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

by K. J. Jackson

  Wynne was already shaking her head. “I cannot be around the duke, your grace.”

  “Nonsense.” The duchess shook her head. “There will be no seeing him. I have sent him away. You need never be in the same room with him again.”

  Wynne’s head cocked, wary. “He is gone?”

  “Yes. Come, my dear. I have not been off the main grounds of Notlund in years, and I am finding it overwhelming. There is a definite chill and I would like to be home by nightfall.”

  Wynne studied the duchess, deciding. The woman offered employment. A way to save enough money to buy passage back to America. And most important, no Rowen.

  Wynne nodded.

  She would be stupid not to accept.

  { Chapter 19 • Worth of a Duke }

  October 1821

  Rowen slid the window closed in his study, staring at the crisp, green hedges of the gardens. The brisk wind had picked up, blowing papers off his desk.

  The recent cold had been a welcome respite after the warm summer, but at the same time, Rowen didn’t want to spend the afternoon picking up and organizing papers strewn about his study.

  He knew he could easily have his solicitor taking care of the bulk of the affairs of the duchy, but it had kept his mind occupied. Occupied in a realm far away from one where he thought of Wynne. The realm where he would try to drink her memory away. Three months of that had left him nowhere except angry and exhausted.

  Even though Wynne was safely ensconced at Notlund, Rowen had hoped against hope that she would have a change of heart. That she could find a way to forgive him. Find her way to him.

  But it had not happened. Months had passed, and there was only the occasional short note from the duchess that Wynne was there and safe.

  At the very least, Rowen was happy for that. He had no right to ask for more.

  Latching the window closed, he crumpled further in his hand the already half-crushed letter that had just arrived from Notlund. Tom, Notlund’s stable master, had verified what the duchess had written a month ago. That Wynne was set to become betrothed to a physician in the area.

  Rowen wasn’t going to believe the duchess alone on that particular message, so he had actually stooped to inquiring about Wynne from Tom. As distasteful as it was to have to skulk about the shadows for news on Wynne, Rowen had to do it.

  And man that Tom was, he had written back just the facts, with no judgment. Rowen was grateful for it, even if it wasn’t the news he had wanted to face.

  Wynne had apparently done the physician’s portrait during the late spring, soon after the duchess had started to entertain at Notlund again. Tom knew every horse in and out of the estate and had verified the physician’s ongoing visits to the Notlund—long after the man’s portrait had been finished, as Tom had seen it shipped off to the physician’s house himself.

  Rowen crushed the letter into an even tinier ball. Preposterous. Wynne could never be around a man with constant blood on his clothes.

  His eyes drifted out to the evergreen hedges. Planted long ago by his grandfather, they were now tall enough to be level with the bottom of the study window. A group of three rogue leaves flew by in the wind, spinning together.

  Rowen shook his head.

  He had to face it. October first—eight months since he had seen Wynne. Eight months without word from her. Without the slightest indication she would ever allow him back into her life.

  He had been a fool to wait this long.

