The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  “You suppose?”

  He felt suddenly ridiculous, standing nude before her, realizing it wasn’t the most romantic way to ask for a lady’s hand, nor the most suitable moment, and yet it seemed to him she should still be pleased. “It would be a good match,” he answered decisively.

  For several long, uncomfortable seconds she stared at him. And then very softly she nodded and replied, “Yes, it would be an excellent match, quite sensible, really, for a variety of reasons.”

  Relief coursed through him—until she lowered her lashes and turned toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going home, Ian,” she said. “Good-bye.”

  Without another glance at him, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin a fraction, and regally strode out of his bedroom.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I close this diary by omitting the gravest secret he whispered in his delirium. I cannot mention what I know, for if anyone should learn the truth behind his family secret, it would surely ruin him. I love him too much to risk disclosing all. . . .

  Ian walked into the parlor, decidedly irritable simply because his sister, Ivy, the Marchioness of Rye, tried so hard to make the room frilly and cheery, and he didn’t feel at all like being cheery. Especially when he’d had to travel to the southern coast to see her and he hadn’t been keen on leaving the city after his seduction of Viola three days ago had turned so horribly wrong. They still had much to discuss, whether she knew it or not, but Ivy’s note had said she needed to speak to him quickly. As her twin, he’d always felt close to her, concerned when something needed to be addressed urgently, and she couldn’t very well have left her home with a newborn in tow to visit him.

  The room was decorated in peach, yellow, and some odd shade of pink he’d never seen before. He succumbed to his exhaustion and walked directly to a white velveteen settee, fairly falling on it and spreading his arms out wide, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back on the cushion, hoping his sister wouldn’t keep him waiting.

  She didn’t disappoint. Only moments later he heard her footsteps on the parquet floor as she stepped quickly into the parlor—and suddenly stopped short.

  “Didn’t Mason offer you tea?”

  He smiled, though he refused to open his eyes when they felt like lead. “I don’t want tea. I want a bath and a night’s sleep.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake—”

  “Just sit down, Ivy.”

  She huffed and moved toward him. “Why are you so cross?”

  He opened his eyes wide. “I’m tired.”

  “Ridiculous,” she countered, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I’m the one who gets almost no sleep at all. You may whine when you have a newborn babe in the nursery. And yes,” she added as she backed away and lowered her body with cultured grace into the chair opposite his relaxed form, “you do need a bath.”

  He gave her a droll smile. “Thank you for such hearty agreement.”

  She cocked her head to the side a little, growing serious. “You do look tired. You’re not sleeping well, are you?”

  Irritated, he sat up and crossed one leg over the other, then ran his fingers harshly through his hair. “You need to worry about yourself. How are you, by the way?”

  She waved a palm through the air. “I’m fine. Rye is a doting husband, actually, so I’m as good as new, and the baby is perfect.”

  With heartfelt relief, he offered her a genuine grin. “I’m pleased. You look happy.”

  She grinned in return. “I am immeasurably happy, thank you.”

  “But you didn’t ask me to urgently come to Rye to tell me that,” he drawled.

  Sheepishly, she replied, “No. I wanted to talk about something else, actually.”

  She fidgeted, sitting perfectly straight in her chair, and for the first time he noticed she carried two items that looked like slender books with her, now clutched in her lap as if she feared he might grab them and run.

  “What are those?” he asked with a nod.

  “Umm . . . I’ll tell you that in a moment.”

  He waited, watching her forehead crease. She studied the tea table in front of them, gently biting her bottom lip as she often did when she worried about informing him of momentous news, and his intrigue began to grow.

  He sighed with impatience. “Ivy—”

  “What do you remember about your time in the dungeon, Ian?”

  The temperature in the parlor seemed suddenly hot and thick, stifling his ability to breathe, and he pulled at the collar of his shirt to loosen it.

  “Why?” he asked seconds later.

  She looked at him candidly. “There is something about your recovery that I never told you, but I’m going to now because . . . new information has come to light and I think it’s important.”

  “New information about what?” he asked cautiously, tamping down a spark of dread.

  She paused for a moment, then murmured, “During those first few hours after you were rescued, when I sat by your bedside and you were delirious and so close to death, I nursed you and held your hand, and tried to feed you broth. Do you remember?”

  Agitated, he tapped his thumbs together in his lap. “Not really. Get to the point, Ivy.”

  “You wept, Ian,” she said, lowering her voice with concern. “And you kept asking for Viola.”

  His entire body tensed reflexively. He had no idea what to say to such a revelation, or even what to feel. But he would never doubt his sister when it came to his horrible experience five years ago. She had saved him, and he lived today because of her.

  “At the time,” she continued, “I didn’t know what to think of anything you said while you were incoherent; most of it was muffled and confused. I just wanted to keep you alive, to help you gain strength and nurse you back to health. I thought perhaps you called out for Viola Bennington-Jones, but that didn’t make sense to me because she took part in your abduction—”

  “She did not,” he countered. “Her sisters did.”

