by Lisa Kleypas
“I will make sure of it,” Ivy vowed as she hugged her friend.
“Oh, please, Ivy. Don’t.”
Ivy was in the midst of convincing her friend of a perfect plan for her upcoming Season, when the door from the dressing chamber suddenly opened. More surprising than that was having the dowager duchess step inside the room.
“There you are, Miss Sutherland. I am in a fretful state, to be sure,” she said, wringing her hands. Strands of silver hair stuck out from her coiffure. “I am taking it for granted that you have already heard the rumors of my nephew’s leaving this evening. Let me say that over the years, he has disappeared into his study when working on an invention, but he has never left the house without a word. Worse, he did not pack a bag, inform his valet, or even order a carriage. It is now very late, well past two o’clock on Christmas morning, and still he has not returned.”
Ivy stood, her own alarm mounting. She hadn’t entirely believed that he’d left, but was likely in another part of the castle. What errand could have sent him out of doors on Christmas Eve? Glancing at the starlit night beyond the frost-rimmed window, she worried that it had something to do with the agitated state she’d left him in. “Do you have any idea where he could be, Your Grace?”
The dowager duchess shook her head. “I was hoping you would shed some light on the situation.”
“Me, ma’am?”
“His study is in complete disrepair. Many things destroyed, or burned in the fireplace.”
Ivy gasped. “Was there an assault? Did someone break into his study? Is he hurt?”
“I have been assured by the groomsman who saddled his horse that my nephew was alone and appeared unhurt, though disheveled. When asked where he was going, my nephew responded that he needed to clear his head.” The dowager duchess stepped forward, lifting an object in her grasp. “My only clue is inside this red ledger, which sat squarely in the center of his desk.”
“I don’t understand. What does that red ledger have to do with me?” Ivy asked as a sinking feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. She wanted to step back from it.
“Perhaps if you looked inside, you could offer your insight.”
Reluctantly, Ivy took the ledger, her hands already cold and trembling.
“You’ll see that there is only one name in that entire ledger, and it is yours.”
Numbly, she opened the book. True enough. The first page read: MISS IVY SUTHERLAND OF NORWOOD HILL—NO CONSEQUENCE.
“And what about those in the red ledger?” she’d asked him a few hours ago.
“They have little, if any, hope of marrying at all.”
“Mr. Graves found the remains of the other two ledgers in the ash,” the dowager duchess said. “I know they were an integral part of his formula. One can only presume that some dire result caused such destruction.”
Dire, indeed. For the third time in her life, her kiss had brought about a calamity. Only this was the worst of all. Where could North be? Was he hurt? Or did he clear his head enough to forget her entirely?
Miss Ivy Sutherland of Norwood Hill—no consequence. It was true. She possessed no title, no property, no dowry—none of the things that mattered to North.
You don’t understand, Ivy, we would be forced to marry.
The grip around Ivy’s heart intensified until she felt it shatter beneath the pressure. Strangely, she remained composed on the outside. Inside was a wholly different story. Inside, she was on her knees, sobbing. “I wish I could help, ma’am, but I do not know where the duke is, though I pray for his safe return.”
And she did, even when he saw no redeeming quality in her existence.
“Pray . . . Yes, we must all pray. If my nephew has not returned by dawn, then I will send out a search party.”
Chapter Nine
NORTH WAITED IN the hall outside Jack Marlowe’s rooms in his lavish estate. After riding on horseback for four hours in sleet, North was wet and cold to the bone. But this was a matter of importance that he could not delay one moment longer.
After a short interval, Marlowe emerged from a gilded doorway, securing a blue silk banyan around his waist as he swaggered, barefoot, into the hall. With a careless rake of his hand, he pushed back a golden mane of hair from his forehead. “Vale, do you have any idea what time it is?”
North didn’t want to waste time by answering unimportant questions. “Marlowe, what do you think of my formula?”