  It was time to concentrate on an heir.

  ~~~

  “You should be ready, dear, not in here, paint still thick on your nails.”

  Wynne’s gaze drifted from the canvas in front of her to the doorway. In a deep blue gown, the duchess stood, her dark hair coiffed to perfection and ready for the grandest ball, even though it was just a few people coming to Notlund to dine.

  The duchess’s eyes went to Wynne’s fingernails, and Wynne started flicking away dried paint. “What time does he arrive?”

  “You have lost time again? He is already here, Wynne.” The duchess walked into the room, stopping at the opposite end of the paint table. “Mr. Rookton said he was most content to wait for you, but you are at least an hour away from cleaning up properly. You will have to rush, now.”

  “I cannot do it, your grace.” Her voice a whisper, Wynne couldn’t look up at the duchess.

  “Do what, dear?”

  “Mr. Rookton.”

  The dowager sighed, clasping her white-gloved fingers together. “But Mr. Rookton is so well respected, kind, from a wealthy family, and might I mention, pleasing to the eye, Wynne. He adores you and I have spent such care in producing this match.”

  The dowager came around the table to stand next to Wynne without giving her a chance to drop a cloth in front of her painting.

  The duchess glanced at the canvas and her nose wrinkled. “And this does nothing to help your state of mind, dear.”

  Wynne looked at the canvas. Rowen’s dark eyes stared back at her. All of his strength. All of his fire.

  The rest of the portrait still sat unfinished.

  Wynne wasn’t sure what had possessed her, but in the weeks after Rowen had left, she had been fanatical about capturing his eyes on the canvas before memory failed her.

  And then she had put it away, covered, in the dark corner for months. Through spring breezes wafting the smell of lilacs into the room. Through summer birds tweeting outside the window. Through the first brisk wind that heralded the chill of fall.

  Wynne’s eyes stayed stuck on the canvas. “I am trying, your grace. But I have not been able to erase him. His presence…it lingers in this castle. On the grounds. His voice still echoes in the stables. He haunts me everywhere.” She shook her head, sucking in a breath. “And his face when the blade hit his neck. He hates me.”

  The duchess’s gloved hand landed lightly on Wynne’s shoulder. “All the more reason to move on with Mr. Rookton, Wynne. Continuing to keep the duke in your thoughts does nothing but keep you in turmoil.”

  “And that is exactly why I cannot continue on with Mr. Rookton. It is not honest.” She forced her eyes from the canvas to look up at the dowager. “You know what it is to deny your heart and marry another, your grace. Were you to go back in time—”

  The duchess stiffened. “One cannot, so it does not need to be discussed, Wynne.”

  “But do you understand?”

  “I do, dear.” The duchess softened and patted her shoulder. “Would you like me to excuse your presence this evening?”

  “No. I will talk to Mr. Rookton. He is a fine man, and it is my responsibility.”

  The duchess nodded, moving to the door, then paused. “Maybe a change of scenery would do you well, my dear? Give you a fresh start? I have been pondering going to London for the mini-season. I had thought to never go to London again. But I do feel stronger these days, Wynne. It is atrocious in the city with the heat, but the land is cooling now. It would be nice to show you London, and I have so many more connections there that would adore having their portraits done in your style.”

  Wynne’s eyes flickered to the canvas. “London—is that where the duke is?”

  “Yes. But there is no chance that you will cross paths. London is a very large city, my dear, and I will ensure it. The duke is quite busy running the holdings of the estate and, I am sure, with his horses. Will you accompany me?”

  Did she want to be in the same city as Rowen? No.

  But would she be one step closer to a ship headed for America? Yes.

  And she truly needed to be far from this place. Far from the memories. Far from what happened to her mother. Far from this land that only sought to bring Rowen to her mind. Far from the stone walls that only kept a raw ache in her heart.

  If she was to ever move on with her life, she needed first to leave Notlund. And then to leave England.

  Slowly, Wynne nodded her head.

  London it would be.

  ~~~

  “I know t
his is the way of it, but I do find this disconcerting, how you have to stare at me.”

  Wynne laughed, leaning forward to smudge a purple with the knuckle of her pinky. “I am aware, my lady. But you are one of the first here in England to admit to such a thing. Most are quite happy to be gazed upon.”

  Lady Southfork chuckled. “I can imagine. This does seem quite enticing for a certain sort. But I would not be doing this were it not for the insistence of my husband.”

  “Your husband is quite right to want to capture you, Lady Southfork. You are beautiful.” Wynne looked at Lady Southfork, only to see a deep blush had filled her face. Well, that wasn’t natural. Wynne frowned. She couldn’t paint the marchioness like that.

  Wynne made a mental note—no more compliments for this one, even if they were true.

  Wynne moved on to capturing the marchioness’s dark glossy hair, pinned up, and trailing in a long curl over her bare shoulder. “Tell me about the children—that was why you had to exit our first session, correct? Children at an orphanage?”

