Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Never a real partner.

  Miss Stewart’s acid retorts were refreshing.

  Her eyes had widened in something like outrage—certainly not shock. Is she shocked by anything? “How rude to say so, Your Grace.”

  He tutted. “A miss, I’m afraid. Have you grown weary, darling?”

  Her upper lip curled, baring her teeth, and for a moment he thought she might hit him. He inhaled, strangely anticipatory. Would she throw aside her thin disguise and reveal herself to the sedate sitting room as the warrior she was?

  To his disappointment she controlled herself and in the next second was looking at him almost serenely. “I can’t think that you’re an expert in ladies’ millinery fashions. At least not respectable ladies’ fashions.”

  He wanted to laugh at her restraint. “Are you attempting to imply I’m a roué, madam?”

  She pursed her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth. Undoubtedly she was trying to look proper and disapproving, but she was rather betrayed by her own mouth. She might have the personality of a harpy, but her lips were voluptuously lush. Wide and plump and curved. Naturally tinted pink. Her smile would be glorious. And if she were to use that mouth for other, more erotic tasks…

  No, those weren’t the lips of a prude.

  And they were parting now. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh my dear,” he said gently. “Have you lost your nerve? Surely you can do better than that feeble riposte. Perhaps you can imply that I have the pox. Or simply stand up and call me a ravisher of women.” He watched her outraged eyes, enchanted. She had the loveliest dark lashes. “You must admit that if nothing else it would enliven the party.”

  If he hadn’t been staring at her he might’ve missed it: a slight twitch of those luscious lips. The sight sent a thrill through him. He wanted to make her smile again—that full-fledged smile that brought out her dimple.

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Miss Stewart bit out.

  “Pity. I don’t see how you’ll make me face my sins otherwise.”

  “Perhaps you need to face your sins on your own.”

  “Oh, I already have.” He smiled humorlessly as he met her eyes. “I assure you.”

  Her eyes narrowed in what looked like grudging curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think I’d tell you my weaknesses?” he asked softly. “You, my adversary?”

  “I’m not your…” She caught herself before she could say it, blinked, and lifted her chin.

  A point to him.

  “You are.” He smiled. “You’ve taken pains to impress your antagonism upon me.”

  “Have I?”

  He gazed at her thoughtfully. “I’m not sure how I’ve offended you.”

  “Aren’t you?” Her voice was mocking.

  His jaw clenched and he said abruptly, “I’m not, you know. A ravisher of women.”

  “I suppose I should simply believe you?” she inquired politely. “Because if you were a libertine that is exactly what you’d say, you realize.”

  “I don’t recollect ever being so insulted,” he said slowly, “by man or woman. Are you trying to goad me into revealing to the party what you were doing in Wapping?”

  She made an abrupt movement, then stilled. Her eyes when she looked at him burned. “You have no idea what I was doing in Wapping.”

  “No, but I do know you don’t want me speaking about it,” he mused. “Otherwise I think you would’ve told me to go to the Devil. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me?”

  “Tell you my secrets?” She arched her brows. “You, my adversary?”

  For a moment he savored her repartee—the bright satisfaction in her eyes, the way she leaned a little forward as if waiting for him to bat back a tennis ball.

  He let his lips quirk. “No, you’re right. That would be most unwise. For both of us, I think.”

  He should stand and leave her. Go speak to another member of the party.

  And yet he found something compelling about her, this seemingly ordinary woman.

  Or perhaps he simply found her frank animosity refreshing.

  He was about to say something else, see if he could make that dimple appear again, but there were footsteps and voices from in the hallway.

  Christopher straightened, his attention entirely on the door. Had Plimpton arrived?

  Two ladies entered the salon, and Christopher felt a shock of recognition that went straight to his core.

  The nearest, a tall, striking woman with black hair, glanced up. For a second her gaze flickered to Miss Stewart, and then it was on him.

  She walked toward them, her hands outstretched as her handsome gray eyes widened. “Christopher, darling, it’s been an age since we’ve seen you. How are you?”

