Heartless

by Jaimey Grant

  The woman frowned right along with him. “I could never do that, my lord.” She waved her husband over. “Stark, his lordship requests that we rescind the order to remove his grace’s unwelcome guests.”

  “Indeed, my lord?”

  “I have my reasons, Stark.”

  The Starks glanced at each other, saying nothing yet communicating as only a longtime married couple could. Then, decision made, Stark returned his wooden expression to Lord Greville. “We trust that your lordship is fully aware of the risk you are taking?”

  The earl smiled. “I am.”

  “Very well then, my lord.” A flurry of activity began in which Stark managed to make the change in orders known without drawing his grace’s attention. The efficiency was a sight to behold.

  That taken care of, Greville came forward and greeted his cousin and her husband. “I apologize for our host’s rather rude welcome, but…” He shrugged.

  Aurora said a few things to Mrs. Stark and then took little Jessamyn by the hand and led the newcomers away. Prestwich stayed behind.

  “I never expected better, Vi, believe me. Is there some place we can speak privately? Something has happened that perhaps you should know about.”

  25

  The lateness of the year brought darkness early, the sun descending though night still lay hours away. Leandra gazed through her bedchamber window, watching the sun begin its descent, streaking reds and golds across the sky. She saw nothing. Liza scurried around the room behind her, packing a valise at Leandra’s request. No tears marred her round cheeks, no wrinkle disturbed her pale brow.

  She felt nothing. She refused to consider her husband’s hateful words, to recall the contempt in his face and voice. Tears were scorned in the face of her injured pride. It was outside of enough that he’d managed to shatter her heart, dismantle her world, and otherwise destroy everything she’d come to believe about love and marriage. He couldn’t have her tears too.

  She didn’t know where she would go, however. Her allowance was enough she could go anywhere in the country but she hated the idea of using a penny of her husband’s money. On the other hand, how was she to get away if she did not?

  “Oh, bother.”

  Liza looked up, pausing briefly in the act of folding her mistress’s underthings. “Your grace?”

  “Nothing, Liza. I’ve just remembered something. Don’t bother with the valise. I may not need it quite yet.”

  The duchess rose to her feet and retrieved the childish book of spells she had hidden in her nightstand. As she pulled it out, she inadvertently knocked out one of the late duchess’s journals. It fell to the floor, an ominous crack sounding. Leandra clenched her teeth and bent to pick it up. As she did so, she noticed a very small piece of foolscap protruding from between the cover and the vellum carefully glued to it. Her eyebrows rose slightly at this and she gently removed the protrusion.

  It was folded only once and written in the same hand as the journals. Why would Derringer’s mama hide it instead of writing it in her book with the rest of her feelings and secrets?

  Leandra gripped the journal, recalling some of the shocking things the woman had revealed in her private writings. She’d felt only a twinge of guilt at reading them, but nothing prepared her for the lack of compunction the late duchess felt at playing her husband false. At least she had waited until the birth of her son to dally, Leandra thought with unaccustomed cynicism.

  Dismissing Liza firmly, Leandra sat down at the little writing desk in the corner of her sitting room. With a tiny bit of guilt for yet again invading the privacy of another, she unfolded the missive.

  The writing was the same, she noted upon closer inspection, but it appeared rather forced, hurried, agitated. Two discolored spots in the paper indicated the possibility of tears. A shiver of unease snaked through her body.

  Her eyes passed over the missive, widening with each word. By the end of the first paragraph, she was visibly shaken. By the end of the second, tears gathered in her eyes. And by the end of the third and final paragraph, her tears dried and a feeling of dread pooled in the pit of her stomach.

  Leandra crossed to the bellpull. A moment of tense waiting was rewarded with the arrival of Liza. “Quickly, Liza, where is Mr. St. Clair?”

  “Mr. St. Clair, your grace? In his grace’s study, I believe.”

  Leandra fled her room and nearly ran to the study on the ground floor. She wished a trifle crossly that the castle wasn’t quite so big, but brushed it aside with her customary sensibility.

