluid movement, she shrugged off her cloak, revealing a diaphanous gown. The dampened satin clung to her skin, revealing the outline of her generous breasts. Her rouged nipples peeked over the top, momentarily drawing his attention. “I want you to make love to me again,” she beckoned, trailing a finger over her décolletage. “I want it so badly, I’ve braved London and discovery for it.”
At one time, he would have been driven with lust by the sight of that offering. Now, after Justina’s pure innocence and beauty, there was nothing but a repugnance for the desperate creature before him. “You’ve also braved ruining all our plans for Rutland. Cover yourself, madam,” he ordered. “I’ll not tell you again. We are through.” Color flooded the lady’s cheeks. “Are we clear, my lady?” he demanded.
She tightened her lips. “Abundantly. But let us be clear about something else, Huntly.” The lady leaned forward and the pungent scent of roses slapped at his senses. “If you do not follow through on this plan, if you do not ruin Rutland’s family, I will see you ruined.”
By the fire snapping in her eyes, that pledge was driven by more than revenge… something more… something equally dangerous—jealousy.
“You’ve no worries there,” he coldly assured her. Had Lord Rutland not have ruined his father and Nick’s life had continued as it had, with him as the bookish boy with a love for the lecture room, he might have had something more with Justina Barrett. But her brother-in-law had shattered that pathetic child he’d been.
He firmed his jaw. Ultimately, he may desire Justina and have an unexpected appreciation for her mind, but there would never be anything more with her. Ever.
And he was glad for that reminder.
Chapter 8
The following afternoon, Nick studied the open ledgers before him. With a sigh, he removed his spectacles and set them aside. In truth, he’d been studying his books for the better part of the morn as well.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose. Having at last set into motion his plans for revenge against Rutland, the door to his past had been opened. Through the years, the marquess had never been far from his thoughts. However, that powerful peer had existed more as an amorphous demon than anything; a demon who’d shaped him. Molded him in his hardened image, so that he’d developed a strength to, at last, defeat the black-hearted Devil.
Never had vengeance been closer than it was now with the Barrett siblings. Yet, only one of those individuals commanded his focus—Miss Justina Barrett.
The baroness’ accusations haunted him. Care for Justina Barrett. He hardly knew that lady. Except, a stolen exchange in a quiet lecture hall lingered in his thoughts. He’d not read a verse in thirteen years. More specifically, he’d not wanted to read a verse in thirteen years—until her.
Part of the plan he’d concocted had involved wooing Justina. Trapping her with pretty words and winning her heart with empty endearments. Yet, God help him, with every exchange, his attention to his plan faded as she forced him to think about and talk about things that had once mattered to him.
Books and poetry and literary works. Those useless pages that Rutland had sneered at him for reading, all those years ago. What joy or escape could those books bring, when he’d seen the ugliness that was life? When he’d witnessed the depth of evil and the absolute hopelessness.
That night had proven the single most formative moment of his existence, more so than all the thousands to come before it. It had marked the end of his and his sister’s innocence; the death of dreams and happiness, and the beginning of reality.
Having borne witness to his sister’s despair with her miserable marriage and Chilton’s transformation on the battlefields of Europe, to his own shift in humanity, Nick had come to accept as fact the truth that innocence was inevitably shattered. It was what had made his involvement of Justina in his plans not only palpable but the obvious course.
What he’d not allowed himself to rationalize through, until his meeting with the lady, was that he would be the one to shatter it. After the reason for his courtship was discovered, would the lady, too, lose her love of the literary word and view the world with her own jaded eyes? For once his revenge had been enacted, she would hate him with the same vitriol he did Rutland.
Why had he not thought of that before? Because she previously only existed as a name upon the scandal sheets. Now, she was a young lady with wants and interests and desires that very much matched those he’d also once appreciated.
