The Blue-Eyed Black-Hearted Duke

by Sandra Masters

  “What nonsense is this? Why would you want to raise a breeze and flee from those who love you?” Why did he choose the word love and include himself in the reference? The odd expression on her face questioned his statement too. “I’ve forgotten you’re not familiar with some English phrases. Raise a breeze means to cause a fuss.”

  His gaze locked on Jaclyn’s. She soon lowered her head.

  “What am I supposed to do when you defy me, Miss Jaclyn? Your behavior is not an unimportant matter. You’re not a schoolgirl but a young lady about to enter into marriage. This household worried into an uproar. My sister’s distraught pained me.”

  Before he could finish, Jaclyn jumped from the chair. “I did not ask to be placed on the marriage block. You assumed I should marry someone. No one has asked me what I want to do with my life.” She stamped her foot, wrung her hands, and crossed her arms.

  Well, he’d give her this. There was strength in her spine. Her outburst took courage, but he could not let the action go unheeded. “Without temper tantrums, if you would, sit again.”

  Wolferton waved his hand to the chair. The expression on her face, the determined look in her eyes, the jut of her chin and her stiff posture seemed to warn him of her intent to challenge him. The female had a spine. A warrior woman erupted in magnificence.

  Jaclyn didn’t move an inch. She’d put the Rock of Gibraltar to shame.

  Camille’s face expressed panic at the confrontation between the two. Her hand went to the cleft of her throat.

  Tactics, old chap. Jaclyn’s about to battle you. Be smart. Give her a pyrrhic victory for you intend to win the war. He skimmed his hand across the inlaid desk that held the ink stain, the constant awful reminder of his long-ago indiscretion, and sat. He mellowed his voice. “Kindly sit, Miss Jaclyn. We are not in combat with you. We worried you’d come to harm. I care about your wellbeing.”

  At the softness of his tone, she sat.

  Wolferton couldn’t help but notice Jaclyn’s hair shined like a raven’s wing in flight, sometimes blue and sometimes black, undulating in airwaves, as the late afternoon light streamed through the window to her crowning glory. And those mesmerizing eyes would tempt a man to get lost in them and never need to find a way out. The small mole on her chin only added to her allure. Something had changed her. She was not the shy girl who came to his home. He determined now Jaclyn became a bit of a combatant. He frowned at the thought she’d selected a man of interest. Or so her note indicated, but her journal said otherwise. She’d also kept his black rose between the book pages. Yes, he much preferred this thought.

  The beam of light from the Guardians stood faithful. The red wolf’s eyes were brownish. Golden Boy’s orbs, as he named him, were brighter than normal. They seemed to vibrate, and then as if on command, they dimmed.

  Jacqueline’s guarded glance at him acknowledged in silence.

  Camille, as usual, oblivious to the supernatural figures, merely observed.

  “Jaclyn, I neglected to inform you, the invoice from Dupree’s establishment came today. The shoes are to your satisfaction?” He grinned in his attempt to extend another peace offering.

  She leaned back into her chair. “Yes, thank you. They are within my allotted allowance, sir?”

  “I am not a miser, my dear. I would not quibble if you spent beyond your allowance for good reason. Sometimes it is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. You are not an employee. You are my cherished ward.”

  “I will remember the advice, and how much you cherish me.” Her words were crisp and provocative. Her chin was held so high it could disconnect from her neck. Jaclyn’s voice turned arctic. “I’m not a beggar who seeks your crumbs, Your Grace.”

  “Such harsh statements from someone I care about.” Damn well ungrateful slip of a girl parading her independence. However, he’d made up his mind to control his temper. “Poor choice of words on my part. My apologies.” He played with the dagger-shaped letter opener on his desk.

  A cat and mouse game, whatever it was—he somehow knew Jaclyn enjoyed the repartee as much as he, except that now his patience was tried to the point of no return, became nonexistent. Wolferton moved a folder across the table. “I do believe I’ve lost my appetite. The hour is late. Perhaps a tray to my room could be arranged.”