  Ivy tilted her head to the side a fraction, looking at him inquisitively. “I see. Well, then perhaps all this makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  She twisted her wedding ring nervously, then sighed. “I know you moved from Stamford to Tarrington Square for the season because Lady Cheshire had come out of mourning.”

  Ian felt as if she’d knocked the wind from him with that disclosure. His sister had never been one to interfere with his dalliances, few though they’d been since his abduction, and she’d always been rather silent on his decision thus far to remain unmarried. So this stunning acknowledgment on her part left him wondering if he should ask her to explain herself or mind her own damn business. Curiosity won.

  “What makes you think I went to London because of her?”

  “Did you?”

  He studied her for a moment, his irritation bubbling to the surface. Lowering his voice, he said, “Why don’t you tell me what concerns you.”

  “You concern me, Ian.” She slumped a little into her corset. “Did you intend to court her or ruin her?”

  “Why would you ask me that?” he shot back brusquely.

  Without skipping a beat, she smiled faintly and replied, “Because love and hate are both passions that can be easily blurred, especially when the memory is affected.”

  Nerves fired, Ian bolted from the settee. He had no idea why Ivy was involved now, but the mention of his past, the dungeon, and learning his sister knew something about his intentions toward Viola and the intimacy between them made him feel like jumping out of his skin. And his lack of control in the matter infuriated him.

  Walking stiffly to the window, he leaned his palms on the pane and stared out to the freshly cut lawn below. His nephew, James, now nearly four years ol
d, stood with his father and two footmen as Rye lectured, with some displeasure on his face, about the sophistication of properly using a bridle. Or something. Suddenly the boy burst out crying, and seconds later, Rye scooped him up in his arm and lifted him onto his shoulders. It was enough training for the day, apparently, as the marquess dismissed the footmen with a wave of his hand. Then, as his son wiped his tears and hugged him with his cheek to the top of his father’s head, the two of them headed toward the house, Rye talking and consoling, until they passed below the window and out of sight.

  “What are you looking at?”

  Dreams that come true for other people. . . .

  “Nothing,” he said, turning to face her. He leaned his hip on the windowsill and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did you need to see me so urgently, Ivy?”

  Sighing, she replied, “I’m not sure of your intentions toward Lady Cheshire, and it’s certainly none of my business—”

  “True.”

  She gazed at him as she often did, her expression firm, as if ready to scold. He almost smiled. Thank God for Ivy in his life.

  “As I was saying, your paramours are not my concern.”

  “Lady Cheshire is not anyone’s paramour.”

  Ivy’s mouth tipped up minutely. “I’m sure she’s not. However, three weeks ago, I received a package from your home in Chatwin. It contained a lovely evening gown, plum colored, with beautiful embroidery on the skirt, cleaned and pressed.”

  He frowned, thinking. “So?”

  “It’s not mine.” She cleared her throat and sat up straight again. “You have exceptionally diligent servants, your grace, but they are apparently confused about the ladies in your life.”

  Viola’s gown. He remembered her wearing it the night he took her from Tarrington Square to the fishing cottage at Chatwin. She’d borrowed one of Ivy’s old nightgowns, then a day gown when she’d left, and now he remembered telling one of the young maids to have it cleaned for her, to try to remove the sherry stains from the skirt—a spill he’d caused. Clearly, during the process, one of his servants, unaware of Viola’s stay, had assumed that Ivy had left an expensive evening gown on her last visit and would want it returned to her. And Viola had never mentioned this to him, possibly forgetting it, or, more likely, assuming he wouldn’t care enough to have it sent to her. Or she’d simply wanted to forget the experience entirely. In any case, the error by his staff had exposed his deplorable actions to his sister.

  “What makes you certain it’s Lady Cheshire’s gown?” he asked quietly.

  She offered him a proud grin. “Because, darling brother, I contacted the good dressmakers in London and sent inquiries. It’s a unique gown, very beautiful, and if it were mine, I’d want it returned to me.”

  So that was it. His clever sister had connected dots and in so doing had drawn a very good picture of his affair.

  “I hope you didn’t say anything . . . improper in your keen investigation,” he drawled.

  She scoffed. “Of course not. I merely said I’d seen the gown at a party, couldn’t remember who’d worn it, and since I was considering having one made in a similar fashion and by such a good dressmaker, wanted to talk with the lady who owned it.”

  Ian exhaled a long breath and wiped a palm down his tired face, then stood erect and walked back to the settee to sit again. Slumping against the cushion, he stared at his smugly smiling sister. “Don’t tell me you asked me here simply to give me the dress to return to her.”

  “No,” she said softly, her expression growing serious again. “But in learning who owned it, I began to understand more of what happened to you all those years ago, and I started to worry about you, and your intentions toward Lady Cheshire. It was then that I remembered something found in the dungeon when Rye had it sealed.”

  He nodded toward the books in her lap. “Those?”