  The embarrassment instantly left Lady Southfork’s face, leaving only an excited glow on her cheeks. Clearly this was a topic that the woman was passionate about. “It was. I do apologize I had to cut our first session so short. I oversee an orphanage, just a block away. The most precious children. Also the most precocious.” She smiled with clear love in her eyes. “There is far too often an injury that needs tending to. And I am the designated soother when I can be.”

  “I would like to visit the children with you, if you would show me?” Wynne asked.

  The marchioness’s hands clasped. “That would be wonderful. I have several little artists that would be so excited to meet you. But I warn you, they will have so many questions for you. I have not seen your work, but my husband has, and he was so impressed he requested this be done right away. So you must have extraordinary talent to create such enthusiasm in him.”

  It was Wynne’s turn for a hot flush to fill her face. She took compliments no better than Lady Southfork. Her eyes dodged to the canvas.

  It truly had been remarkable. She and the duchess had only been in London for three weeks, and Wynne was already juggling twelve separate portraits, so her days had been quite full, sitting with as many as three subjects on some days.

  Part of Wynne knew it was too much, too many stories to keep track of, too many nuances that she would lose in the artwork. But the other part of her was eternally grateful for the extremely full schedule. It kept her mind centered on an area far away from Rowen.

  Of all the twelve clients she currently had, she liked Lady Southfork the most. Not only was the woman a gorgeous subject to paint, but she also had depth of spirit that enhanced her beauty, rather than detracted from it. Wynne had already determined that Lady Southfork was an exception to the rest of the gentry that she had been introduced to so far.

  Bristles sweeping the swoop of Lady Southfork’s dark hair to Wynne’s liking, she didn’t notice the knock or the person that came into the drawing room until a woman’s voice broke through her concentration.

  “The milliner just finished them. I think they are fabulous.”

  Wynne looked up at the words, only to see a well-dressed woman holding an incredibly ornate mask in front of her face. Curved around the eyes, it exaggerated out wide, turning into a plume of tall, dark blue feathers. The woman handed a different mask to Lady Southfork.

  “They are. Outrageous—and so much fun.” Lady Southfork held up the mask to her face. “Does it work?”

  The woman that had come in with the masks dropped hers from her face, assessing Lady Southfork. “It does.”

  Lady Southfork turned to Wynne. “Miss Theaton. Thoughts?”

  Wynne chuckled. A splash of deep red feathers smoothed into Lady Southfork’s dark hair. “Outrageous is an appropriate word. I imagine that is the goal? The red does an admirable job at setting off your features and dark hair. Whatever are they for?”

  Lady Southfork pulled the mask from her face, flipping the front of it toward her and smoothing the feathers high. “It is a masquerade ball tonight. We hide behind masks. Such ridiculous pomp involved.” She looked up to the woman standing next to her. “Duchess, may I introduce Miss Theaton? She is the incredibly talented artist my husband has been raving about. Miss Theaton, this is the Duchess of Dunway.”

  The Duchess of Dunway turned and gave Wynne the warmest smile. “I am honored to meet you, Miss Theaton. You have a number of advocates outside of this household as well—your name has come up in more than one conversation I have been privy to in the past few weeks. So you must have made some remarkable impressions.”

  Wynne shrugged, the blush returning to her face. “Thank you. I do not know that it is warranted, but I appreciate that it has kept my hands busy.”

  “It is a fickle crowd judging your skill, so your talent must be genuine,” the duchess said. “I must add my husband to your list as well. If I can get him to sit still long enough for it, that is.”

  “I would be delighted, your grace,” Wynne said.

  “Duchess, do you have Miss Dewitt’s mask as well?” Lady Southfork asked.

  “I do.” The duchess turned and unwrapped the white cloth she had placed on the settee next to Lady Southfork. She extracted another one of the feathered masks. “I thought to keep hers simpler, and that the multi-colors of it would set off the many shades of her hair. But I did ask to have the eyeholes larger with hers, so she could converse with the Duke of Letson in a more appropriate manner. She is so very close to a prop—”

  Wynne’s palette clattered to the floor, paint splattering everywhere.

