The Duke's Fated Love

by Emily Bow

The painting was from the same time period and depicted a group of English riders in red coats and buff trousers chasing down a fox. The hounds salivated, and their tongues lolled from their parted jaws. The painter had titled the piece, The Slaying of the Fox. Nightmare really. “And you thought the décor at the pub was bad.” I kept the huskiness out of my voice and projected a cool teasing tone.

  Turn to me with an apology. With pink English roses. With a wonderful explanation of why you’re here.

  I didn’t let my need show in my eyes. He looked at me over his shoulder. An expression of amused pleasure flitted over his face. He flushed, seemed almost embarrassed, and his dark blue eyes brightened as if pleased. Then he turned fully toward me, and his face went neutral as if he didn’t care one way or the other that I stood feet away from him.

  I blinked as his expressions changed faster than a twinkling English star covered by a cloud, and my brain raced to understand his reactions.

  “What are you doing here?” Thorn even sounded different. More serious. “It’s incredibly inappropriate for you to follow me home.”

  Follow him home? My eyebrows arched and my heart sank. He was acting like I’d searched through his wallet, checked his ID, and tracked him down. He was the newcomer, and clearly, he wasn’t here to find me. My empty stomach tightened, and my shoulders tensed. I’d been here for over two months. I’d have noticed him if he’d been around.

  Why was he calling the castle home? I’d seen all the fair-haired family pictures hanging on the portrait gallery walls, and he wasn’t in them. If this was his home, he worked here. I tilted my head. “Are you…do you work here?” He was built to do some heavy lifting, I’d seen enough of him to know that, but he wasn’t dressed like a laborer.

  He didn’t answer me. He looked at the hunting painting, and then the crystal clock. His blue-gray eyes sharpened like the dark sapphire gems mounted on the clock’s minute hand. “You volunteer here. You’re reading the Elizabethan letters.”

  Correct. I volunteer here. The professor is reading the Elizabethan letters. “I’m more sorting through the Middle Ages hoard. I’m working my way up to the Elizabethan hoard.” I’d worked at a museum back home where Professor McCrary consulted. When Professor McCrary had invited me along with her daughter Lily, I’d jumped on the opportunity. I was taking a semester off to do this. My parents had protested, but how often did castle jobs come up? Not that often in Texas.

  “You love history. You’re studying here in England?” He asked me questions he should have asked me last night during our “getting to know you” phase at the pub.

  Questions such as, “Do you have a boyfriend?” No, I do not. And then I’d have said, “Do you have a girlfriend?” And he’d have said, “Yes, she’s a petite curly-haired redhead due at the pub any minute.” Ah well, I’d figured out his relationship status soon enough without him telling the truth. But now, I had to explain myself to him? I’d give him the minimum. “I’m taking a year off.”

  “Same.”

  We had that in common. It also felt like we had nothing in common. I needed my body to fall in line with what my brain was realizing. “And you’re working here?” That thought twisted up all kinds of conflicting emotions in me. Like, yes, Thorn in a towel. And, no, this guy had his chance.

  He shook his head and his jaw tightened. “As I said, this is my family home.”

  I’m not sure what that meant because the only people who lived here were the caretakers. The Johnsons. They weren’t old enough to be his parents.

  He examined the tall doors that led outside. “This is all a bit awkward. I’m sure you can understand that this won’t do. You’ll need to leave.”

  I flushed, backed up a step, and clasped my clammy hands behind me. “I was here first.” I sounded like a third grader, but some guys brought that out. The nerve of him, messing up my night, my morning, and now my afternoon? No. My pulse was thrumming in anger now, not interest. I smiled, showing plenty of teeth to set my tone and then waved an open palm toward the exit as an added invitation. “Why don’t you leave?” My voice took on a meanness I totally meant.

  His jaw hardened, and his stance widened. “The castle isn’t a toy to fight over. It’s my family’s problem to solve.”

  That was weird phrasing. Though his phrasing might not be weird for an English guy. I didn’t know. He had his problems, and I had mine. Mine was the castle hoard. That was my puzzle to solve. I was committed to this project. “I left a museum job to be here. I don’t start grad school until next year because of this. I’m not giving up my plans because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself before your girlfriend got to the pub.”

