The fine hairs on the nape of his neck still prickled whenever he crossed the threshold. Nearly two decades since his father’s death and he still looked for him every time he stepped through the door. That little darting of the eyes and the subsequent relief that flowed through him when he remembered the devil was gone and buried never failed to send him spiraling into a dark abyss of surly temper.
He despised that the late Duke of Wakefield was still exerting control over his son from beyond the grave. Hated that even now, as a man full grown, a part of the frightened boy he’d been still remained, buried so far beneath the surface that no amount of pulling and yanking had served to remove him.
It was his greatness weakness, which made it his greatest shame.
“I am going for a ride,” he told Madeline curtly. Mary and Margaret were still upstairs sleeping after a late night spent playing whist, but Maddy – a perpetual early riser – had greeted the dawn with him over a shared plate of eggs and toast slathered heavily with orange marmalade.
“Would you like me to go with you?” she asked.
“No.”
Madeline sighed and folded down the corner of the newspaper she’d been reading in order to meet his gaze. “We’ve been here nearly a month. Are you going to be like this for the rest of the summer and into autumn? Because if you are, I’d like to mentally prepare myself.”
Byron scowled. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she corrected. “You never are, when you’re here. Which is a shame as it’s such a lovely place to be. But maybe a ride will help lift your spirits. Just remember to return by ten as you promised Mary you’d take us to the village later and it gets unbearably hot past noon.”
“What does Mary want to buy this time?”
“She said something about peacocks.” Madeline’s voice was muffled as she thrust the newspaper in front of her face in a belated attempt to hide her smirk. “Apparently they were such a hit at the ball that everyone’s selling them now.”
Not bothering to dignify such absurdity with a response, Byron turned on his heel and quit the parlor, the sound of Maddy’s tinkling laughter following him through the foyer and out the front door.
His horse, a dappled gray gelding with a cresty neck and floaty trot, was already saddled and waiting in the circular drive. Swinging effortlessly into the saddle, he accepted his crop from the groom and set off at a brisk pace, eager to leave the manor – and its peacock loving occupants – far behind. Yet he’d no sooner made it across the road and into a long, flat stretch of field when he heard something – or rather, someone – yelling for help. Spinning the gray towards the masculine shouts, he dug his heels into the gelding’s sides and they took off at a gallop, Byron’s natural ease in the saddle lifting him out of the stirrups as he balanced effortlessly over the flat leather pommel.
His first thought was a poacher, and his mouth thinned when he realized he’d left his pistol behind. He took great care with his land, fertilizing the soil, clearing fallen trees, keeping the streams clear of dams, and as a result plenty of animals, both fair and feral, roamed the hills and valleys. They made tempting targets for those desperate enough to steal, and his groundskeeper had chased off a trio of young men hunting fox for their pelts just a few days ago.
But when he rounded a tangle of brush and entered a clearing he saw it wasn’t a poacher at all. Struggling to rise in the middle of the field was none other than the Duke of Glenmoore, and Byron, who had known him since they were young lads together at school, had never seen him look worse.
Under normal circumstances Glenmoore was impeccably groomed, his glossy black hair swept back from his face and his dark brown eyes lit with a sort of sardonic amusement. Now, however, his face was leached of all color, his hair was sticking out in every direction, and his eyes were bloodshot and filled with pain. He turned clumsily when he heard the approaching thump of hoof beats, and when he saw who was approaching he closed his eyes.
“Thank God you’re here.”
“What the devil happened?” Sliding from his horse before the gray had come to a complete halt, Byron ran to Glenmoore’s side and thrust his shoulder beneath the duke’s arm to support his weight. Glenmoore let out a garbled shout, and only then did Byron glance down and notice how swollen his calf was. Easily three times the size of the other one, it had stretched Glenmoore’s riding boot close to bursting. “Bloody hell. I think your leg is broken.”
“No shite,” Glenmoore gasped.
“Took a fall, did you?” If Byron had an empathetic bone in his body he would almost – almost – feel a stirring of pity for his friend. Recently (and unwillingly) married to a wallflower, Glenmoore had spent the past three nights in Byron’s study, drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a glass. Byron wasn’t one to offer marital advice – hell, his best advice was not to get married in the first place – but he’d wanted his study back, and so he’d urged Glenmoore to return to his own damn house and sort the mess out.
This wasn’t precisely what he’d had in mind.
“My horse saw a fucking deer. Took off when I was unseated.” Glenmoore rubbed a hand down his face. “I’ve been out here all night.”
“If you hadn’t already guzzled down my best brandy I’d offer you some,” Byron said dryly. “Come on, let’s get you home and seen by a doctor.”
With some effort – and more than a little swearing – he managed to get Glenmoore onto his horse. Flipping the reins over the grey’s head, he folded them in half and started off at a slow, careful pace. By his estimation they were a good two miles from Glenmoore Estate, and he knew the journey back was going to be an arduous one.
“Are you doing all right?” he asked, lifting a russet brow.
“Just keep going,” Glenmoore said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be fine.”