“Don’t be a bloody fool,” he muttered under his breath. Why should it matter whether her romantic spirit was crushed? That would only make the revenge against Rutland all the sweeter. Wouldn’t it?
The small copy of Shelley’s works she’d gifted him sat at the corner of his desk, a glaring, mocking reminder of her goodness against his evil. Tightening his mouth, he jammed his spectacles back on his nose and scoured the pages of his ledgers. All the while, he ignored the leather volume.
Or rather, attempted to.
The temptation to pick it up as great as an apple in the Devil’s hand. Mayhap Rutland had been correct, after all, and Nick was, in fact, weak. With a curse, he swiped the small leather-bound pocket book of poems and yanked open his desk drawer. He made to throw it inside and then froze. Looking to the closed door, he slowly returned the volume to his desktop and stared down at the leather volume, warring with himself.
Drawing in a deep breath, he flipped through the old copy. Aged by time, the pages having been dog-eared and bent, he fanned through them. The sun’s rays cut through the crack in the curtains and cast a soft light on the yellowed pages.
He stopped fanning the pages and his gaze lingered on the verses there. “…A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds…”
Rubbish and rot, the whole of it. Romantic words of dreamers who gave people false hopes of life and love. And yet… he continued reading. Turning page after page, losing himself in verses he’d never before read because Shelley’s works had come long after he had abandoned his love of literature.
He read until his neck ached and his eyes blurred. He read until he was very much that boy of long ago, with a voracious hunger that could only be quenched by the power of the written word.
A knock sounded at the door and he shot his head guiltily up just as his butler opened it, admitting his sister.
“Her Ladyship, the Countess of Dunkirk,” he announced and then took his leave.
Neck heating, Nick hastily snapped the book closed and jumped to his feet. “Cecily.”
“Nick.” She folded her arms at her chest and stared expectantly at him.
Why was she here? She started forward and he rushed around the desk, positioning himself between her line of vision and the book.
Cecily stopped and eyed him suspiciously. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” No. He itched to drag his fingers through his hair. Nothing had been right since he’d knocked Justina out of the way of a runaway horse. “Would you care to sit?” he asked, motioning to a chair.
She made to sit, and he discreetly slid a ledger over Shelley’s works. Cecily sighed. “Dominick,” she began. “First, do you truly believe I didn’t notice that you were reading a volume of poetry when I entered?”
Of course, she’d noticed. He yanked at his cravat. To conceal the flush rushing up his neck and burning his cheeks, he strode around the desk and fetched himself a snifter. “Is that a question?”
…Only if you answer…
Justina’s sweet, lyrical tones rang around his memory. He grabbed the nearest bottle and poured himself a glass of brandy. Thought better of it and filled it to the rim.
When he turned back, his sister stared on.
“I wouldn’t begrudge you finding amu
sement in poems,” Cecily said quietly, a faint accusation there. “Quite the opposite. The day you ceased reading, it was as though the person I knew as my brother ceased to be.”
He ignored the pang those last words struck. “I was not finding enjoyment in it,” he gritted out the lie. Poems and books were for young boys who’d not been scarred by life. They were not for heartless, soulless bastards such as him.
“Fine, then,” she said. “At the very least reading it. You’ve been so consumed in amassing your great fortune and power, and triumphing over Lord Rutland, that you’ve lost who you once were.”
He stared blankly down into the contents of his glass. He’d been lost for so very long there was no way back to who he’d been.
“I’ve read the reports about your meeting with Miss Barrett.”
At her accusatory tone, Nick carefully schooled his features. He’d not debate this with her any further.
Cecily dragged her chair closer, scraping it along the hardwood floor. “Do you truly think I’m so naïve that I’d believe your heroic rescue and subsequent courtship of Lord Rutland’s sister-in-law is a mere coincidence?” A courtship. A pretend one, at that. And yet, that was just how the world was supposed to see it.
It didn’t matter what she believed. Or it shouldn’t. Except, he glanced away, unable to meet the disappointment radiating from her eyes.