They’d been friends for years, and he trusted Marlowe to speak plainly. He would have spoken with Wolford, but his cousin tended to laugh too often when the matter required severity. Thayne had been too distracted since Juliet Granworth’s return to society. And as the bastard son of the Earl of Dovermere, Marlowe hadn’t wanted to attend the party, knowing that his father was there. So it had been up to North to come to him instead.
Marlowe’s tawny brow furrowed. “You rode all the way here in the dead of night for me to stroke your ego? Come now, Vale, I must get back to”—he turned his head toward the bedchamber door—“darling, what is your name?”
“Minerva,” came the singsong reply, along with a giggle.
Marlowe shrugged. “I must get back to Minerva. She’s an opera girl and was just showing me how long she can hold a single note.”
“This won’t take long,” North said, losing his patience. He started pacing around the marbled hall, his booted steps echoing around him. “I want my formula to have merit and lasting value. What I’ve created is a simpler, surer method than the notion of marrying for love would be.”
“I agree. Love has no place in a marriage. Marriages are all about drawing new lines on old maps and ensuring that blue blood continues to bleed from inbred veins for generations to come. At least with your formula those highest of high on the ladder rungs needn’t marry their cousins. And there you have your answer,” Marlowe concluded with a brush of his hands.
North stopped pacing. “We don’t all marry our cousins.”
“Enough of you do it to put a stain on the whole lot. Want a drink?” Marlowe poured from a decanter sitting atop a mahogany and gold inlaid secretary along the far wall.
Absently, North shook his head. There was something in the words Jack chose that sparked his interest. “Even though you think love has no place in marriage, you still believe it exists?”
“I fall in love all the time. Ask any of my paramours.” He nodded toward the bedchamber door as he tipped back his glass.
“I’m speaking of true, honest, soul-deep love. The kind that takes you by surprise and changes the entire course of your life in an instant.”
“Vale, the night air has gone to your head. You are speaking of supposition and theory instead of facts. At school, I bore witness to many of your recitations against prattling poets whose craniums were—in your opinion—overflowing sop buckets.” Marlowe laughed and poured himself another drink. “Why are you really here? Why come all this way when you likely already knew my answers to your questions?”
“I needed to hear from a fellow analytic. To feel grounded once more.”
“Hmm . . . And you couldn’t have found a single one beneath your own roof? It sounds as if you’ve stumbled on an error in your calculations.”
“No. The equation is flawless,” he admitted, feeling a sense of despair roll over him.
“Then congratulations are in order. Soon you will have scores of the unwed who want to remove the risk of being wrong. You must be thrilled. I know you’ve worked hard on this for a while now.”
North scrubbed a hand across his brow. “I am thrilled.”
“It’s strange, though. Your jubilation looks rather like disappointment,” Marlowe said on a wry laugh.
North lowered his arm and glared at his friend, agitated. “You’re wrong. This is what elation looks like. I set about to create a formula that provides clarity and simplicity instead of needless frippery and feelings. Disappointment? You make it sound as if I’d wanted to disprove my own theory all along—”
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Then it hit him.
All the years of criticism regarding his common blood, of having to prove himself worthy of the dukedom and wanting desperately to gain a Fellowship, but to what end? He never would have been satisfied. His brain would have continued to turn with whatever invention he could begin next. The only time he’d ever stopped to live in one single moment—the only time he’d felt a true purpose in his life—had been during those moments with Ivy Sutherland of Norwood Hill. “Damn.”
“Well then, I’m glad I could help. Next time, be a chap and wait until calling hours.” Marlowe paused on his way back to his chamber. “Say, do you need a room, a fresh horse?”
“A fresh horse, I’ll take. As for the room”—North paused to calculate his next move—“I won’t know until I’ve concluded my business.”
Marlowe walked to the bellpull and rang for a servant. “What business could you have on Christmas Eve? The only other estate for miles belongs to Lady Binghamton, the archbishop’s sister.”