Glenmoore wasn’t fine – no man in his condition would be – but he held his own, which Byron respected. For all of his numerous acquaintances, Andrew (that was Glenmoore’s given name, although Byron never used it) was the only person he considered a true friend. His current marital predicament notwithstanding, Glenmoore kept a solid head on his shoulders and wasn’t given to ducal airs. Which was why Byron couldn’t understand why the hell Glenmoore would willingly put a ring on his finger and a wife in his bed. Or out of his bed, given – at least as of yesterday afternoon when he’d finally managed to kick Glenmoore out of his study once and for all – the marriage remained unconsummated.
Women. His lip curled at the thought of all the trouble they inevitably brought with them, like baggage piled high on top of a coach. God knew his sisters were enough of a handful; he couldn’t imagine bringing another female into the mix.
Not to say he was celibate. Byron enjoyed his pleasures, sin of the flesh being one of them. But he always chose his bed partners with deliberate care and never once had he ever considered, even for a flicker of a second, marrying one of them.
When they finally reached Glenmoore Manor a butler and two footmen helped usher their employer inside while a livery boy was sent for the village doctor. Byron stayed discreetly out of the way, arms crossed and countenance expressionless as Glenmoore was laid lengthwise upon a puce colored sofa. He considered leaving, but he wasn’t the sort of man to abandon a friend in his time of need and so he remained, watching from the corner as the doctor, a short, portly fellow with a long moustache drawn to sharp points at the ends, took quick stock of the situation and immediately set about to fixing Glenmoore’s leg.
“The broken bone will need to be set,” he said matter-of-factly. “Does anyone have any brandy?”
“Here.” Digging into the interior pocket of his waistcoat, Byron procured a small silver flask engraved with his initials and held it out. “Take a swig of this, you’re going to need it.”
“Bastard,” said Glenmoore as he grabbed the flask and took a bracing swallow. “You had it the entire time, didn’t you?”
“Hold him down,” the doctor ordered before
Byron could respond. “This is going to hurt like hell.”
Rolling back his sleeves, Byron leaned forward over Glenmoore’s right leg. The boot and breeches had been cut away to reveal a grotesquely swollen calf that had already turned a deep, bruising purple.
“Touch me,” Glenmoore grunted, “and I’ll break your goddamned wrist.”
Eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly, Byron lifted his hands and stepped back just as a trio of women led by the very distraught looking Duchess of Glenmoore rushed in.
“What’s happened?” the duchess cried. A petite woman with honey blonde hair swept back from a heart-shaped face, she still wore her nightdress covered with a flimsy silk wrapper. Her stare darted around the room, sliding from Byron to the doctor before focusing on her husband.
Gritting his teeth, Glenmoore propped himself up on his elbow. “Wakefield, get her the hell out of here,” he ordered. “I don’t want her to see this.”
Byron took a step towards the duchess, but much like her husband had only a moment before, she brushed off his advance with a firm shake of her head.
“No,” she said, a measure of steel slipping through the flustered anxiety. “I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me what has happened.”
Feisty little thing, Byron thought approvingly, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he stepped back to give her the room she wanted to kneel beside her husband. That smile abruptly faded, however, when his gaze flicked to the two women standing behind the duchess.
The one on the left was clearly a maid. But the one on the right…the one on the right was something else entirely.
It wasn’t often Byron found himself caught off guard. He didn’t like the feeling, nor the weakness associated with it. But there was nothing that could have prepared him for the hard, hot punch to his gut when he looked at the brunette with the fog gray eyes.
Thick luxurious hair fell in a tangle of gleaming sable around slender shoulders. Her brows were full and finely arched, her lashes long and luxurious. She had a petite nose that tilted just so and a full, voluptuous mouth that just begged to be kissed. Her cheekbones were high and angular, her skin smooth and perfectly flawless. His hands itched to cup the lovely breasts silhouetted beneath the ivory nightdress over which she’d carelessly thrown a thin shawl, and his nostrils flared as he imagined following the contours of her body until his thumbs caught on the swell of her gently rounded hips.
In a word, she was beautiful.
No, he corrected himself harshly.
Not beautiful.
A field of daisies was beautiful.
A horse in full gallop was beautiful.
A soft pink sky at dawn was beautiful.
This woman…this ethereal siren summoned from the depths of the ocean…was nothing less than absolutely stunning. And Byron, who had never before found himself so entranced by a female he couldn’t speak, discovered himself completely and frustratingly mute.
While the doctor explained to the Duchess of Glenmoore at length what he needed to do to repair her husband’s leg, Byron continued to stare unabashedly at the dark-haired vixen who had captured his attention and brought a surge of heat rushing to his loins the likes of which he’d never experienced in all of his twenty-eight years.
When she left the parlor he waited until Glenmoore’s leg had been set before he followed her into a drawing room on the other side of the foyer. She was standing beside the mantle, her gaze fixed on a small painting leaning against the stone fireplace, but at the sound of his entrance she turned and smiled, revealing the flash of a dimple high on her left cheek, and if his cock hadn’t been hard before it was like stone now.
“Hello,” she said, gray eyes filled with curiosity. “You must be a friend of His Grace.”