  * * *

  The problem with having grown up with a person was that they never forgot that once upon a time one had been a girl.

  No matter how old one might be now.

  Messalina Greycourt watched as Christopher Renshaw rose from his seat beside Freya. “Messy?”

  Her eldest brother, Julian, had christened her with the ghastly nickname when she’d been five and he a very superior eleven. Sadly the name had stuck…at least until the events of her twelfth summer, when they’d lost their sister, Aurelia—and with her Julian’s playfulness.

  “Not even Julian calls me that anymore,” she replied. “Do you remember my sister, Lucretia?”

  Christopher turned to Lucretia. “Of course, though I would never have known you.”

  Lucretia curtsied. “I’m so glad. It would be rather lowering if I still looked the same as I did in leading strings.”

  That provoked what looked like a reluctant smile from Christopher.

  Messalina glanced from Christopher to Freya de Moray. The two had been deep in discussion when she and her sister had entered the sitting room, and she had a multitude of questions.

  The foremost among them: had Freya told Christopher why she was working as a companion? Messalina had been curious about that for years.

  Messalina looked away from Freya and nodded at Christopher. “We knew that you’d returned to England, but we never saw you. I think Julian even invited you to tea, didn’t he?”

  Christopher simply shrugged. His smile was already gone.

  Were he and Julian no longer speaking? If so, she’d not been aware of the rift. Although of course Christopher had been in India for all those years. And Julian was damnably closemouthed.

  Messalina cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I call you by your Christian name? I’m afraid habits made in childhood are hard to shake.”

  She glanced at Freya and saw her former friend staring at her, a haunted look on her face. Freya turned her head before rising and quietly moving away.

  Messalina couldn’t help the pang of hurt. Damn Freya de Moray.

  “Not at all,” Christopher replied, bringing her attention back to him. “I can hardly stand on ceremony when you once saw me after a night of very unwise drinking.”

  She recalled her smile. “You did have trouble holding your liquor at sixteen.”

  His expression was melancholy, but then it was Ranulf de Moray who’d been his illicit drinking partner that night.

  “I’d heard you’d come into the title,” Messalina said to change the subject. “It was the talk of the ton for almost the entire season.”

  She’d heard, too, that he’d lost his wife, Lord Lovejoy’s sister. What had been her name? Becky or Molly or Lizzy—some sort of diminutive at any rate. She wondered suddenly if there was anyone to call him by his given name now. Both his parents were dead, he had no brothers or sisters, and as far as she knew he hadn’t remarried.

  “Yes, I inherited quite unexpectedly,” he said dryly. “The last duke was a second cousin, and suffered the tragedy of his own sons and grandson leaving this world before him. My cousin was ninety when he died and appeared to have placed far too much trust in a none-too-honest man of business. The title came with two year
s’ worth of work.”

  “Your Grace?”

  They both turned at Lord Lovejoy’s interruption.

  Their host was looking apologetic. “I’ve word that dinner is ready. Perhaps you’d care to lead us in?”

  Of course. Christopher was the ranking aristocrat.

  He bowed to Messalina and strode to their hostess, offering Lady Lovejoy his arm. Lord Rookewoode, escorting Lady Holland, followed them. The rest of the company trailed behind.

  Lucretia murmured beside Messalina, “Will you ask Lady Lovejoy for help tonight?”

  Messalina shook her head. “Tomorrow, I think.”

  “Mm.” Lucretia hummed. “He is very handsome, isn’t he?”

  Messalina blinked at the non sequitur. “Christopher?” She’d never thought of him in that way.

  “No, not him. It’s strange, I didn’t recognize the duke at all.”

  “Well, you were only what, seven when we last saw him?”

  “Eight,” Lucretia said with the exactitude for age found only in the youngest members of families, “and in any case, no, that’s not who I meant. I was referring to the earl.” She nodded at Lord Rookewoode’s back. “There’s something about him that just draws a lady’s eye. Though I suppose the duke is quite nice to look at as well.”