  Customary sensibility? Where exactly had that particular quality fled to when she had been faced with her husband’s usual incivility?

  Shaking her head, her goal uppermost in her mind, Leandra missed a pair of midnight eyes that watched her movements suspiciously—and a trifle sadly.

  Derringer’s eyes narrowed. What had his unwilling bride in such a pother? With the grace of a jungle cat, he stepped into her path.

  Leandra, of course, could not avoid the imminent collision with Derringer’s muscular form. He wrapped one arm around her waist and twitched the paper from her clenched fingers.

  “What is this, soon-to-be-absent Lady Derringer?”

  Despite the lie in the words, she retorted, “None of your business, your grace.”

  Derringer glanced briefly at the bit of handwriting that was visible. His black brows rose. “Is it not, my unwilling-companion-in-life? I do believe this is my mother’s hand, unless I’m very much mistaken. Am I mistaken, Leandra?”

  The stern note in his voice warned her of the wisdom of a candid answer. “Perhaps it is.”

  “Then you were looking for me, I suppose?”

  “No.”

  Derringer leaned his head back, keeping her firmly locked in his embrace. “No? Then who were you looking for, Lady Doesn’t-want-to-be-a-duchess?”

  Leandra’s brows drew down at his annoying appellations. “I was taking it to your cousin Martin, since it regards his brother.”

  The sudden tension in the arm around her sent a chill through Leandra.

  “His brother?”

  “Yes, your grace, his brother, Gabriel St. Clair.”

  “I see. And what, pray tell, does this mysterious letter reveal about my dear cousin, bride-of-my-heart?”

  Leandra was not fooled by the softness that touched the endearment. He could not possibly mean anything by it, she knew. It was inconceivable that he had any feelings for her whatsoever considering he threatened her and then told her exactly what he thought of her.

  “If you want to know, read the damn letter yourself, Lord Heartless!” she snapped. She wrenched herself from his grasp and tried to escape but he stopped her by the simple expedient of catching her hand.

  “Let me go.”

  Derringer sighed. “Leandra, we have to talk and I don’t mean to let you leave me until we do. Can you not at least grant me a few moments of your precious time, my heart?”

  Before she could respond to this astounding, strangely humble request, Martin St. Clair walked into the corridor. His pale blue eyes passed from Derringer to Leandra and back to the duke with a vague hint of inquiry. He said nothing, however.

  Derringer released Leandra and stared at his cousin. “Can I help you, Martin?”

  Leandra noticed the dangerous silky tone that her husband employed when he was angered. Was Martin as cognizant of this fact?

  If he was, he didn’t reveal it. His face was suitably blank as he replied, “I was just coming in search of you, Hart.” He eyed the paper in the duke’s hand with an intensity that disturbed Leandra. Derringer noticed as well and shoved the note into the pocket of his black leather breeches.

  The look of odd interest left Martin’s bright eyes and he once again glanced at Leandra. Derringer, rather than taking the hint that Martin wished to speak to him alone, offered, “Perhaps you would like to talk to my wife instead? I understand she’s looking for somewhere to go.”

  The duchess turned shocked eyes on D
erringer. Of course he would assume she had nowhere to go. But did he have to inform his cousin of her imminent departure? Or imply that she was looking for… a protector, for lack of a better word?

  The duke laughed at his cousin’s astonishment. “Never mind, Martin. I do believe she is of two minds on the subject.”

  Leandra had, indeed, been of two minds. But after his assured belief of this, she once again decided it would be best to leave based solely on obstinacy.

  “Go back to my study, Martin. I’ll be with you shortly.” Derringer turned to his wife as soon as the door to the study closed. “Have you nothing to say, my bride?”

  “You assume much to think I would stay with you, your grace. You threaten my life, you tell me I am nothing more than a convenience, and you mock me before servants, family, and friends as often as possible. Why on earth should I even consider staying here?”

  “You are my wife,” he stated simply, unemotionally.