  Poor Camille, a spectator at the sport, even managed a smile. She arose. “I’ll see to it.” She walked out of the room with a grin that only he could see.

  “Miss Jaclyn, I thought you might wish to invite your friend and her father to visit either for early dinner or supper? Perhaps dinner would be more suitable since he is a busy merchant and could then relax for the evening. Would you like me to arrange it, or will you? Perhaps you can send a message to—”

  “Josette, her name is Josette,” said in an emphatic voice an octave above her usual.

  Of course, he knew the name from her journal, but he wasn’t ready to reveal this fact yet.

  “Yes, Camille and I can send an invitation. Is there a date that would suit your busy schedule?” Jaclyn asked with a now sugared, guarded voice.

  So now they had a truce. It amazed Wolferton how relaxed he became with the knowledge of her safety, but every instinct warned this wasn’t the end of the situation. This cat had claws. He would have to remember, but she should recognize he had wolf fangs.

  Jaclyn arose, spread her arms like wings, and flapped them. She turned to look at him and extended a haughty eyebrow in his direction on her way out of the room. She turned in a slow movement, peered over her shoulder at him. “Wolferton, I did not flee. I wanted to fly.”

  He cleared his throat. Dammit. “A moment, Jaclyn. There was a mythological man, Icarus, the son of a master craftsman, who wanted to fly. The young man desired to escape Crete by means of wings his father constructed from feathers and wax. Icarus' father warned him first of complacency and then of hubris, and instructed he neither fly too low nor too high, so the sea's dampness would not clog his wings or the sun's heat melt them. Icarus ignored his father's advice and fell out of the sky and into the sea where he drowned. One could say he escaped, but not to where he intended.”

  “Why do you tell me this?” she asked.

  “Because pride can lead to a fall also, and sometimes we obtain that which we desire but not in the way we imagined.” He muffled a grin with a pleasant thought. “Perhaps we could fly together one day?” Not sure why, he laughed riotously but did not utter another word.

  Jaclyn leaped to her feet and stormed out of the room, the staccato sound of her heels clicking on the foyer floor.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Not What It Seems

  The next day Jaclyn and Loup went in search of Camille, who was not in the drawing room or her other usual haunts. “Perhaps she went for a walk near the conservatory,” Jaclyn muttered to her dog ambling along with her.

  They exited the French doors to the terrace, but Camille was nowhere in sight. “If she left the property, she would have let me know,” she said to the dog. In a moment of concern, she ran back to the house to seek Wolferton. Loup, her confidant, kept with her pace.

  Wolferton wasn’t in the drawing room or his study, and her worry mounted. So unlike them not to be near and always available. Perhaps they contrived to give her a dose of her own medicine? How dare they? She ran to find Halbert. In her haste, she tripped on the hem of her gown. Loup skidded into her and pushed her forward. The sound of torn silk filled the air. Jaclyn flailed her arms and stumbled into Wolferton. He caught her before she fell to the ground. She slid against his chest. A loose button on her bodice tinkled to the floor. “Wolferton, thank goodness, you’re here.”

  “What is it? You’re disheveled. You have another loose button.” A fabric tear exposed her right knee and calf. He diverted his glance from her naked knee and gazed beyond her shoulder. No one was in sight who could have caused her panic.

  “I can’t find Camille. Have you seen her? I searched for Halbert since I couldn’t find yo
u. I’m concerned harm has befallen her.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Wolferton steadied her and assisted Jaclyn to his study where he rested her in a chair. Loup followed and lay beside her.

  “What makes you think something happened?” He rang for Halbert, then went to the liquor cabinet and poured a cordial for Jaclyn. “Calm yourself. Drink, it’s mild enough.”

  Halbert entered the room. “You rang, Your Grace?”

  Wolferton walked toward his desk and sat in his chair. He explained what occurred and, in essence, asked if Lady Camille was on the townhouse property. Halbert excused himself and went on the errand to find her. He returned with a shawl for Jaclyn, and she grasped it to cover her lap.

  “I’ve searched everywhere, sir, and cannot find her. Shall I call the constable?”

