by Stacy Reid
He was an exotic creature she felt ill equipped to understand. A fire that burned cold, one she could admit she was undoubtedly, dangerously attracted to. Still she made her way over and lowered herself into the iron chair. Shadows closed around them, the scent of jasmine and lilies redolent in the air.
“May I assist you in any way, Your Grace?”
He turned his head, regarding her with faint amusement. “Is that an invitation to sin, Miss Danvers?”
“Of course not,” she murmured with a small smile. “I can tell that you are in terrible pain.”
His face closed, as if guarding a secret or maybe his pride. “Leave me!”
The cold command cracked through the air. How mercurial. Instead of obeying, she stood, made her way to his stone bench, and lowered herself beside him. He was too broad shouldered, his legs too long, to share the space comfortably.
Her thighs pressed against the hand clenched on the edge of the stone bench, and a flush worked through her body, but she would not run away like a silly, hysterical miss. This unfathomable agony he endured was because he’d wanted to dance with her. Possibly to help cement her position within the ton, perhaps because he wanted to feel what it was like to take a twirl across the room after so many years secluded away.
His reasons seemed as if they would forever be incomprehensible to her, and Kitty only knew she would feel wretched if she walked away and left him alone with his pain.
They sat silently for a long time, or was it mere moments? His fingers flexed, and she glanced down. His knuckles strained from the death grip he had on the bench. A low groan slipped from him before it was ruthlessly contained.
He released the bench to clasp his thigh, where he dug in his fingers and kneaded. It did not seem to help; the low curses spilling from under his breath attested to that. She snuck a sideward glance at him. The pale splash of light clearly showed the grooves of pain bracketing his mouth.
Her heart ached, unable to imagine what he felt. His control was admirable and spoke of how much he suffered in silence. The moment seemed private, and she felt the worst sort of intruder, yet her mind would not allow her to shuffle away silently.
Nervousness coursed through Kitty, but she took a deep, steadying breath. I can do this.
She reached out, slowly, in the same manner she’d used to approach a wild dog once in the country when she’d offered it some scraps from the kitchen. The duke’s gaze fell on her outstretched hand. She felt the searing heat of his regard, could sense the disbelief winding through him. Yet Kitty ignored all of that and gently rested her hand on his lower thigh.
A blush engulfed her entire body at her terrible impropriety. She felt burned and struggled not to snatch her hand away. The muscles beneath her palm bunched and knotted, impervious to the dig of his fingers to release the tension from the cramps.
Kitty lifted her gaze to his, hating that she was blushing so fiercely. She shifted closer, slanting her body so she could better grip his thigh, careful to not let her fingers touch his. She could feel his muscles flex a little beneath her fingertips, and the sensation made her redden. The duke faltered into remarkable stillness, his hand slipping from his thigh, and even his breath had hitched, though he had yet to exhale.
The silence felt thick, charged.
She pressed deep with her fingers, massaging the twisted muscles. No sound passed his lips; in truth, Kitty believed he still held his breath. It was clear the sheer intimacy of her touch, the presumption of her action, rendered him speechless.
“You are the most brazen, shameless, impudent…” The low words exploded from him on a sharp exhale.
Her movements faltered, and she snapped her head up to peer at him. They sat together for a moment, frozen, staring at each other. His head dipped forward, his features spilling into sharp relief. The mask had been removed, his lips were flattened in a harsh line, and his eyes were chilled. Distressingly, their faces were so close that with just the slightest shift from either, their lips would meet. Her stomach clenched tight at the awareness, and a peculiar longing swelled inside her.
“How do you dare?”
The biting words sliced through the stillness of the night. An alarming distance cloaked his demeanor. Something unknown trembled inside her. But she managed to shrug and say, “Are you not in pain? Perhaps my touch will help. When my papa was alive, we had horses. Many times, I assisted with rubbing them down and massaging their flanks. I daresay this is similar and may provide some relief.”
“Your continued impudence staggers me.” His voice sounded strange, unusually rough.
Kitty flushed in acute embarrassment. She was unable to explain that she cared. That somehow it hurt to think of another in pain and ignore their need when she could possibly help. And I am silly. Why should I care about him?
She was, after all, only a curiosity to him. A cure for his boredom, a passing interest of which he would soon tire. “Do you wish for me to stop?”
He drew back into the shadows but did not proffer a reply. The muscles jumped beneath her fingertips, twisting into hard cramps. She felt his entire body stiffen against the pain, and Kitty simply shifted, placing both hands on his thighs, and started to massage.
Seconds, then minutes passed, until the tension eased from his body and the muscles beneath her touch became more pliant. He made no effort to break the odd tension, and she truly had no words. The duke placed his hand atop hers, halting her massage.
Kitty glanced up at his hidden mien.
“Thank you, Miss Danvers. The pain has eased considerably.” Now his tone was soft, questioning, with another indefinable undertone.
She slowly pulled her hands from beneath his, hating how her heart jerked. “You are welcome, Your Grace. I’m relieved my impudence helped.”
His lips curved in a semblance of a smile.