North had already been aware of that before he’d left Castle Vale.
“Your horse. My business.” Then, before Jack could slip away, North held up a hand to stay his friend. Withdrawing a pencil from his pocket, he took out a card. “Do me a favor, Marlowe? When you’re back in London, send a bouquet of flowers to Miss Lilah Appleton. I wrote her street on this card.”
Marlowe took the card and flashed a smile. “Is she my Christmas present?”
“No, and I only want you to send her flowers. Just the once, and make no other contact with her. Besides, she is far different from the type of woman you prefer. She is respectable.”
Marlowe made a sour face. “Then why are you bothering with the flowers?”
“You are sending the flowers,” North corrected. “And the reason for that is because I promised her friend that I would do whatever I could for her.”
“You have me intrigued.”
“No, Marlowe, I absolutely forbid you to be intrigued. For the sake of our friendship, I need to know that I can rely on you to behave with honor.”
“Send her flowers. Leave her be. Understood. Now I must get back to . . . to . . .”
“Minerva,” the woman huffed from the room beyond.
“Ah yes, the opera girl. She was quite interested in acquainting herself with a man in possession of an immense”—Marlowe’s brow arched suggestively—“fortune.”
With a reluctant laugh and a shake of his head, North turned away and called out, “Happy Christmas.”
“Indeed, for the rest of the chorus will be arriving later today,” Marlowe said before disappearing into his bedchamber.
As for North . . . he was feeling rather impulsive, but completely certain as well. He hoped to find the archbishop in a particularly giving mood this Christmas morning.
Chapter Ten
“THE DUKE HAS returned! The duke has returned!” The pageboy’s joyous shouts rang out through the corridors of the castle.
Tears welled up in Ivy’s eyes, and a stuttered breath of relief left her. Yet, knowing that Lilah was studying her closely, Ivy turned toward the window. A fresh dusting of snow had fallen in the wee hours of the morning. The first glimmer of Christmas touched her heart, but the ache deep inside remained. “Then he is safe. That is good news. I’m certain the dowager duchess is quite glad.”
Before she allowed herself to dwell on pointless musings, she went to the basin and splashed frigid water onto the swollen, tender flesh around her eyes. In the looking glass, her complexion appeared too pale against the sable trim of her red dress. It could not be helped, she supposed. A broken heart hardly aided one’s complexion.
Lilah came up beside her, her reflection tinged with sorrow. “Ivy, when are you going to admit that you’re in love with him?”
She shrugged. “Whatever for? Love serves no purpose. If it did, it would be in the duke’s formula.”
“Well . . . saying the words might cheer you up.”
Lilah looked so hopeful that it was hard not to indulge her. More than that, however, Ivy wanted to say the words aloud, to get them out of her heart so that the pain would subside.
“All right, then, I love him.” Cheer did not make an appearance. Nor did her heartache lessen. She wasn’t surprised. “We don’t want to be late for chapel. I am impatient to finish this day so that we may leave tomorrow.”
Lilah said nothing more about love as they donned their redingotes and bonnets in preparation to walk to the small chapel on the grounds. Nor did she say anything about the fact that they were likely the last ones to exit the house because, as usual, Ivy had made them late.
Outside, the sunlight glanced off the freshly fallen snow in a blinding display. A blast of cold, crisp air sent a few flakes swirling over the path, glistening like diamonds being strewn over the ground. That same blast of air turned toward her and Lilah.
Ivy’s breath arrested in her lungs. She closed her eyes as tiny ice crystals washed over her, clinging to her mouth, nose, and eyelashes. A shadow crossed in front of her, blocking the sunlight for a moment. Reaching up to brush the snowflakes away, she was surprised to feel the warmth of a hand touch her cheek, her brow, her lashes. A man’s hand. A familiar hand. There was a certain thoroughness to the caress that could belong to only one person. The duke.