  Frozen, it took Wynne a moment to react to the two women staring at her in confusion. Wynne dropped to her knees, grabbing a rag to wipe the mess. She kept her head down, hiding her face. “I am so sorry. I have made such a mess. Please forgive me.”

  Wynne picked up the paint board, setting it on the small table next to her, and went back to wiping the floor. Never mind all the paint that had hit her own skirts, she was mortified at the mess on Lady Southfork’s floor.

  “It is not a bother, Miss Theaton. Accidents happen.” Lady Southfork stood, ringing a bell, and then walked over to grab a rag as well, bending to help wipe the floors. “A maid will be here in moments. Do not look so frazzled. Truly, Miss Theaton. Your hands are shaking. It is just a little spilled paint, and certainly not the worst thing that has ever been dropped on these floors—especially with the troops of children so often running through here.”

  Wynne couldn’t control her hands. Couldn’t control her wild thoughts. “I—it is just that I have made such a mess. I apologize. Would it be possible to continue this in a few days’ time? I have to—I must excuse myself.”

  “Of course.” Lady Southfork grabbed her wrist. “Are you all right, Miss Theaton? Your hands are shaking even harder, and you have turned very pale.”

  Wynne shook her head, pulling her wrist free as she tried to wipe a wide streak of paint from the wood floor. “I will be fine. The paints just overwhelm at times. I will be fine with fresh air.”

  The concern didn’t leave Lady Southfork’s face. A maid appeared, quickly snatching the rags from both Lady Southfork and Wynne’s hands, and taking over the cleaning.

  Wynne stood, grabbing her leather satchel and her brushes. “Truly. Fresh air and I will be well. Please, send word when you will next be available and I will schedule all the others around it.”

  “Of course.” Lady Southfork trailed her to the doorway. “Do feel better, Miss Theaton. I enjoyed our time today. And we will visit the children next time.”

  Once through the front door of the townhouse, Wynne leaned back on the door, taking a deep breath to fight her shaking body.

  The dowager had said their paths would not cross.

  She had promised.

  Yet out of the blue. The Duke of Letson. Rowen.

  Rowen courting a woman named Miss Dewitt.

  Wynne did not thin
k it possible, but in that moment, the remaining intact pieces of her battered heart shattered.

  Maybe she hadn’t been honest with herself. Maybe she had been nursing the smallest hope that in time, Rowen would come for her. Find her. Forgive her for what she did to him.

  Her pride that had been so steadfast was waning. Her resolve against him—vanishing. No matter what he had done to her. No matter that he wanted her in his bed and nothing more.

  Damn her wavering defenses. But she could not lie to herself. She still wanted him.

  But he had moved on.

  Ready to propose to a Miss Dewitt.

  The possibility of Rowen—of someday—gone. Just like that. Gone.

  A passerby at street level, cane twirling, stopped and looked up at her. Wynne realized she had been leaning on the Southfork’s door, shaking, for some time.

  Ignoring the stranger, Wynne hurried down the stairs to the sidewalk, her feet walking without thought. No destination, just as far away as possible from what she had just heard.

  Three hours later, she looked up from her daze and saw the angle of the sun. She had long since missed her last appointment. More profuse apologies would be necessary.

  In only three weeks, Wynne realized she had been lulled into this fascinating lifestyle here in London. The duchess had not only given her full rein to paint as much as she wanted to, but had introduced her to half of her current clients.

  So Wynne got to paint daily. And she had met so many interesting, quirky people. She lived in the duchess’s elegant townhouse. Had all of her basic needs met with the dowager’s high standards for food and drink and clothes. The duchess had also taken Wynne to quite a few events—the theater, the opera, several dinners—always excited to show her artist-in-residence off to her friends.

  Wynne had been lulled into luxury that wasn’t hers. Not truly.

  She needed to reset her mind to her goal. Getting on a ship to America. Removing herself from the slightest possibility that Rowen’s name would be mentioned in front of her. Removing herself from repeating the suffering of the current chasm of pain in her chest.