Then more silence. And she wondered if there would ever be a time she would be comfortable within his presence. They were simply worlds apart in their connections and personalities. With a silent sigh, she shifted her attention to the fountain in the distance, not liking that he could see every facet of her expression when his was still so carefully hidden. “Why did you dance with me?”
Another seemingly contemplative silence, then he said, “I wanted to.”
She tipped her head to the night sky, gazing up at its vast beauty. “Was it worth it?”
“Look at me.”
Everything inside her tensed, but Kitty turned to him. “Come into the light.”
Another dip of his head, and their lips were once again improperly close and the cast of his face revealed. He reached up and smoothed her hair away from her brow. A terrible weak-kneed feeling assailed Kitty. She swallowed her gasp of surprise and simply stared at him. Suddenly it seemed important to say something, but her tongue would not obey.
Oh, why had she followed him?
“It was worth it,” he finally murmured. “Thank you for the honor.”
A soft gasp escaped her. The dratted man could be charming when he wanted. Her emotions were running amok, and she could not understand any of them. It was imperative for her to flee this darkened piece of their world, but she wanted to stay, to know more about him if he would allow it. Wasn’t that how friendship was formed? Through honest conversation?
“Why did you stay away…from society?”
He glanced at her, visibly struck.
Would he answer? She felt adrift in this strange, fraught tension.
“A faint sensation would rush to my head whenever I thought about stepping about in society. The walls seemed to close in, making it difficult to breathe. For months, the memory of falling in the House of Lords haunted me. The pity and derision on the faces of men I’d called friends. Men whom I’d drank with and even raced with. The idea of facing them made my heart pound, the cravat around my neck feel like a noose, every sca
r feels like a failure, though I know how ridiculous the notion was.”
Kitty was still, unafraid to move lest his low murmur halt. He spoke without shame or embarrassment, only a rueful reflection.
“By the time I realized I truly did not care for society’s opinion, I was no longer intrigued by the frivolities of the ton. There was no need for me to seek a duchess. There was no need for me to speak in the House of Lords when my letters have proven to be just as powerful. And my sister needed me; that became my source…of everything.”
Until now lingered unspoken in the air. But there was an inescapable implied awareness of it.
Until now.
Her lips curved. “Thank you for sharing with me, Your Grace.”
He stared at her. “You have a beautiful smile, Miss Danvers.”
A breath caught in her chest at the husky timbre of his voice. “I…thank you.”
“Are Kitty and Katherine the same, I wonder? Have you always been this bold and determined?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then why has society missed you all these years? It is impossible to hide fire.”
Her throat worked on a swallow. “To be your fiancée and entice the ton, I chose to stop hiding. As young ladies, we are taught to suppress our sincere hearts lest we offend.”
“Ahh.”
His soft exhalation of satisfaction had an odd ripple of delight coursing through her.
“So you do not regret riding astride…twice, daring to attend Lady Appleby’s ball without a corset, and rescuing a cat in a tree for a little lady?”
Shock parted her lips. “So you’ve read all the scandal sheets.”
He reached for her, skimming the back of his fingers over the soft swell of her cheek, lingering at the curve of her jaw, his thumb smoothing against her lips.
A startled laugh escaped before she choked back the sound. Her heart pounded, and her mouth went dry. “Your Grace?”
For the briefest moment, he, too, looked startled. As if he’d not planned to touch her. As if he’d been compelled to lay his hand against her skin. Her entire body warmed.
She turned her face into his palm and brushed her lips briefly over his wrist. Oh dear. No, no, no. They froze, and mortification burned through her. She had acted without thought, driven by a need she hardly understood.
Their eyes met. Again, that shock of want and need long denied welled inside her heart. For no apparent reason, she suddenly recalled the brief press of his lips against hers when they’d first met. He’d tasted like coffee, whiskey, and desire.
Birds took flight in her stomach and a slow, languorous ache rolled through Kitty, scaring her with its intensity.
Not wanting to face the consequences of her impulsive actions, she lurched to her feet and hurried away, conscious of his gaze burning a hole in her back. At the edge of the iron gate, he spoke.
“Miss Danvers?”
She froze. One…two…three…four…five… That was a useless exercise. Her heart pounded more instead of lessening. “Your Grace?” she said in a shaky, breathless voice.
He waited…and waited. Kitty stepped forward.
“We leave for Scotland in a few days,” he murmured, yet his voice reached her, arresting her movements.
It was an extraordinary sensation. This mix of fear and anticipation.
“Very well, Your Grace. We leave for Scotland.”
Chapter Eight
A week after Lady Carnforth’s ball, Kitty and the duke set out for Scotland, and now they had been traveling for three days. Before they left town, she had attended the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane with the duke to the rabid curiosity of the ton.
The black and gold half mask of the duke had rendered him aloof and unapproachable as he sat beside Kitty in the plush private box situated above the rest of the auditorium. He had seemed immersed in the rousing tale of unrequited love and revenge and had paid her little regard, and she had been too uncertain to attempt any conversation. They had been the recipients of many quizzing glasses, as the lords and ladies of society had presumably thought her and the duke a better performance to observe. It had taken several minutes before Kitty had ignored it all and relaxed into a world of greasepaint and artifice.
