Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by K. J. Jackson

  Wynne was already in front of the fire drying off when Julie reappeared, a chemise and a grey muslin dress hanging over her arm.

  “We need to hurry, miss. The duchess be madly mad at the duke showin’ up. No notice, no nothin’ she be harping ‘bout. I ain’t been here that long, and I rightly know she be liken her dining on time, that one.”

  Wynne shrugged herself into both the chemise and the dress being tossed over her head, trying to separate out the girl’s spitfire words.

  “Buggerly boo. I forget the slippers, miss. Ye got shoes?”

  Pulling her still-tangled hair into a quick braid, Wynne nodded. “I have boots, will that do?”

  “It be havin’ to. ‘Tween boots and late, best bet be the boots with the duchess.”

  Before Wynne could get another word in, Julie grabbed her boots, holding them out for her to step into. Wynne tied one while Julie tied the other shin-high boot, and Julie promptly grabbed Wynne’s shoulders, shoving her out the door, down a long hallway, and down two flights of stairs. Three more hallways they sped along—one long, two short—and every one of them went by in a blur looking exactly like the last—dark, cold grey stone, empty.

  Julie yanked Wynne to a sudden stop in front of a set of heavy wood doors, their vertical planks held together with bars of thick, black iron stretching from the hinges.

  “Good luck to ye, miss.” Julie dropped her hands from Wynne's shoulders. “She be just as bad as ye be imagin’, just so ye be prepared.”

  Discombobulated by the whirlwind walk and Julie’s words, Wynne gave a troubled smile. “Thank you, I think.”

  Pity crossed Julie's face, and she spun to give three sharp knocks on the wood, then instantly turned and disappeared down the hall.

  Wynne wondered for a moment if she was an idiot to not run after the girl, escaping whatever was beyond the door in front of her.

  Just as she went to her toes, starting to turn and do just that, the door cracked open, and an impossibly wrinkled man in a dark uniform hobbled backward, drawing the door with him. Wynne could almost feel the shards of pain in his stooped back as he wheezed his way through the motion.

  Door ajar just enough for her to enter, the man straightened the best his curved back would allow, running a hand along the lapel on his black jacket. “Please, enter, miss.”

  She could still run. There was no way this elderly butler could ever catch her. The wild thought hit her, but she squashed it down. Again, Rowen had been entirely too accommodating for her to rudely disappear at this point—her mother would be mortified at her.

  Plus, the reality of Rowen’s earlier words was beginning to sink in. She had nowhere to go. Nowhere to live. At least not until she remembered where her home was. Where her mother was.

  Until Wynne remembered something, she had two choices: wander the forest aimlessly, scavenging squirrels to survive, or stay here and try to get her memory back.

  Wynne put on her brightest smile. Best to just face whatever was in the room and get it over with.

  She turned sideways, slipping through the slim space the door allowed. She had to squeeze past the elderly man, as he had stopped at the edge of the open door. Wynne didn’t have the heart to ask him for more room—it had taken him so long to open the door as it was.

  Past the butler, Wynne looked up and realized she was interrupting a heated conversation. Standing by a long, dark table, Rowen faced Wynne’s direction, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at the woman in front of him. The woman was in black from her toes to the scarf that had just fallen back off of her head.

  “You have no right to do what you propose, L.B.,” the woman said in a controlled shriek. Bound in a loose bun, her jet-black hair with streaks of grey bounced in agitation. “No right to come here and destroy this. You are not just an idiot, you are a delusional idiot to think you can.”

  Wynne instantly took a step sideways back to the door, but the old butler had already closed it. Apparently quicker at closing it than opening it.

  Rowen glanced up at that moment, catching Wynne’s eye. She saw his dark eyes give an odd flicker, but she wasn’t exactly sure what she saw. Embarrassment at the woman’s words? Amusement?

  The look disappeared before she could pin it, and Rowen looked down at the woman, his countenance neutral.

  “We will have to discuss this at another time, Duchess, as the guest I mentioned has arrived.”

