Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Freya laid her hand on the doorknob and carefully turned it without making a sound.

  Well. A sound a human could hear.

  It wasn’t until she saw the eyes at hip height reflecting back her candlelight that she remembered Tess.

  Freya froze…or she started to in any case. A large, masculine hand seized her arm and dragged her into the bedroom.

  She gasped as the door was closed behind her and she was shoved up against it.

  Her candle was plucked from her hand.

  Harlowe set the candle on a table by the door. He propped his hand on the wall and leaned over her, smiling a very untrustworthy smile. “Had I known you were coming to visit me tonight, Miss Stewart, I would’ve called for a tray of bonbons.”

  Freya glanced at the decanter of brandy, sitting on a table next to his bed.

  It was full.

  Blast. Why hadn’t he drunk a glass before bed like every other gentleman she knew? For that matter, why ask for a brandy decanter in the room at all if one wasn’t going to drink the brandy in it?

  What a maddeningly capricious creature he was.

  And that was not excitement rising in her breast at the realization that he was awake and ready to spar.

  She put both hands on his chest and pushed.

  Nothing happened.

  “Let me go,” she snarled at him.

  “Oh dear, I am sorry,” he said with patently false concern. “You must’ve mistaken the room. Were you looking for Lord Rookewoode? Or was it Lord Stanhope?”

  Her nostrils flared with rage. “I—”

  “No.” His smile disappeared and what remained on his face was an expression that made her shiver involuntarily. “Whatever lie you were about to tell me, darling, don’t.”

  For a moment he simply stared at her and she stared back, her breaths coming faster and faster.

  Tess sat down and whined under her breath.

  “Now,” the Duke of Harlowe said, “why are you in my rooms?”

  She raised her eyebrows and said in a voice made steady only through great will, “You’ve already guessed, Your Grace. I find I’m overcome by a sudden tendre for you.”

  His mouth twisted into something ugly and for a second—just a hair of a second—she thought he might strike her.

  Then he straightened. “Tell me, Miss Stewart, do you loathe all men or am I special?”

  “Oh,” she whispered, and this time she couldn’t still the waver of pure hatred in her voice, “you’re very special.”

  His brows drew together. They stood only inches apart. Every time he inhaled, his chest nearly touched her unbound breasts beneath her chemise and wrap. They were so close, she could almost hear his heartbeat.

  They might’ve been lovers.

  Or enemies about to kill each other.

  “Do I know you?” he murmured. “Have I caused you harm in some way?”

  She couldn’t afford to have him recognize her.

  She should apologize. Allow him to believe whatever he wished so long as he let her go and she left.

  That was the smart thing to do.

  The responsible thing.

  Rings, memories, and revenge shouldn’t matter at all.

  She reached up and placed her palm gently—so gently!—against his hard cheek, feeling his bristles, and widened her eyes. “If you can’t remember, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  His eyes began to narrow, but she rose on tiptoe, wrapped her hand around his fingers, and jerked him toward her in a single movement.

  She ground her mouth against his.

  His lips tasted of betrayal and wine. Night and childhood memory.

  Love and loss.

  The emotion he aroused in her was so profound she almost lost herself in the embrace.

  She opened her mouth, licking across his bottom lip until his own tongue came out to tangle with hers.

  Then she bit him.

  “Fuck!” He stepped back, blood beading on his mouth, his face twisted in confusion and outrage. “You’re insane.”

  The dog was on her feet, whining in distress.

  “No. I’m not.” Freya opened the door. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Oh, and you might want to avoid the brandy.”

  Freya closed the door and all but ran down the corridor, her breath coming in shaky gasps. When she reached her own room she shut the door behind her and pushed a chair under the doorknob.

  She sat on the side of her bed, trying to calm her heart.

  Perhaps she was insane.

  For five years she’d been nothing but dull and circumspect, polite and utterly forgettable. She’d served the Wise Women well as the Macha. Every step she took, every word she spoke, was considered carefully so she would not be revealed. She had a mission that was vitally important to the continued existence of the Wise Women.