  His flush deepened and I felt a rush of vindication. “She’s not my girlfriend.” His tone came out hushed and insistent, and he lost his formal tones.

  My stupid heart leapt like he had shown up with pink roses. I was only pleased because his explanation meant I hadn’t made out with a cheat, not because I cared. I didn’t care. His phrasing simply made me curious. “She’s not your girlfriend…now?”

  “She’s going to be.” His voice was calculating, and his words and tone turned me off. “I’m sure you can understand. If I’m around, you can’t be here. It’ll make things… awkward.”

  Awkward. That word defined us and threatened to take me down as if I’d slipped into the moat. I was the one with the most to lose here, not him. “I don’t walk out because things get difficult. I committed. I’m staying.”

  “Did you know I’d be here?” His voice was deep and serious.

  He was fast losing his attractiveness. He truly wasn’t nearly as handsome as I’d thought. He wasn’t. My body was on edge because I was annoyed, that was all. He’d invited me to his bed. Not the other way around. “Did you know I’d be here?”

  “Obviously not. Stop playing games. You were just a tourist.” He stepped closer. “A drunken fancy brought on by a surprisingly good scotch in a place of little choice.”

  Son of a…someone in this castle. My cheeks flushed as if he’d pinched them; my fists clenched as if I’d swing them. I stepped closer. “And you were a fleeting whim. And a morning-after regret.”

  “Imogen.” Professor McCrary spoke from the top of the stairs. She sounded harried, and she was, thankfully, too far up to hear this morning after poem of ours.

  I backed up a step, away from him. He was simply a guy. Sure, good-looking and built, but so were other guys. What had tied me to him was scotch. Nothing more. I was pleased to note he was truly less attractive to me now. I’d never had a thing for mean guys.

  “That’s your name?” Thorn whispered. “Imogen?”

  I liked how my name sounded in his accent, but he’d said it like a question. Imogen? He didn’t even know my name. Embarrassed heat swamped me like the Bolivar Peninsula during a hurricane. I don’t know his name either. Other than the nickname the petite redhead had used last night. Thorn.

  As if I’d call him Thorn.

  Before I could confirm my name or insult his, the professor said, “You’ll want to leave the duke to his business.” She sounded insistent, still on her roll from this morning, talking to me again like I was a minor and in her charge.

  I resented her tone and I rejected her instructions. My muscles tensed and planted me right there. I’d move when she came down and moved me. Then I processed her words, and not just her tone. The castle was owned by a duke.

  The meaning chilled my skin. I tugged my cardigan tighter around me and picked at a loose indigo thread on the bottom button. Dukes were old. Weren’t they? I mouthed to him, “The duke?”

  He smiled, showing extra teeth, bowed with an arm at his waist, and then he looked upward. “Ah, Professor McCrary. So good to meet you in person. I’ll require dear Imogen here to show me around the keep.”

  Confusion puddled through me. Why was he saying that? Didn’t he know his way around his own home? Did he want to continue our argument? Did he think I’d relent? I wouldn’t.

&nb
sp; “Of course,” the professor said, as if she hadn’t just told me to leave him alone.

  How was he the duke? I ignored Professor McCrary and looked up into his moody eyes. “I won’t do your bidding.” I kept my voice low.

  “We’ve established you will.” His forceful tone indicated he usually got his way.

  I tilted my head to cover a sudden twitch and smoothed my hair. “What’s your whole name?”

  “You mean, what should you call me?” Thorn asked. “Your Grace. The Duke of Raventhorn. Sir.”

  “Ha.” That lightened the mood, and I really needed the atmosphere in here to ease up. He had a sense of humor. My shoulders lowered. We could get past this. We could be mature adults. “I…”

  He wasn’t laughing.

  I raised my chin, matching the angle of his. “Oh. You’re serious? That’s not happening.”

  “My friends call me Thorn.”