  The woman whipped around, and Wynne was immediately struck with two things. One, the woman was older, but beautiful. And two, she had the saddest eyes Wynne had ever seen. The woman was tortured. And her black dress only exacerbated the despair.

  Wynne stood rooted in her spot by the door, and the woman advanced on her. The woman stopped, her toes almost touching Wynne’s boots, and she stared at Wynne’s face.

  Her breath heavy, she used her slight height advantage to lean over Wynne. Wynne took the scrutiny, trying not to shrink backward.

  Rowen moved to the side of them, his voice low. “Duchess.”

  There was clear warning in that one word.

  The woman waited a moment before she took one step backward, her almost translucent blue eyes going to Rowen.

  “This? This is what you bring? This does not placate me, L.B., if that is what you intended to do. You will have to do entirely better than presenting me with this twit of a girl.”

  “You hardly know that she is a twit, Duchess. Her name is Wynne Theaton, and she happens to be a very skilled artist. I cannot help it if you have not heard of her works. You have been complaining of the monstrosity that is your portrait since it was delivered twenty years ago.” Rowen inclined his head to Wynne. “She is the one to re-do your portrait. I do believe your son would have rectified the situation himself, were he alive.”

  Her eyes flew to Wynne. “Why are your fingers filthy, girl?”

  Wynne refused to look down at her fingertips, instead, meeting the duchess’s demanding stare. She couldn’t apologize for something she couldn’t help. “It is the paint. It stains my fingers.”

  The duchess tilted her head back, looking down her long, straight nose at Wynne. After a second of silence, she gave a curt nod. “Let us dine.”

  The first two courses came and went in complete silence. The duchess sat at one end of the long table. Rowen sat at the other. Wynne could not discern which was at the head of the table—appropriate, as she had already figured out the battle for dominance in this castle was raging in full force between the two.

  She also realized she had just been unwittingly plunked down into the middle of it.

  Wynne stole a sideward glance at Rowen. He had changed his attire and was now in full evening wear, his crisp white cravat a stark contrast against his dark hair. His black jacket—if possible—made his shoulders look even wider. She liked the simplicity of him in the woods better, his casual white linen shirt peeking out from under his black coat, along with the well-worn boots and buckskin breeches.

  But she also could not deny that he was just as handsome in polished clothes. The light of the fire opposite her flickered against one side of his face. And she was fascinated by the distinct way he ate. Utterly precise, not allowing a finger out of place, or the slightest morsel of food to tumble to his chin. She wondered at it, as she had not imagined this fastidiousness of him.

  “At least she knows which fork to use.”

  The duchess’s voice cut into her thoughts, and Wynne jumped, realizing her sideways glance at Rowen had turned into a full gawking. It sent the bite of fowl on her tongue into her throat, and she tried valiantly to hold in a choking, coughing spasm.

  “Where are you from, Miss Theaton?”

  Head down and eyes watering, Wynne succumbed to the hacking determined to escape. A quick drink of the wine, and Wynne looked up to the duchess, wiping her wet eyes. “Please, excuse me,” she choked out, and had to take another sip of wine.

  The duchess waited, perturbed politeness raising her brows.

  W
ynne glanced at Rowen. He was smirking. Ass.

  Throat back to normal, Wynne looked at the duchess, smoothing the napkin in her lap. “America. Both the Blue Ridge Mountains and New York. My mother was very adept at society, and schooled me exhaustively on manners. Which is where my knowledge of proper forks comes from. But the manners rarely came in handy on the mountain.”

  “You were in polite society in New York?”

  Wynne could see the duchess’s sudden interest, and nodded. “Yes. My parents were. My mother adored the dinners and galas that they both hosted and attended, and was preparing me for a very similar life. That was also where I was initially trained as an artist. I was thirteen when my father died, and we left the day after his funeral for my grandfather’s mountain. I do apologize if I misstep in my manners. It has been some time since I have put them to use at an elaborate table such as yours.”

  The duchess raised her wine, sipping slowly. “How interesting. And how did you make it from America to Yorkshire?”