  And yet in less than twelve hours she’d thrown all that away.

  Freya opened her hand. Nestled in her palm was Ran’s ring. She’d wrested it from Harlowe’s finger when she’d bitten him.

  She held it up, studying the worn gold of the band. It was a signet ring with a carved onyx meant to be used to seal wax. The intaglio was of a bird of prey. The bird, worn about the edges, might’ve been a falcon or even a hawk, but Freya knew that it was a merlin.

  The de Moray family symbol.

  Merlins were the smallest of the falcons. Swift and ruthless, merlins caught other, smaller birds on the wing before landing and devouring their prey.

  This ring had been worn by generations of de Moray men, including her own papa before he’d given it to Ranulf on his eighteenth birthday.

  Freya closed the ring in her fist again. No doubt Harlowe would soon realize his ring was gone.

  Too bad.

  He might be a duke now, but she was a de Moray woman, small, swift, and above all ruthless.

  * * *

  It was barely light the next morning when Freya slipped out the back door of Lovejoy House. A misty fog lingered just above the wet grass, swirling around her skirts as she walked across the lawn. Last night she’d let herself be distracted by rage and revenge and that damnable kiss.

  She touched Ran’s ring, strung on an old silver chain about her neck, then tucked it under her fichu. Memories and regret and whatever that feeling was that Harlowe provoked in her. Today she had to put aside all of that. She was a Wise Woman, and she had a mission to complete.

  To that end she was headed to Randolph lands. Lady Randolph had been buried on unconsecrated ground within the estate—an odd choice—and Freya wanted to see the grave.

  The lawn ended abruptly at the edge of an overgrown wood. Freya paused, eyeing the trail that led into the dim interior. It reminded her a bit of the sorts of woods that had featured prominently in her nursemaid’s fairy tales: dark, forbidding, and wild. Nothing good had ever happened in those fairy-tale woods.

  She glanced behind her.

  The sun had fully risen, shining brightly on the dewed lawn and a formal garden surrounded by a tall hedge. It seemed a bit odd that the woods so close to the house should be untended.

  Still. She had only a few hours before the rest of the party rose.

  She stepped into the woods.

  There was a trail, thank goodness, though it looked little used. Around her the wood was oddly quiet for daybreak. Where were the singing birds? She hastened her step—and not entirely because she was worried about the time.

  Five minutes later she saw sunlight and stepped into a clearing. To one side was a small stone structure, and for a moment her hopes rose, though she couldn’t have crossed into Randolph land yet. Then she saw that the building wasn’t a mausoleum. She hesitated, staring at it, but she would run out of time if she didn’t keep going, so she crossed the clearing and continued through the woods.

  It was another fifteen minutes before the woods began to thin. Freya emerged onto a small hill overlooking what must be the Randolph estate. She could see a manor, probably half
the size of Lovejoy House, but still grand. There were stables behind the house and a garden that looked in need of tending.

  She followed the path toward the manor, wondering where Lady Randolph might be buried. Perhaps on the other side of the house? She could see a drive disappearing into trees. It must lead to the same road that passed by Lovejoy House.

  A thorn pricked at her calf and she bent to pull it from her skirts.

  Someone cleared their throat.

  Freya straightened to see a man walking toward her with a musket over his shoulder.

  She might’ve been afraid had he not been positively ancient.

  “You there,” the man wheezed as he came closer, “what’re ye doin’ on Randolph land?”

  “I beg your pardon,” she replied with her most disarming smile. “I had no idea I was trespassing.” Freya gestured to the wood behind her. “I’m a guest at Lovejoy House.”

  “Are ye, then?” The old man paused, hawked quite disgustingly, and spit to the side of the path. “Beggin’ yer pardon then, miss. Have to be vigilant-like, as it’s my job as gamekeeper. Right early for a stroll, though, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, it is,” Freya assured him earnestly. “But I do so like to take a brisk walk at sunrise. I believe it’s good for the constitution.”

  “Argh,” the man replied, rather enigmatically.