“I long ago accepted there is a darkness in Lord Rutland. But you are different, Nick. You were a studious boy. You enjoyed your books and your family…” She glanced pointedly down at the partially concealed copy of Shelley’s work. “You still do.”
“A boy.”
She cocked her head.
“You are correct. I was a boy.” He’d since grown into a man capable of dark deeds.
Cecily leaned back in her chair and layered her arms to the side. “I do not know what your intentions are toward Miss Barrett, but I do know, in coming upon you here and finding you reading again, mayhap it cannot be all bad, your meeting the lady.”
His sister was wrong, proving a far greater naiveté than she’d earlier discredited. “Is that why you’ve come then? To inquire as to my intentions for Miss Barrett?” At stating her name aloud and his veiled plans for her to his sister, the muscles of his stomach contracted.
Her eyes twinkled. “If I thought you might truthfully answer me, then yes. You promised Felicity a ride in the park.”
Nick flared his eyes and glanced to the clock.
“Nor do I ever recall you forgetting an appointment.”
Because he didn’t. He was precise and methodical and logical and never distracted, certainly not by maudlin thoughts of the past or by poetry books handed him by tempting sirens. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Forgive me. I…” Had no excuse that did not include Justina’s name.
His sister slowly rose. “I trust you are incapable of truly hurting that young woman.” She held his gaze squarely. “Or any other.” Five days ago, he would have sneered at her naïve faith.
Now, he remained silent and Cecily sighed. “Come,” she said, the disappointment in her tone matching her eyes. “Felicity awaits with her nursemaid. There will be time enough later to speak about the lady who commands all your attentions.”
Nick tried to tell himself his sister saw more than was there with hopeful eyes, he’d believed long ago jaded. He tried to tell himself that she saw good around her, still, and, as such, was blinded to who he, in fact, was. Only, as he followed her reluctantly from the room, he conceded, at least silently and only to himself, that Justina had woven some inexplicable spell over him.
In this precise moment, Justina could not write a single word.
And usually, she couldn’t write a word because she was so fixed on selecting the right words, that nothing ever found its way onto the page. Today, she couldn’t for entirely different reasons.
Seated on a blanket at the edge of the Serpentine River, her gaze snagged upon a pair in the distance, or more precisely, one gentleman. Setting aside her writing box, she scooted sideways on her buttocks to the shelter provided by an enormous boulder. She stretched out on her stomach and plucked the revealing blanket to safety.
“My lady?” her maid called out questioningly. Justina held a silencing finger to her lips, immediately quelling the concerned servant’s words. Widening her eyes, Marisa hurriedly joined her. “Is everything all right, Miss Barrett?”
“Oh, quite,” she said as conversationally as if they spoke about the fine spring weather they now enjoyed. Pressing herself tight to the boulder, she continued her study.
The Duke of Huntly came to a stop more than fifty paces away and snapped a blanket open. It caught briefly in the wind before settling upon the ground. His head came up and, with her heart racing, she quickly darted hers back behind the rock.
She was a debutante just out several months ago, but even she knew gentlemen did not visit Hyde Park at the early dawn hour for anything other than an early morning ride or a wicked assignation. And there was no horse about and one stunningly flawless blonde-haired beauty at his side.
Surely it didn’t count as spying on a gentleman if she just happened to be at the same place, at the same time. And she just happened to notice him. Justina counted her rapid pulse beats and then peeked around the boulder, once more.
The pair stood, speaking.
She bit her lower lip hard. Who was the lovely woman? Gentlemen didn’t meet women, alone, in Hyde Park. Not at this hour. Nor at any hour. And on the heel of that, an ugly kernel of jealousy knotted low in her belly. She hugged her writing box all the harder, so that the wood bit painfully into her chest.
A loud laugh echoed in the morning quiet. Shifting the burden in her arms, she leaned around once more…and her breath caught.