  I didn’t want to call him by a nickname used by the other girl. “Too phallic. I don’t see that happening either.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  I liked it. I could make it tick harder. “I know where we should start. Follow me.” I pivoted on my heel and strode toward the portrait gallery.

  I assumed he’d follow, and when the wooden parquet floors creaked under the weight of both our feet, I knew I was right. Who was controlling whom here? I walked to the center of the square woven rug in the center of the room. Row after row, portraits of his fair-haired and gray-haired ancestors lined the wall.

  I held out my palms like the messiah. “You can see why I didn’t imagine this was your home. Not with your dark hair. The guy mucking the stables looks more like these guys than you do. I resembled the castle’s ancestors more than you do.” I arched an eyebrow and dropped my arms. “Are you the milkman’s son maybe?” I used a silky tone and realized, as I asked the question, how rude the implication was. But he’d ticked me off and hurt my feelings. He’d toyed with me and pricked my temper. I was perilously close to losing it.

  His eyes flashed and stayed on mine revealing an interest in me he wasn’t owning. “My mother has raven hair.”

  “No one has raven hair outside of an Austen novel.” Now, I was annoying him and enjoying it. Standing in a centuries-old castle, filled with colorful medieval tapestries, intricately carved furniture, antique glassware and a million other historical objects I wanted to examine; and I was pissing off the owner.

  I needed to make peace, although I wasn’t the one in the wrong. And I didn’t want to. This sucked. But I didn’t want to go home either. Not over a mistake. As the oldest of three, this wasn’t the first time the burden of making up had fallen on me. I knew how to hold out an olive branch.

  I took a breath. “Just kidding.” I searched for Duke of Raventhorn via the Internet on my phone. “William Richard Alastair Bariston, Duke of Raventhorn. That’s a mouthful.” I eyed him, not believing I hadn’t gotten his name last night. “What do you go by for real? When you’re not hiding your identity at the local pub. Willy?”

  “That’s not happening.”

  “Liam?”

  “I’m English. As an historian, you should know that.”

  “Thorn then.” I could never imagine crushing on a Thorn. I’d never met one before, and it sounded odd enough to keep me at a distance which comforted me. “I’ll call you Thorn.”

  “Thorn is fine.” He said the words as if he were granting special permission. “What is your full name?”

  “Imogen Portia Arundel.” I turned aside, cut by his formality and wishing I had a few extra middle names to throw out there. I should have simply made some up. Or made up a title. Lady of the Workroom or some such, but I was too tense to be clever. The connection I’d felt, the humor, the easy laughter, and deep connection. It had existed. Hadn’t it?

  “Imogen.” Again, my name sounded romantic in his rich deep voice. For a moment, I thought I heard an apologetic note. He stiffened and his voice went back to being commanding. “Show me around my castle.”

  Chapter 6

  Thorn was bossy.

  I had to ease us into a workable relationship. “You haven’t been here before?”

  “An unexpected inheritance that came down to me. On my fair-haired father’s side of the family tree.”

  “What kind of family do you have that you didn’t realize you’d inherit a freaking castle?” I waved off the question. I was trying to get along with him. “You don’t have to answer that.” All it took was one line of his family not to have kids before the inheritance shifted to a new family tree branch and the next relative in line. I myself was in line for a moon rock and a third of a suburban house. Ergh. That sounded horrible. My parents had achieved major priceless things. My dad was an astronaut, and my mother a neurologist. They were about the future; it wasn’t their fault I relished the past. “The castle is a wonderful thing.”

  “A wonderful responsibility, one in a line of many responsibilities which is why I’ve just gotten to it.”

  Ungrateful. My stomach groaned, and the walls of the massive hall with their watching portraits and heavy tapestries closed in on me.

  I pointed to the exit. “Let’s start outside.” My hollow stomach reminded me I’d run on an empty stomach, and I still hadn’t eaten. The adrenaline I’d used up sparring with him was making my hunger worse. I wanted a sandwich.

  Going to get food would show me, and him that I wouldn’t fall at his feet, and that my brief infatuation was over. I was putting ham and cheddar over him. That made him very low on my list of concerns. “Give me one minute first.” I jogged back to the kitchen.