The entire affair had been decidedly odd, for he had escorted her home with little conversation beyond the polite pleasantries. Kitty found that she wanted to ask him about his experience after being away from such entertainments for so long. When she had asked the duke if he wished to attend the museum before departing for Scotland, his response had been an unreadable “no.”
With a sigh, she peered out of the carriage, mightily tired of being enclosed. The duke had elected to ride on a massive stallion ahead of her equipage. At times when she drew back the curtains and peeked out, she would see him cantering ahead. Other times, he traveled in the second carriage rambling behind her coach.
Kitty found it curious he did not wish to be enclosed with her. It was almost as if he avoided her presence. Even at the two inns they stayed overnight, she’d dined and broken her fast alone. He’d ensure the best rooms at the inns were assigned to her, and a stout and friendly widow had traveled as her chaperone. That lady, a Mrs. Williams, rode in the second coach with a few other servants, their luggage, and sometimes the duke.
The man kept a very careful distance, though she was grateful for the space. Every day she thought about their encounter in the garden at Lady Carnforth’s ball, wishing she had not stayed, other times wishing she’d been brave enough to press her lips to his. As if controlled by another, her fingers fluttered to her lips. It infuriated her that his kiss the night they met, though quite chaste, haunted her, when Thornton probably did not spare her a thought beyond how to use her for his amusement.
She was not some foolish girl who dreamed of love, was she? Surely she was more practical than that. Then why do I think about the dratted man so often?
Glancing through the carriage windows, she observed him ahead on his stallion. The duke was shouting something at the coachman and pointing upward. Kitty peered above the tree lines in the distance. The skies had darkened, and it appeared that rain would be imminent.
She had heard Scotland was frightfully wet, even in the summer months.
The carriage lurched ahead, the pace increasing considerably. With a sigh, she lowered the curtains and leaned back against the well-padded squabs. It was impossible to envision what their week or two would be like at his home. Would he ignore her there, too? Would dinner be as silent as the theater? Would her presence be a mere ornament? Or worse, what if he demanded she stay longer? That she would refuse and would bargain fiercely for another outcome.
With another huff, she reached for the small valise underneath the seat, opened it, and withdrew a book—Castle of Wolfenbach. Opening the pages, she resumed her read from where she’d stopped, burying the anxiety filling her heart. She needn’t fret about that brief kiss, or how intimate their encounter had been in the garden, or the duke’s aloofness now. The duke had no intention of marrying—she would not follow Ophelia’s or Mamma’s advice and hope that this outrageous stay at his castle might turn into something more.
Kitty’s mission was clear and simple. Be his friend, whatever that entailed. Ensure that he did not call off the engagement before the necessary time. Not kissing friends. And just maybe she would survive the experience, and all would be well with her family and sisters.
That was all she should care about. And so she would.
…
Alexander rode ahead, urging the horses to keep a brisk pace. The wind had risen, scuttling dark clouds across the sun. It felt as if he raced against the doubts filling him. He wasn’t a man prone to indecisive thoughts, yet the closer they were to his castle, the more he was certain he had made a blasted mistake. To take a young lady from her home and into the wild moors of Scotland was truly foo
lhardy. And without a proper chaperone.
If a hint of this escapade was revealed to society, surely her reputation could never recover. One moment’s indiscretion could unleash a scandal. And he did not want that for her. That daring spirit should be gently encouraged to bloom vividly, not crushed and misunderstood.
He’d spent a good part of his journey home thinking about the gamble she had taken for the sake of her family and what it said about the lady herself. Miss Danvers was courageous, loyal, witty, and a woman with unusual humor and tenacity. And kind…even at the cost of her reputation.
In other words, a woman unlike any he’d ever known.
He pulled on the reins of the massive stallion, forcing it to halt. The carriages rumbled closer, the beat of the horses’ hooves almost a taunt to his earlier ruthless confidence. Alexander scowled at the black sky. A storm such as this in May.
Perhaps it was an omen.
A fat drop of rain splashed on his cheek and he cursed. They were at least an hour’s ride from home, but the roads tended to become mud-logged during and after a deluge. And this promised to be quite a squall. The trees were bending under the force of the wind. His top hat tugged from his head and soared away before he could react.
Stifling another curse, he urged the horses ahead. Despite the biting cold penetrating his jacket, he would not ride inside the carriage with Miss Danvers. The second coach within which he traveled sometimes had already gone ahead hours ago and should be at the castle already. He’d ordered his wheeled chair and canes to be put away in defiance of his manservant’s protest. Alexander had determined, despite the twinges of pain in his back and lower extremities, he would return home under his own steam.
After a few more minutes of traveling, the rain sleeted down, and with a curse, he bid the coachman to stop the carriage. He carefully dismounted, ignoring the shock of pain that traveled up his back. After a few bracing breaths and ruthlessly beating back the fiery swarm of pain, he took the first steps toward the equipage. “Hitch Hercules behind the coach. The rain is too fierce to continue that way. I will ride with Miss Danvers for the rest of the journey.”