A small child hurtled through the grass, a nursemaid trailing at her heels. The young duke caught the girl with flaxen curls in his arms and hefted her high into the air.
His face, unguarded, revealed a tenderness and love that left her immobile. The sign of that devotion and easy teasing between them that Justina would have traded her soul on Sunday for. Was the girl an illegitimate child and the lovely woman Nick’s mistress? Just then, the duke spun the child in a dizzying circle and from across the length dividing them, their eyes caught.
She jerked, feeling like one of those poor creatures her father and brother were forever hunting at their country estate and with the same amount of grace as those just-felled creatures. Justina pitched forward, coming down hard on her case with a loud grunt. Pain shot through her and she welcomed the stinging distraction.
Bloody hell.
Mayhap he’d not seen her. Mayhap, the lovely lady at his side had failed to note—
“Oh, dear, Miss Barrett, are you all right?” Marisa cried.
Justina swallowed the inventive curse that her brother had imparted several years ago. For if the duke hadn’t by some miracle from above witnessed her humiliation, he’d certainly hear it now.
“Miss…” her maid urged, frantically searching about.
The crunch of gravel on the empty walking path and fast-approaching heavy footfalls pierced her swiftly-growing horror. “Miss Barrett…”
They’d reverted once more to formalities, which was all a bit of a contradiction given Justina lay sprawled on her stomach with her buttocks jutting in the air. She stared at the crisp, green grass underneath her nose and, though she’d never been the praying sort, silently prayed for intervention from above.
“I believe she hit her head, Your Grace,” Marisa’s worried supposition earned a small groan. “She’s not…”
“I’ve not hurt my head.” Only my pride. Justina shoved away from the dratted box and into a kneel. “I assure you, I’m quite all—” Her words ended on a squeak as Nick captured her about her waist and guided her to her feet. She’d long mourned her plump form, but with Nick’s effortless movements, he made her feel as dainty as those ladies she’d always wished to be. Too soon, he remov
ed his hand from her person and the heat of his touch lingered. “Thank you,” she said, wincing at the breathless quality of her words. Which was madness given his presence here with another woman. A fortunate other woman. “Please,” she said on a rush. “Do not allow me to take you from your…company.”
His company who even now walked this way, the flawless beauty and the golden child skipping at her side. Another vicious wave of jealousy gripped her.
“My company?” He followed Justina’s gaze and then smiled. “What greater pleasure could there be than an unexpected meeting with you here today?” he put to her. He proved far more capable than any of the master poets combined, for his words stirred her heart even as her mind attempted to muddle through that boldness in the presence of the approaching pair.
They came upon her and Nick, and Justina’s maid retreated several steps. “Miss Barrett, allow me to introduce you to my—”
“Hullo,” the small girl interrupted with a gap-toothed smile. With her olive-hued coloring and the blindingly bright shade of her hair, the child may as well have been a girl-child replica of Nick. “I am Felicity.”
Felicity. A name of happiness that conjured joy. With the girl’s smile, it perfectly suited her. “Hullo,” Justina returned quietly, attempting to puzzle through the pairing.
“—my niece, Felicity,” Nick supplied.
She was a niece! Justina’s heart jumped in her breast and she swung her gaze to the quiet woman at Nick’s side. This must be…a sister. A giddy sense of relief danced in her chest.
“How do you know my uncle Dominick?” Felicity wondered, tugging at her hand.
The child widened the door of her connection to this man before her. Uncle Dominick. Justina’s ownership of his whole name intensified the intimacy of their connection. “Your uncle…” She lifted her eyes briefly to Nick’s. “Saved me from a runaway horse.”
His niece gasped and shot an accusatory look at her uncle. “You did not tell me you had done anything heroic.”
The duke ruffled the top of the girl’s hair. “Hardly heroic, poppet. Just gentlemanly.”
To Enchant a Wicked Duke Page 11