  “I understand that Lord Elliot Randolph lives here,” Freya said.

  “Aye, so he does, though m’lord’s not here now.”

  “Really? I’m afraid I’ve not had the honor of an introduction to Lord Randolph, but I did converse with his wife once or twice,” Freya lied outrageously. She’d seen Lady Randolph at a few social events, but she’d never spoken to her. “I thought it such a pity…” She paused delicately.

  The old man snapped up the bait. “Oh aye, ’tis a tragedy one so pretty should die young.” He shifted, placing the butt of his musket on the ground and leaning on it. “Course she weren’t quite right at the end.” He eyed her expectantly.

  Freya hastened to prompt him. “Oh?”

  “Aye,” he replied with the relish of a good gossip. “Shoutin’ and carrying on and the like as if she were bedeviled. Heard it from the head footman himself. And His Lordship not one to like a fuss. Why ’tis said she was quite mad, the poor lassie. Went running through the stable yard near naked. Wearing just her shift she were, her hair all about her shoulders. They say up there”—he tilted his head to the manor—“that she caught an ague after that. Died the next night, she did.”

  “My goodness,” Freya murmured, placing her hand to her chest and hoping she wasn’t overacting. “How shocking! I suppose Lord Randolph must’ve consulted with all the best doctors about his ill wife?”

  “Nay.” The gamekeeper shook his head. “Wasn’t time, was there? Caught ague, was abed with fever, and dead the next day.”

  “What a tragedy for Lord Randolph. He must be devastated.”

  “Well, aye,” the man said, but he sounded doubtful. “The rich do things different, I understand. He left directly after she were buried.” He nodded in the general direction of the house. “She’s right there, across the garden.”

  Freya feigned surprise. “Lady Randolph was buried here?”

  “She were.” The old man leaned closer. “Afore sundown on the same day she died. They say her body were putrid. Rotted as if it were weeks old rather than a day.” He nodded and straightened. “Most like because of her brain sickness.”

  Freya wasn’t sure how madness would make a corpse decay faster, but she wasn’t about to argue. “My!”

  “Would you like to see?” The groundskeeper beamed, and at first Freya had the horrible thought that he was talking about Lady Randolph’s remains.

  Then her common sense reasserted itself. “Oh yes, I’d like to visit her grave and pay my respects.”

  The old man turned without further ado and led her down the shallow slope and to the house.

  Randolph House might not be as large as Lovejoy House, but there was something forbidding about it nonetheless. Perhaps it was the dark reddish brown of the stones used to build it, the color of dried blood. Or maybe it was the small, narrow windows. There could be little light let inside the house, Freya thought. It would be a dark, gloomy place.

  They rounded the corner of the building, stepping through a sadly overgrown cobblestoned yard. No one stirred. The house in fact seemed empty.

  “Are there any staff at the house now?” she called softly to the gamekeeper.

  He shrugged but didn’t turn. “The housekeeper, Mrs. Sprattle, the butler—what is her father, old man Deacon—and a maid or two.”

  Behind his back Freya raised her eyebrows. Most manors had dozens of servants working, even when the master wasn’t in residence. Lord Randolph must be a parsimonious sort of man.

  In the back of the manor was what had once been a formal garden but was now rather sad and messy. To the side was a small stone. Had Freya not been expecting the grave she would’ve entirely overlooked it.

  They walked to it and paused, silently regarding the simple gravestone. Under a crude bas-relief of a skull were the words:

  Here Lieth the Body of

  Eleanor Randolph

  Who left this World April 2, 1759

  May God Grant her Forgiveness

  “Forgiveness for what?” Freya whispered.

  “Her earthly sins?” The gamekeeper shook his head and spit—fortunately not on the grave. “Mayhap she did something in her madness that needs forgiving.”

  “Such as?”

  “Don’t know,” the man said, suddenly looking cagey. “But she’s a restless spirit, she is. Sometimes at dusk, just when the nightjars come out, I’ve heard a wailing.”

  He made a gesture against his side and Freya glanced down.