  “Question all the servants. Perhaps she had an errand to run for Miss Jaclyn’s season and wanted to surprise her and neglected to tell me. She’s been so busy. Find out who last saw her and report back to me. With haste,” he barked and tapped his fingers on the inlaid desktop.

  Moments later, descending footsteps sounded along the staircase. Camille held bolts of fabric. She entered the drawing room and stood under the scrutiny of Halbert, her brother, and Jaclyn—she frowned. She handed the fabric to Halbert. “Has something happened? Why is Jaclyn…”

  Jaclyn jumped up, the shawl fell, and the loose button hung. She ran to Camille. “I thought something terrible happened to you.”

  Camille looked to her brother for an explanation. She eyed the cordial glass on the desk and tilted her head toward him in question.

  Wolferton spoke in a calm manner but surmised his sister’s suspicion. “Miss Jaclyn could not locate you. In a panic, she ran along the corridor, slipped, tore her dress, and ran into me, both figuratively and literally. I gave her a cordial to ease her anxiety and rang for Halbert to find you. Where were you, sister? The house has been in an uproar once again.”

  Camille sat Jaclyn in the chair, covered her with the shawl, and lightened the air with her words, “I remembered, years before she died, Mama had beautiful bolts of fabric imported from Spain and India. I found them in the packed cases in the attic.” She frowned. “I don’t understand everyone’s concern.”

  “It appears I have a woman under my roof who wishes to fly, and the other wishes to search out musty attics. We thought you’d gone missing.”

  Camille arose. “It would appear my presence is taken for granted. Why not set a guard on both of us? Come, Jaclyn, let’s go to your room. You can change, and we can select something to bring to the modiste.” She turned her back on her brother.

  Wolferton stood like a sentinel against a stone wall—immovable, intractable, and inflexible…hurt beyond measure by his sister’s mistrust. He strode to the corridor, bent, picked up the pearl button, and placed it in his pocket. He would never forget the look on his sister’s face when she concluded, for a brief second, that he had compromised Jaclyn.

  Was this yet another caution to him? Bloody Hell. Would he never be free of his past? He was not the same man. He was not his father’s son anymore. Wasn’t the unalterable fact visible to his loved ones?

  He turned to the Guardian’s glass window where no colors changed. Wolferton clasped both hands together and walked stridently along the foyer hall and out to the small conservatory at the rear of the townhouse. He needed sanctuary. The black roses thrived much better than he did. He went to a particular plant, which, last week had issued its first bloom. Beautiful but ominous—was this a sign? What more did he have to do to show his metamorphosis to all? No, not to all—only to those he loved. Was he ever to escape his past? Hadn’t he suffered enough?

  At this recognition, it occurred to him he loved Jaclyn from the moment she first stepped into his study. Because even then, his reaction to her presence taunted him. His body was set afire, his mind unbelieving, and his heart beat wildly. He had loved once before and deep. Afraid to love and hurt again, he retreated inside his steel-hearted shell. He wasn’t worthy of such a saint. Simple and clear. He cast those statements aside. They were hollow because he did want her like blazes. Not as a plaything, but as a wife…one day. He was not one to act rashly in cases of amour.

  When had the impossible dream become a reality? Could he dare hope she would be the woman who could redeem him, cast out his demons, and love him for who he became? How long would it take? More important, how much time did he have?

  If the legend held true, Jaclyn was his predestined future.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Two Weeks Later at the Standish’s Ball

  A Tryst Is Not A Tryst

  Jaclyn attended many balls, but the entranceway to this huge ballroom stunned her. Bright, candlelit chandeliers, bouquets of colorful roses, and more servants than she’d ever seen assailed the senses.

  Most important, she held Wolferton’s arm with Camille on his other side. The sudden silence that followed their introduction by the Standish majordomo was palpable. Jaclyn gripped the duke’s arm tighter at the anxiety of it all. They descended the steps into the main room.

  On a whim, she and Camille decided to wear twin French empire dresses with subtle distinctions in the color of their gloves, one darker and the other a lighter shade of pale violet. Couples were already on the dance floor.