  Surprised, Wynne looked at Rowen. “You did not tell her, Rowe?”

  Rowen opened his mouth, but was instantly cut off by the duchess.

  “Rowe?” Horrified, the duchess’s hand went flat onto the black lace across her chest. She glared at Wynne. “Pray tell me you did not just call the duke ‘Rowe.’”

  Confused, Wynne’s eyes went from the duchess, to Rowen, and then back to the duchess. “I—I did. Is that not his name?”

  “He is a duke, Miss Theaton. You address him as ‘your grace.’”

  The words of apology formed on her tongue, but Rowen spoke before Wynne could get sound out. “I am rather fond of Miss Theaton calling me Rowe, Duchess.”

  The duchess leaned forward, eyes slicing into Rowen. “The duke is rolling in his grave.”

  “I am the duke.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Rowen didn’t flinch, didn’t rise against the obvious disgust the duchess shot at him.

  They stared at each other, Wynne frozen between the two. It was when Wynne could hold her breath no longer that she cleared her throat, leaning forward over the table to try and break the sight line between the two.

  She produced a humble smile as she looked at the duchess. “I apologize, Duchess, I did not realize.” She turned to Rowen. “I meant no disrespect, Ro—your grace.”

  “I prefer Rowe, Wynne.”

  The duchess flew to her feet, arm flying into the air. “Travesty. A grievous insult to all you represent, L.B. Disgusting travesty. I have lost my appetite.” In a flash, she stomped to the heavy doors, pushing past the elderly butler as he fumbled with the door for the duchess.

  Eyes wide and heart thudding, Wynne looked from the closed doors to Rowen. “I apologize. I did not mean to be the brunt of discord between the two of you.”

  “You are not the brunt, Wynne,” Rowen said calmly, appearing indifferent to the duchess’s scene. “Merely a convenient pawn to be used by the dowager against me.”

  “But I believe I should call you ‘your grace’—had I known, I certainly would have done so from the start. Things are much different here from on our mountain.”

  “No.” The one word came fast and hard. But then Rowen blinked, and his voice softened. “No ‘your grace’—I do not wish that from you. I would prefer you to call me Rowe. It is how we started.”

  Unnerved at his insistence, Wynne silently nodded. She already called him Rowe, so it would be easy enough for her—though she made a mental notation to not refer to him as anything in front of the duchess. She did not want to repeat that particular scene.

  Smoothing the napkin on her lap, Wynne picked up her knife and fork, slicing her meat, searching her mind for a topic to move past the awkwardness of the last few minutes. “The duchess—she has had a portrait done she is not pleased with?”

  “Yes, it hangs in the main hall here, and it is the one thing I agree with her about. It is awful. And she has been terrified for years that the portrait would end up representing her throughout the ages.”

  “Why not remove it?”

  Rowen’s eyes stayed on his plate. “Her husband was a stubborn man and oftentimes bitter. He demanded that be her legacy. And since he died, she has not removed it either.” He shrugged. “Better to be represented by an atrocity, than not represented at all, I imagine.”

  “That sounds particularly awful.”