  His fingers were crossed—an ancient sign in this part of the world. To ward off evil and the devil.

  And witches.

  * * *

  Christopher woke gasping.

  The room was black and he could feel the press of hot, sweating bodies. The stink of urine and wet earth. The sound of panting and moans.

  Then Tess stuck her cold nose in his ear and reality came rushing back.

  Christopher sagged back against the damp sheets, feeling the sweat chilling on his arms and neck. He reached up and stroked Tess’s warm head.

  He ought to order her off the bed, but he hadn’t the heart. She must’ve known he was having another nightmare and crawled up beside him to show her concern.

  She whined as if to agree.

  “It’s all right,” he said to her, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “I’m all right.”

  Tess huffed and nosed his cheek.

  Obviously he hadn’t convinced her. Perhaps because his fingers were trembling.

  God. This was unacceptable. It’d been four years now. He’d returned to England, he’d become a duke, he held power and wealth in the palm of his hand.

  And at night he shook.

  He grimaced and looked at the window. There was a sliver of light peeking from behind the drawn curtains, so it must be morning. Early yet, but he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep again.

  He never could.

  Christopher sat up and Tess jumped off the bed, making it quake. She stood looking hopefully at him.

  “Very well,” he muttered to her, and stood.

  She watched him intently as he shaved with cold water and dressed hastily. Gardiner, his valet, would be most disapproving when he found out his master had readied himself on his own.

  At the moment Christopher didn’t give a damn. He slapped his thigh and strode out the door, Tess eagerly trotting beside him.

  The house was still quiet, except for a few housemaids tiptoeing around with ash buckets. They would be sweeping the grates and lighting fires. A footman showed him the way to a door at the side of the house, and then Tess and he were outside in the brisk morning air.

  Lovejoy H
ouse was surrounded by carefully tended lawns, but Christopher could see a wood beyond and he started toward it.

  As he walked he thought about last night. About Miss Stewart—and that kiss. Her lips had been soft and giving—until she’d bitten his mouth bloody and stolen his ring. How could such a sour woman kiss so sweetly—even when pretending attraction?

  He scoffed to himself. He was a fool to be taken in by her for even so much as a minute. She’d made it clear enough that she had no interest in him as a man and in fact loathed him. She’d only been after his ring.

  The thought made him melancholy.

  Miss Stewart—what was her given name?—had twisted the ring off his finger sometime during their kiss. He’d been so angered by the goddamned bite that he hadn’t noticed for a crucial few minutes that his ring was gone.

  Which had been enough time for her to disappear.

  Was she some sort of thief disguised as a companion? Was that why the bullies in Wapping had been chasing her—because she’d stolen something from them? But he discarded the thought as soon as it came. A thief with any intelligence would hide the theft. Miss Stewart had made no attempt to.

  It was almost as if she were goading him.

  He grimaced as he entered the wood with Tess running ahead.

  In his rage he’d nearly chased Miss Stewart down last night.

  He inhaled and kicked a rock in the path. Something about her prodded him to the very edge of his control as no one—no woman—had ever done before. Her hostility, the excitement of their clashes, his curiosity about what she was doing, something, made him feel as if he were waking from a long, drugged sleep. Opening his eyes wide to the light of her pure passion.

  Thankfully his reason had ruled last night. No point in causing an uproar in the wee hours.

  Besides. He didn’t know which room was hers.

  He snorted now at his own stupidity. That ring—Ran’s ring—was important.

  Tess came running up, her tongue hanging half out of her jaws, panting happily. He absently fondled her ears and she went racing off again.

  Julian had given him the ring on that night at Greycourt. It must’ve fallen off Ran’s hand as he was beaten. Julian had bent down and picked up the ring after the Duke of Windemere’s toughs had dragged Ran away, after the duke had sauntered off, and after Christopher had realized—far too late—what a terrible mistake he’d made. Ran could never have killed Aurelia. Christopher had known that then as he knew it now, but he’d been paralyzed by the sudden violence and the urgent way that Julian had told him not to interfere.