  “Hussy,” Messalina murmured.

  “I noticed that Freya is still ignoring you,” Lucretia whispered.

  “Is she?” Messalina replied with feigned disinterest as they came to the dining room.

  They had to part to find their seats before Lucretia could call her out. Naturally they weren’t seated together. Jane Lovejoy had done her best to seat them lady-gentleman-lady, and Messalina found herself between Viscount Stanhope and Mr. Lovejoy. Directly across from her was the earl, flanked on either side by Lucretia and Arabella Holland. And down at the bottom of the table was Lady Freya de Moray.

  Messalina dipped her spoon into a lovely eel soup and considered Freya. It was rather ironic, really. As the daughter and sister of dukes she was in actuality the highest-ranking lady at the table.

  Something that no one knew besides Messalina, Lucretia, and Freya herself.

  And Christopher. Had he recognized Freya? Messalina was beginning to wonder. She glanced at him speculatively. Would Freya have told him who she was if he hadn’t recognized her?

  Considering how matters stood between Christopher and the de Moray family, Freya might’ve kept her identity to herself.

  It was a possibility at least that Christopher didn’t know who Freya was. Freya was no longer the skinny, tangled-haired wild lass of their youth. Now she was sedate, her adult curves confined and stifled by boring brown gowns, her red hair hidden and tamed. No doubt she fooled the vast majority of people she met, mostly by simply being overlooked.

  Messalina humphed under her breath.

  Freya de Moray had never been sedate in their youth, and she very much doubted the other woman had changed so very much in fifteen years. She didn’t know why Freya was presenting herself as such a staid and boring person, but that was almost certainly not who Freya truly was.

  And she could not ask Freya why she was essentially in disguise because, simply put, they did not speak to each other.

  Messalina had first seen Freya in London society four years ago. It had been at an afternoon musicale, a quartet of string instruments or perhaps a harpsichord player, she couldn’t remember now. There had been seating on either side of the entertainment, and only a few minutes in, Messalina had found herself staring across the way into the eyes of Freya de Moray.

  Her best friend from childhood.

  It had been a strange experience. She’d had no doubt it was Freya, even though they hadn’t seen each other in years. She knew those green eyes, the shape of her chin, and the slight slope of her nose.

  Freya had stared back without expression. Without recognition.

  Without emotion.

  As if they’d never hidden from Freya’s governess or begged cakes from Cook or lain together in a dark bed, whispering their deepest secrets to each other.

  As if they hadn’t loved each other better than sisters.

  Damn Freya.

  She hadn’t been the one to lose an older sister that night. Bright, sparkling Aurelia, dead at only sixteen.

  That long-ago night Messalina had woken to her mother weeping, Julian’s silent, white face, Lucretia confused and crying, and Aurelia’s twin, Quintus, vomiting again and again until the whites of his eyes were flooded red with burst blood vessels.

  No, Freya hadn’t any cause to snub her. If anyone should be snubbing someone, it was Messalina. It had been Freya’s brother Ran who had murdered Aurelia.

  Messalina reached for her wineglass and in doing so caught Lucretia’s eye. Her younger sister raised a pointed eyebrow.

  Messalina nodded and inhaled to calm herself. She wasn’t here to brood on Freya, their awful past, and what exactly she was doing working as a companion under an assumed name now. Messalina was here to flirt, laugh, and, most importantly, find out what had happened to a very dear friend.

  Eleanor Randolph.

  Lord Randolph had buried poor Eleanor without ceremony or even notice. Messalina hadn’t even found out that Eleanor was dead until weeks afterward. The least she owed her friend was to find out how she had died.

  Thus recalled to her mission, Messalina turned to her right and smiled at Viscount Stanhope. “I hope your travels were pleasant?”

  The viscount swallowed before speaking in a marked Scottish accent. “I would not say pleasant precisely. The inns I was told to stop at were not at all as was expected. Loud and licentious behavior in the first, and in the second bed linens stinking quite terribly of mildew. I had something to say to both innkeepers, I can assure you.”