  “Scarcely,” she retorted. She immediately regretted her words. The implications were obvious and she knew her husband would hear the longing she’d failed to hide.

  “Merri, my love, is that frustration I hear?” He took a step closer, his expression turning wolfish. “I have been neglecting you, have I? Should I remedy that oversight?”

  Despite every effort to the contrary, Leandra felt a blush climb her cheeks. “Never!” she said. It came out, however, as little more than a breathless whisper.

  A devilish twinkle lit Derringer’s eyes. “You sound quite as though you desire my attentions, oh, worshiped one.” He stepped closer still, shortening the distance between their bodies to a mere inch or two. “Do you?”

  “No.” Again, it was the merest sound.

  “You lie.”

  Before she could think or react, her husband captured her head with one hand and pressed his mouth to hers. Desire flared as his lips moved over hers. Her arms crept around him, her longing for this man overcoming all the warnings her head presented.

  She shouldn’t love him, indeed she should cut him from her life with the greatest relief. But she knew as he made love to her lips, drew her closer until their bodies were pressed intimately together, she was as hopelessly lost as she’d feared. She would never love another as she loved him.

  And she could never truly give up on him. Somewhere in there, somewhere buried deep was a man loving and kind. All she had to do was find him, coax him out.

  The sound of someone clearing his throat finally broke them apart. Even then, their eyes remained locked. Leandra stared into troubled eyes, dark as pitch, clouded with a question she dare not consider at the moment.

  With a will of iron, she whispered, “That was unfair, Hart. I am a green girl, as you very well know.”

  The strange vulnerability in his eyes disappeared, replaced with mocking contempt. “What do you want, Prestwich?” he asked, his eyes never leaving his wife’s.

  “I daresay it would be best if we spoke alone, Derringer.”

  Leandra turned and beheld an attractive gentleman nearly as dark as her husband. His eyes, however, were an odd gray-green color and held a note of pity in their depths. She found herself oddly resentful of his assumption.

  Drawing herself up to her full height—which brought the top her head somewhere in the vicinity of her husband’s chin—she inquired in the best duchess tones she could, “And, who, if I may be so bold, are you, sir?”

  Laughter flashed through Prestwich’s pale eyes. Derringer saw it. He was amused himself by his wife’s quick rise to the ranks of the peerage in attitude as well as name.

  Prestwich resisted the urge, however. He smiled rather pleasantly, bowed respectfully, and introduced himself. “I am a friend of your husband’s, your grace,” he added with a cynical look thrown Derringer’s way.

  “I very much doubt that, Sir Adam,” returned the duchess. “My husband doesn’t have friends. If he ever did, he has long since alienated them through his boorish behavior.”

  The duke shrugged when the other man leveled a questioning look on him. “I’m like an open book, Prestwich. Easily read.”

  The baronet snorted at this. “In a pig’s eye,” he muttered.

  Leandra smiled despite herself. Prestwich caught it and shrugged. “I am truly a friend whether his unholy lordship chooses to recognize that fact or not.”

  “I believe you,” Leandra murmured. “I will leave you now.” She dropped a slight curtsy out of respect and walked away.

  “You do have a habit of trying to destroy your life, Derringer,” remarked Prestwich thoughtfully.

  The duke stared at him, saying nothing.

  26

  “And I don’t know why you insist that I stay out of it, Adam. This affects Levi, too, you know.”

  Sir Adam Prestwich glared at his wife. “We are dealing with a possible madman, Brianna Prestwich. Not some schoolboy out for a lark.”

  “A possible madman?” she interjected, snapping up the one unknown in her husband’s statement.

  “It is impossible that he be other than completely unbalanced. Remember,” he added darkly, “you are not pregnant now. I will beat you.”

  Bri released an annoyed sound that Adam might actually have called a growl—had his wife been an animal. “Very well, Adam, you win. I will not get involved in apprehending the villain.”

  The baronet’s eyes narrowed. “You will not get involved in the investigation, either.”