  The promise of the first dance belonged to Wolferton. He settled his sister with friends and led Jaclyn to the floor. The splendiferous atmosphere, the warmth in the air, and the heady sensation to dance with him lent itself to romantic notions on her part.

  At this particular moment she now lived in a storybook tale of her own design with her duke. She twirled in his arms as if they had always done so. Aware of the gazes upon them, she smiled at him—if he could only read her mind. All the excitement of his nearness overwhelmed her. Jaclyn didn’t want to appear a foolish young girl to him but rather an unobtainable object of female interest—a woman of significance.

  She might have pulled it off until he spoke, “I have the privilege of dancing with the loveliest woman in the room. Every man here envies me, and it’s because of you, my dear.”

  Not used to compliments from him, her words made no sense because her mind blanked. “Wolferton, all of this is so new to me. I need a breath of fresh air.”

  “Quite understandable. I’ll dance you to the French doors and out to the balcony. It is well lit, and we will be in full sight of all passersby. The fountains in their gardens are like no other.”

  Why did he always worry about propriety and compromised situations that could ruin a maiden’s reputation? The thought muddled her head until she recognized his actions were appropriate to his guardianship. After all, he was a rake in his day—or so Halifax claimed. Strange though she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the Golden Greek God, Halifax. Perhaps he was not there, and that thought pleased her.

  They stopped at the veranda balustrade. He pointed to the fountains and the candlelit colored paper lanterns on the trees that lent a fairy tale glow. “It’s not like you to be quiet. Does something concern you?”

  “My head tries to absorb all of this. I’m somewhat in awe. You are so sophisticated, and I am naïve to this way of life. Is this how it is all the time?” She took her fan, gently flipped it open, and waved it. “I’m better. For a moment, my head got fuzzy.” She laughed.

  “Trust me, Miss Jaclyn, after a while it does become a bore, unless…”

  “Unless what?” she interrupted with a fervor meant only for him. Would he understand her message that she wanted to know all about him?

  “Unless you’re with the most beautiful woman in all of Christendom.”

  Speechless, she dared not hope that the magical words could portend that he possibly cared for her as other than a ward. “Suddenly I’m warm again.” In truth, it would take more than a wave of her fan to cool the avalanche of heat flowing like a raging river through her veins.

  Jaclyn would remember to write those endearing wor
ds in her journal. The most beautiful woman in all of Christendom. Sweet heaven.

  “I meant every word.” He smiled as he cupped her elbow to lead her back.

  Had lightning just struck? Or was it just the effect of his hand on her?

  “I had hoped…”

  “Hoped what, Your Grace?” She paused to engage his blue eyes and savor this special moment.

  “To tell you how much your presence here in England has meant to me. I have been remiss. But now it’s time we returned to the other guests. I have taken too much of your time.”

  She wanted to pinch herself. Butterflies might have entered her body, but it was the masculine sound of his voice and the softness of his expression that reached into her soul to stay forever. Jaclyn basked in the glory of the moment and simply sighed. His words spoke of romance and more than she ever expected. It was a dream come true.

  Wolferton led her back to the ballroom where her dream-like thoughts were interrupted by Halifax’s presence. “Good evening, Wolferton. Miss Moreux.” He bowed with a flare.

  Wolferton acknowledged. Jaclyn gave a curtsy.

  Halifax asked, “May I partner you in this next dance?”

  Jaclyn gazed to Wolferton, who nodded with a hard stare, and released her. She hesitated a moment and then turned. “Lord Halifax, I see you’ve returned from your trip,” she said, with an annoyed voice, which he could interpret as damning him to hell. She placed the tips of her glove on his sleeve as he walked her to the dance floor.

  “Yes. Did you miss me?”

  To dance with him wasted her time when she wanted only nearness to Wolferton and to exchange more sweet words. She so wanted this night to be special for she and her guardian. Her dreams had started to show reality until the rogue, Halifax, showed up with his unwanted, superfluous presence.

  “No. I was well occupied.”

  “Stop your taunts. I’d imagine that when we start your lessons you might find you did pine for me.”