  “I suppose it depends upon how much one cares about what others think, even generations that have yet to be born.” He looked up, his dark eyes focusing on her hands. “All in all, it should not be too difficult for you to improve on the original portrait. I will show it to you after we finish dining.”

  ~~~

  Bellies plump, Rowen grabbed a hanging wall lantern from the dining hall and led Wynne into the labyrinth of stone hallways. Within two turns, Wynne realized the necessity of the lantern and suddenly wished she had her own.

  Pitch blackness both in front of them and behind them, Wynne made sure to move slightly behind Rowen and keep her steps close to his. Spooky—and her grandfather had long since cured her of being spooked by the darkness.

  But the darkness of an open mountain was very different than the dank, cold darkness they were surrounded by. Wynne started to hum to herself and then realized the echo of it made the hallways even spookier.

  She looked up at Rowen’s profile, the light of the lantern sending a warm glow across his cheek. “What is it that the duchess does not want you to destroy?”

  “The dowager would prefer for me not to tear down half the castle.”

  Wynne stopped in place. Rowen kept walking, and it took a moment for her to realize she was getting left behind in the dark. She scurried to catch up. “You want to tear down half the castle? Why?”

  “It is crumbling, and it would cost five fortunes to repair it.” His smooth voice offered calm logic. “The dowager is adamant I fix it instead, as you overheard.”

  “But what about the history of this place?”

  “I am not interested in a history that serves no purpose other than to drain my finances.”

  “Even crumbling, this is an impressive structure,” Wynne said. “Spooky and confusing, but impressive. I can understand her resistance.”

  “Yes, but it is ridiculous to keep it standing. We do not live in feudal times. This castle was built for defense and knights and wars and surviving sieges. Not for one woman and her team of servants. It is a ridiculous waste in this age.”

  Rowen stopped, and Wynne bumped into his back—a solid wall against her slight frame.

  He turned and handed her the lantern as he used both hands to lift what looked like a heavy black iron latch on a thick wood door. The creaking of ancient iron hinges filled both the hallway behind them and the room in front of them as Rowen pushed the door open.

  Taking the lantern from Wynne, he walked into a cavernous hall. High on the stone walls, eerie slits in the stone let what little moonlight there was into the space. Three stories high and wide, this hall had to run at least half the length of one side of the castle, Wynne guessed. On the two levels above, landings and balconies capped the ends, while symmetrical arched alcoves lined the sides.

  Rowen walked ahead as Wynne stood and took in the grand hall. He lit several torches leaning out from the stone, illuminating the area he wanted her to see.

  Wynne joined him, scanning the stone wall before them that displayed a long row of large portraits.

  Moving sideways along the display, she studied the few works she could see in the light of the flames, all of them oils. Men on horses. A beautiful woman with a baby in her arms. A man surrounded by hunting dogs.

  She gasped.

  Hideous in front of her, a portrait of a woman standing, back hunched, crooked mouth, a nose with an odd lump, frizzy dark hair, and eyes that were mangled, one set higher than the other. Wynne stepped closer to the painting, eyes running over the long-cured globs of paint.

  She had seen it immediately, of course,
the slight resemblance to the dowager, but couldn’t quite believe someone had actually wasted paint on producing this atrocity.

  In as much as she had seen and observed of the dowager, Wynne knew she was a hard, demanding woman, but also beautiful. This painting had very few remnants of the woman. Such disparity, that this painting had to have been a vengeful act—there was no other explanation for it.

  Rowen cleared his throat. He had been silent as she studied the painting and Wynne had forgotten he was there.

  With a shake of disgust, she stepped back from the painting. “I am sorry, was I losing time?”

  His eyebrow cocked. “Losing time?”

  “It was always a frustration for grandfather.” Her cheeks flushed. “I lose time and place when I am thinking. Sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. He was always convinced I would get eaten by a mountain lion, I am so unaware of my surroundings. Was I gone for long?”

  A curious smile touched his lips. “No. Only a few minutes.”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to be rude.” She pointed at the painting. “And that thing is ridiculous.”

  “You can do better, then?”

  “I could do better when I was seven.” She shook her head as she gazed at the portrait, wrapping her arms around her ribcage to ward off the cool draft collecting by the wall.

  “But the odd thing of it, the painter—whoever it was—knew what he was doing,” Wynne said. “Knew about strokes, shadows, light. He knew what he was doing, but chose to create this. So very odd.”

  “Not so odd, if one considers the past, the history of these people.”

  “You say it as if they are not your people?”

  “They are not.”

  Wynne looked at Rowen, instantly seeing he would say no more. “More history that does not currently serve a purpose?”

  Without answering, Rowen stepped around her, snuffing out one torch, then the other. Wynne watched his profile as he bent to pick up the lantern.

  Silent, he started to the door, not glancing back to make sure she was following.

  Stifling a sigh, Wynne ran, her boots clomping on the stone floor to catch up to him.