  This time she really did growl. “I hate you.”

  Prestwich laughed outright. “No, you don’t. You love me and that’s why you are so upset that you feel obligated to obey.” He stepped close enough to wrap his arms around her. “Promise me, Bri.”

  “I promise nothing.”

  “Very well.” He dropped his hands back to his sides and walked to the door. “After so many years of marriage, one would think she’d learn,” he muttered to himself. Turning, he added, “I will just have to lock you in here until you do.”

  Lady Brianna’s scream echoed off the stone walls of the castle corridors as her husband firmly locked her in. He just laughed.

  “And people call me heartless,” a deep voice mocked.

  “You are,” Prestwich assured him. He walked away and the duke fell into step beside him.

  “True. But I wonder how long that room will actually hold a woman as determined as your bride. Care to lay a wager on it?”

  “Very well.”

  “Leandra’s locket says your lovely wife will join us for dinner tonight without apologizing or groveling or whatever it is she has refused to do.”

  Prestwich eyed the other man with dislike. “You would bet a piece of your wife’s jewelry?”

  “No, Prestwich, I would not, despite my heartless ways. I am informing you that I have discovered a way you may be of some assistance.”

  “Indeed?” the baronet drawled. “How so?”

  “If I win the wager, you have to get Leandra’s locket back for me. Her stepmother refused to let her take it when she was forced from her home and I want it back.”

  “And if you lose?”

  The duke shrugged, stopped walking, and looked into Prestwich’s eyes. “I will tell you everything I know about the person or persons trying to kill me and let you and Vi proceed as you see fit.”

  “And you will stop tormenting your wife?”

  “My wife is my business, Prestwich. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Prestwich snorted. “I accept your bet on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “You are not to assist my wife in any way.”

  “And you are not to deter her in any way other than locking the doors to her bedchamber and locking her window.”

  “We’re on the fourth floor.”

  “How well do you really know your wife?”

  The duke was not surprised to see his unwanted guests had not only failed to leave, they seemed more determined than ever to stay. Never before had he had the dubious honor o
f being surrounded by those closest to him, friends and family. These were the people he could trust with his life.

  So which one wanted him dead?

  He shrugged. It suited his purposes that they remain, so their reason for doing so mattered little.

  Instinct told him the gold filigree locket gracing the younger Lady Harwood’s throat belonged to Leandra. He meant to have it before the little harpy departed.

  But, just to be sure, he asked his wife to describe it. This interview went as he expected considering their rocky relationship of late.

  “Describe it? Whatever for?”

  Derringer frowned at her suspicious tone. “Curiosity,” he told her with a careless shrug.

  “I have no need, I daresay,” she replied. “As you are a man, I venture to say you have noticed with what ample charms my dear sister-in-law is endowed. You have but to look higher to see the exact locket given me by my father. She wears it to spite me and yet cannot know exactly what sort of pain she causes.”

  The duke smiled. “As I suspected. I thank you for your information, madam wife,” he said with a courtly bow. “Shall I see you at dinner? We have far too many guests for you to gracefully withdraw I am afraid.”

  “Then why do you bother to inquire after my attendance? It appears as though the decision was never mine to make.”

  “Husbandly consideration?”

  Leandra’s left eyebrow quirked at this. “Indeed? Why do I feel the need to disregard such a suggestion? Perhaps because a considerate husband would never threaten to beat his wife for caring about him, or humiliate her before guests simply to make sure she is aware of her place of lesser worth for being born a woman.”

  The duke made no reply, offered no apology, indeed his very expression did not even change from the mask of vague interest he’d worn throughout her diatribe. It made her want to strike him.

  “Have you nothing to say? A defense of some sort would be appropriate now, I should think. Anything to justify what you have said and done to intentionally hurt me.” She shook her head angrily when he opened his mouth. “No, do not. I care not what your excuse is. I care not how you feel, your grace. Leave me, please.” She turned away, his dismissal clear in her rigid posture.