  The same dark-haired kitchen supervisor, Sarah, blocked my entrance. She patted her thick black bun. “Right, miss, we’re very busy and will get to your meal.” One of the housemaids behind her snickered. “Chef’s needs take priority.”

  Annoyance flickered in me, but the emotion was weak compared to dealing with Thorn. Screw it, I’d win them over later. “Make it two sandwiches. Please. Pack them to go and add drinks, please.” I sounded all mission-commander like my dad.

  Sarah drew a deep breath through her nose. “As I said—”

  “It’s for the duke.” Surely, he out-ranked the chef. “He’ll be impressed with how quickly you’ve pulled the meal together.” Though if they’d started when I’d first asked, the sandwich would be done by now. “He wants ham and cheese. With mustard.” Before I got the condiment out of my mouth, staff behind her were in action.

  I had a food hamper in my hands in minutes. I wanted to lecture the women about sisterhood, or staff supporting each other, but I understood them. For now, I was the outsider digging through their castle, one more mouth to feed. Why should they rush to throw me a slice?

  I returned to Thorn. He eyed the hamper, but he said nothing other than to take the handles when I indicated he should carry it. We trekked over the drawbridge, across the grounds, and up a small berm. The mild English air and sunshine made me understand their artists’ fondness for landscapes. The land was pretty here. Thousands of acres unchanged for centuries.

  Thorn pointed his thumb at the castle. “I may not be familiar with the place, but I know the keep you’re supposed to be showing me is back that way.”

  Start on the ramparts? Where he could throw me out of the castle tower or into the moat? No way. I had to really make that peace first. “I want lunch. Then I’ll show you around.” I sat crisscross there in the grass and took the hamper from him. I drew the lids back, revealing a thermos and several wrapped sandwiches against the blue silk lining of the hamper. “There’s enough for two.”

  “I’m not hungry.” He shifted on his feet and put his hands behind his back. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. As if this were some sort of social outing.” He paused between his words giving them an insulting hue.

  If there were picnic ants on this hill, they’d be crawling under my skin now. I eased my fingers from crushing the fresh bread and blew out a breath
. “I overslept and missed breakfast. Shocking. I know. So, I’m having a sandwich. You’re welcome to share. Or watch. The tour resumes after this fifteen-minute break.” I folded the wax paper back, took a cheesy bite, and chewed deliberately.

  “Right then. I only wanted to be clear.”

  And he had been. Clearer than I would have been if I were setting him straight. But he had no problem being careless with my feelings. Heat hit my cheeks, and I thanked my Texas stars again that he’d fallen asleep on me. This would be so much worse if we’d consummated the deed and then he’d been a first-rate dick.

  Or would I have been mature enough to separate that memory, that moment in a bed from this one and what had become of us after. Probably not. I’d have felt permanently tied to him, and he’d have shattered me. I got my mind out of bed with Thorn. That way lay confusion.

  Thorn frowned and sat down. Then helped himself to a cup from a thermos of juice, a mashup of citrus fruit they called ‘squash.’

  I kept eating. The bread was soft, the ham and cheese delicious.

  After watching me, he gave in and took a triangle.

  I hoped he liked mustard. I swallowed and leaned back on one palm, tilting my face up. The cool breeze felt better out here than in the castle. Coming outside had been a good decision. I wasn’t that into him. We could be friends. I’d like an English friend. I pointed at the gray stone structure that had been here for centuries. “Imagine. It’s five hundred years ago, and you’re a peasant stopping here for a picnic. What a sight.”

  “My people weren’t peasants.” His outrage was mild. He took another sandwich wedge and ate it too. Guess he wasn’t opposed to mustard.

  His class issues might get in the way of our friendship, but I was still going to give that dynamic a shot. “I said imagine. Try and get the impressiveness of that structure into your elitist heart. What awe a traveler must have felt.”

  Thorn examined the vista. “Portcullis. Moat. Great visibility. Defensible. My ancestors knew what they were doing crafting this structure.”