  She glanced down at them. “These have been in a trunk in my attic for four years, Ian. When we discovered them long after your rescue, we could only guess at their meaning, and we decided it was best not to expose anyone, or return them to their owner. She had just lost her husband, and her son, now the Baron Cheshire, deserved a life unencumbered by his family’s horrible past. We also weren’t certain that if we did give them back to her, she wouldn’t use them against you in some way unimaginable. But, as you’ll see, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to destroy them.”

  His curiosity piqued, he sat forward at once, hand outstretched. “Give them to me.”

  “Wait,” she said, clutching them to her breast. “One more thing.”

  He didn’t move. “What is it?”

  “Before you look at these, please know that we never meant to keep anything from you. It wasn’t a matter of protecting you, or even her, it was a matter of letting the past go. And nobody has seen these books but Rye and me—”

  “Ivy, so help me God—”

  She thrust them forward, into his waiting hand, then stood.

  “I’ll leave you alone to peruse them. When you’re ready I’ll have Mason draw you a bath and send you up a meal to your usual room.” Giving him a final smile filled with love and concern, she added, “I suspect you’ll want to leave for the city at dawn.”

  That said, she turned and walked from her parlor, closing the door behind her.

  For several long moments Ian stared at the two books, realizing his hands trembled slightly when he pulled them apart to study them individually. One was a journal or diary of some kind, the other a sketchbook, which he chose to open first.

  His breath caught in his chest when he turned to the first sketch, created by Viola’s gifted hand, and recognized the manor house in Winter Garden that Rye now owned, beneath which he’d been held captive for five long weeks. It was an innocuous drawing of the outside of the building, and yet it sent an instant stab of trepidation though his body.

  He closed his eyes briefly, drawing a deep, full breath, then turned to the second page.

  And there he was, sketched in perfect form, chained and lying on the cot in the dungeon, apparently asleep.

  He swallowed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by emotions that ranged from fear to helplessness, rage to heartache.

  He began to flip through the pages, each one more graphic than the last, until he came to the first one of them together—he and Viola, embracing on the cot.

  Ian stared in absolute awe, astonished by the sensual beauty. He held her, both of them nude, his right arm shackled, but his left encircling her at the waist, her right breast hidden, her left breast resting on his chest as she lay sideways across the length of him. Tenderly, she cupped his head with her palms, resting her forehead on his temple, her lips gently pressed against his cheek, their eyes closed as they seemed to melt into each other. But the most revealing aspect of the sketch for him showed her left leg crossed over his waist, exposing a shadow of her cleft, his right leg raised so that he could keep his erection tightly encased within her.

  It was the most erotic drawing he’d ever seen in his life, and it was of him, and Viola, making love. He knew it now because he had remembered it just days ago when she’d lain in his arms in his bed. He’d sensed the familiar, the two of them lingering, holding, embracing, touching, caressing, and remaining joined, side by side, as lovers who were not yet ready to pull apart. Not a quick and passionless coupling, but meaningful. And they had shared it years ago, as they had recently.

  Shaken, he closed the book of sketches, feeling suddenly raw and exhausted and exposed, realizing now what Ivy had meant when she’d said only she and her husband had seen these and had kept them from exposure. She had saved him possible scandal, and yet he couldn’t help but be embarrassed to know she’d seen a sketch of him nude and in a carnal position, regardless of its accuracy. Still, it hadn’t been put up for auction at Brimleys, thank God.

  W
ithout pause, he moved on to the diary, opening it to the first written page. Immediately his trepidation turned to amazement, then to silent shock as he began to read:

  It’s so dark inside, so cold, and in his sleep he weeps. Although I wish I could, I cannot help him. . . . Watching him struggle makes my heart ache so. . . .

  Ian felt his mouth go dry, his heart began to pound. He turned the page and read more.

  I spoke to him at last, whispered words of comfort as I tried to soothe his brow. He first called me Ivy, then opened his eyes when he realized a stranger sat beside him. . . . I put the candle behind me today, so he couldn’t see my face inside my cloak. He asked me my name, but I didn’t dare speak. He is frightened, and his heartache is so intense. . . .

  I stole the key to the dungeon today, and went to him just after she drugged him. I could finally nurse him and care for his needs without him knowing. . . . He begged me not to leave him. . . . I risked everything and went to him, lying down on the cot beside him to lend him my warmth. . . .

  “Jesus . . . ,” he whispered. His entire body trembled now, felt cold inside. He started flipping through the pages faster, processing the truth as quickly as he could, trying to place the information, to wrap it around his own veiled memory.

  I tried to bathe him today, while he slept from the drug. He is so masculine, so handsome, but he is beginning to lose strength. I want to help him, but they will keep me from him if I do anything else. He needs me, but I am so afraid. . . .

  I couldn’t stop looking at him today, and when I finally touched him to care for him, his body responded and he reached for my hand, pleading deliriously for me to caress him. I have never experienced anything so shocking, so intimate, in my life. . . .

  . . . I’m afraid for him when he’s alone. Much of the time I’m only there to listen to him speak. . . .

  I wonder what would happen to my life if I helped him escape. My future seems as bleak as his. . . .

  I sat beside him for a long while today. . . .

  I think I could stay in his arms forever. . . .