“Happy Christmas, Ivy,” he whispered, his tone surprisingly cheerful.
She felt as if he was mocking her pain. Her eyes snapped open, and she took a step back. The only thing that kept her from walking away was the fact that he looked terrible. His pale complexion and the purplish bruises lining the underside of his eyes told her that he hadn’t slept either. A tender warmth filled her heart.
However, before she could allow herself to feel a semblance of hope at this knowledge, she remembered the true cause of his lack of sleep. And it had nothing to do with his having a broken heart.
“I hope you enjoyed your escapade. Though you might have had more consideration than riding off in the middle of the night and worrying”—she drew in a stuttered breath—“your aunt.”
It was only then that Ivy realized she’d raised her voice. She looked around to find that Lilah had slipped away and the courtyard was empty. The bell in the chapel tower rang, startling her. “The service has begun. I must go, Your Grace.”
She offered a perfunctory curtsy, never expecting him to reach out and take her hand.
“I prefer North,” he said. “And I would like you to sit with me in church this morning.”
A moment passed when he gazed at her with a mixture of trepidation and expectation. Such a request was not a matter to be taken lightly and quickly forgotten.
“I cannot.” She slipped her hand free and took two steps back this time. “The front pew belongs to you and the dowager duchess. Your rank—your lineage—dictates your place. As you know, those of no consequence sit many rows behind you. I saw the red ledger. I know my place.”
She strode away before she gave in to either anger or tears. Neither would serve her.
He kept pace beside her. “Then I shall sit in your row.”
“To do so would risk what matters most to you.”
“Hmm . . . then how else can I speak with you? You are walking at such a fine clip that we will be within the chapel before I have said all that I planned.”
On a huff, she stopped and turned to him. “Then say it now and be done.”
“I’ve been thinking a great deal about our frog and his chances of survival—should he have chosen the wrong young woman—and I have come to a conclusion.”
She blinked, confused. “Pardon me?”
“I believe there was more to it than happenstance,” North continued, as if he was making perfect sense. “After all, it was quite a risk on the frog’s part. Especially if you take into account the damage that can be caused by a tremendous fall.”
“Are you speaking of the fairy tale?”
He lifted his brows in a way that suggested she already knew th
e answer. In that moment, she realized that it was their tale he was telling.
North took a step closer. “I believe that all his concerns and calculations were cast aside when he first beheld a pair of winter-blue eyes and first heard her speak about something as absurd as pinching slippers. In that instant, his entire world changed. He knew that he had to risk everything and reveal himself to her in the hopes that she wouldn’t throw him back without at least giving him a kiss first.”
“In the tale, she did throw him,” Ivy reminded. “What she needed was to find a frog who would be transformed by the fall.”
“You’re absolutely right. I’ve recently discovered that falls of all kinds can do that. The most transforming of all is falling in—”
“Cousin!” Before North could finish, the Earl of Wolford rushed down the path, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “I received the most interesting missive from Jack Marlowe just now. He wants to know if you’ve altered your formula.”
“You may tell Marlowe yes, I have,” North said without removing his gaze from Ivy.
“He also asked—strangely enough—whether or not you found the archbishop agreeable or—”
“Wolford,” North interrupted, “please take your seat in the chapel.”
The earl departed without another word. A stunned awareness began to creep upon Ivy. “Did you ride off in the middle of the night to see the archbishop?”
“I did.”
This time, she took a step closer. “Whyever would you do such a thing on Christmas Eve?”
“I can think of only one reason.”
So could she, but it made no sense. Not unless . . . “I was never going to speak of our kiss. As I said last night, I would never force a man to marry me.” Hearing her own words rekindled the hurt and anger she’d felt last night. “I am perfectly content as I am. I certainly do not need to resort to tricks in order to claim a husband. I may be of no consequence to you, but I have wonderful traits that are worth more than a fine lineage, vast property, or any amount of wealth. Your formula was wrong about me.”