Byron was not surprised she did not immediately recognize him. Unlike many of his peers he preferred the shadows to the light and rarely indulged in public appearances. “Glenmoore and I were school mates.” Falling back on years of good manners that were as much a part of him as the scars on his back from the cane his father had yielded, he bowed low and then lifted his head, blue eyes sharp and assessing as he studied her countenance for a reaction. “Byron Johnson, Duke of Wakefield. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss…”
To the chit’s credit, she barely batted an eyelash. “Lady Katherine Dower. And the pleasure is all mine, Your Grace.”
She moved away from the mantle and wandered towards him, the train of her wrapper rustling quietly behind her and drawing his attention to the fact that she might as well have been naked as the thin layers of silk and muslin did nothing to disguise the generous curves of her body. Morning sunlight streamed in through the large bay window at the side of the room and when she wandered into its shimmering glow he could glimpse the dusky rose of her nipples through the fabric of her nightdress. They resembled small, perfectly shaped buds and his tongue yearned to taste them even as his mind struggled to snap him back in line.
Some men saw a pretty face and lost all sense of rhyme and reason.
Byron wasn’t one of those men.
At least, he hadn’t been before he’d met Lady Katherine.
Teeth grinding he started to excuse himself, but before he could get the words out there came what sounded like a muffled sob from the foyer. Her head swiveling, Katherine dashed to the door while Byron slunk towards the mantle, wanting to put as much distance between himself and wicked temptation as possible. He didn’t know what the devil was wrong with him, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to put it to the test.
Lady Katherine Dower with her luminous gray eyes and pouty bottom lip was everything he’d been avoiding all wrapped up in one neat, sultry package. She was a young, titled woman of marriageable age who – he could only assume – was in search of a husband. She was also scandalously improper, as no young, titled woman of marriageable age would dare be caught in the company of a gentleman without a suitable chaperone. Particularly if she was only in half-dress. If someone were to open the door and find them together they would have no choice but to assume the worst, and Byron would find himself in the same predicament as Glenmoore. Except, unlike Andrew, he had no intention of making an honest woman out of Lady Katherine.
Perhaps a mistress, he thought, his gaze inadvertently straying to her delightfully round derriere as she opened the door and peered out into the hallway. There was no denying Katherine would make a fine mistress. But not a wife.
Never a wife.
They may have just been introduced, but he’d met a hundred Katherine’s over the years. Which was why he knew she was nothing but Trouble. The sort one always put a capitol letter on even if it was at the end of a sentence.
If he ever decided to marry, it would be to a quiet, obedient, biddable woman who took her responsibilities seriously and stirred nothing within him save a mild, distant affection, the same he might feel for the family hound. She would be the epitome of civility and good manners. The sort who would blush head to toe at the mere thought of appearing in front of a gentleman in nothing more than a silk wrapper and a nightdress so thin it might as well have been see-through.
“Gina? Are you there?” The left sleeve of Katherine’s wrapper slithered down her arm as she stepped out into the hallway in search of the Duchess of Glenmoore. She absently pulled it back into place when she closed the door and turned to face him, but not before affording him a tantalizing glimpse at her bare shoulder.
Her skin was all soft ivory and cream.
He wanted to bite it.
“She must have gone upstairs.” Oblivious to the sinful direction his thoughts had taken, Katherine smiled at him. He did not smile back. “How long do you plan to stay?” she inquired, head tilting inquisitively. A loose curl tumbled between her breasts, and as it curled around one of the softly rounded globes Byron’s jaw clenched with such force he heard an audible pop in the back of his skull.
“Until Glenmoore is settled,” he said curtly, forcing his gaze away from h
er bosom. Picking up a small crystal swan from the mantle he gave it his full attention, eyes narrowing to thin slits of restless blue as he tossed the swan from one hand to the other. “My estate borders his. That’s how I found him.”
Now go away, you bloody temptress, before I do something we’ll both regret.
“He’s fortunate you were riding close enough to hear his shouts.” Instead of going away, Katherine came closer, ebony lashes fluttering as the distance between them grew shorter and shorter. “Some might even call you a hero,” she purred.
“Indeed,” he said curtly, his fist tightly around the crystal swan. Had it been real, the poor thing would have undoubtedly squawked in protest.
Not wanting to break the silly trinket he set it back on the mantle and made himself take a deep, calming breath. A breath that he expelled in a short, incredulous hiss when Katherine brazenly leaned over the mahogany lid of the piano and revealed the tops of her breasts to King and Country. Another half an inch and they would have spilled from her nightdress completely.
“It’s unfortunate we did not have an opportunity to meet at your ball, Your Grace.” She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, a smirk dancing in the corners of her mouth as she caught him staring. “We might have found ourselves in a similar situation to our friends.”
The implication was obvious. Bloody hell, everything about her was obvious. He was accustomed to women flirting with him. He was a duke, after all. A duke under the age of forty with all of his teeth. A few widows, looking for a wealthy keeper, had even propositioned themselves. But even the boldest among them had never been so open about their desires as Lady Katherine Dower.
The Autumn Duke (A Duke for All Seasons Book 4) Page 3