  “Oh, indeed?” Messalina couldn’t keep her lips from twitching. Lord Stanhope sounded as if he spent quite a bit of his time complaining to innkeepers and the like. It was a pity really. He was quite a nice-looking gentleman, with wide beautiful eyes and a Roman profile—if only he didn’t have a moue of distaste on his face.

  “I was very happy to arrive, I can tell you that,” the viscount said. “Although I think that Lady Lovejoy needs a firmer hand with her servants. There was dust on the picture frame in my room. Do you think I should inform her?”

  “Well…” Messalina darted a glance at Jane Lovejoy. Darling Jane had eyes too small for her round face and a nose too big, making her rather plain. That hadn’t stopped her from becoming a popular London hostess. She was known for her salons and balls, quite packed with the cream of society. Though she was nearly two decades older than Messalina, they’d struck up a fast friendship on first meeting. “Perhaps not tonight. Our hostess no doubt has much to do.”

  “Hm.” Lord Stanhope’s brows drew together. “I don’t see what. Surely she simply needs to make conversation.”

  Messalina kept her smile intact with difficulty. Obviously the viscount had never planned a house party.

  Fortunately she was saved from having to reply when Regina Holland said something to the viscount.

  Messalina turned toward her other table mate and her eye snagged on Freya. Her former friend was staring rather intensely up the table. Messalina picked up her wineglass and took a sip to cover following Freya’s line of sight. She was watching Christopher.

  Interesting.

  Freya had had quite a tendre for Christopher fifteen years ago, but back then she’d been in the schoolroom. Surely Freya hadn’t started something with him now?

  Messalina felt a pang of hurt. How could Freya forgive Christopher—who had been there that night with Julian and Ran—and not Messalina?

  They’d only been children.

  Back then they’d told each other everything.

  Back then they’d been innocents.

  Chapter Four

  The princess and her three friends dismounted and entered the grotto.

  Moss grew up the sides and water drip
ped slowly, but the cave was quite shallow.

  “That’s a disappointment,” Rowan said, and the girls returned to the entrance.

  Rowan was beside Marigold, and she noticed the strangest thing. Instead of ducking her head shyly as she’d always done, Marigold stared at her boldly and grinned.…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  At a little past one in the morning, Freya crept from her bedroom into the narrow hallway outside. As a companion, she’d been given a small bedroom at the very end of the hall, apart from the house party guests.

  Her single candle cast a wavering light on the pink-painted walls as she briskly walked to the area of the house where the guests’ bedrooms were.

  Where the Duke of Harlowe was.

  The rest of the house party was abed early, having spent but a short time in the sitting room after dinner. Freya had watched Messalina all evening in case the other woman should suddenly reveal Freya’s identity. They’d never discussed the matter—never, in fact, talked at all, even on that afternoon when they’d first seen each other in London at a musicale—but for whatever reason, Messalina had always kept Freya’s secret. Sometimes late at night or when she was very tired Freya wondered if Messalina kept her secret out of love for her.

  But in the cold light of day Freya knew that couldn’t be the case. How could Messalina still love her when all the world thought Ran had killed Aurelia?

  She sighed. This was an old sorrow—one she couldn’t let distract her.

  Tonight all her thoughts should be on revenge.

  The corridor met another hall and Freya turned. She’d paid a maid earlier in the evening to tell her which room the duke was sleeping in. The maid had been surprisingly forthcoming without undue curiosity about why Freya needed the information. The maid also hadn’t asked questions when Freya had given her a small satchel of powder to stir into the brandy decanter in Harlowe’s room.

  Uncurious servants in need of ready cash were rather a boon in her line of work.

  On her right was a painting of dead birds on a table—not very well done—and after that was a portrait of a piebald horse with its groom. Freya nodded in satisfaction. Her informant had said the duke’s room was the one next to the piebald horse.