Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “I didn’t need your help.”

  “No? You and the lass and baby would’ve been fine against those bullies had I tossed you from my carriage?”

  Her lip curled. “I can’t think how an animal like you is allowed into polite society.”

  The heat, the weeping, the stink of sweaty bodies. Did she know somehow? How once he’d been reduced to the nearly subhuman?

  He gritted his teeth. “Can’t you?” He bent over her, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle, of home, enraged beyond what the circumstance required. “I’m a duke, while you, madam, are merely a thief.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Give me back my ring,” he growled. “I’ll no longer wait for tonight. Give it to me now or I’ll tell them all.”

  “Never,” she hissed.

  Something within him snapped. Perhaps it was the scent of honeysuckle, perhaps it was the way her soft lips curled in a sneer.

  He took both her upper arms, drawing her so close he could feel the heat of her skin. “You will give me back that ring.”

  “If I were a man, I’d call you out,” Miss Stewart said with complete earnestness. “I’d meet you with swords and gut you.”

  “What a bloodthirsty little thing you are,” he drawled, knowing his indifference would provoke her the more. He was aware that his cock was half-hard. This is madness. “As if you could best me at swords—or any combat, armed or not. You’ve the inflated pride of a child in the nursery.”

  “I’m not a child.” Her glare was full of scorn.

  He let his gaze drop pointedly to her bosom, heaving beneath her fichu and a silly little bouquet of flowers. He cocked his head, slowly appraising her figure. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

  For a moment he thought she might explode, like a dueling piece poorly primed.

  Then she said, low and deadly, “Tomorrow morning. Five of the clock. Name the place.”

  He hauled her against his chest, so close he felt her breath brush his lips. “You want an assignation with me, madam?”

  She ignored his double entendre. Her gaze was direct and fiery. “I want your blood.”

  “For God’s sake.” He sneered.

  “If you can best me at swords, I’ll give you the ring,” she said softly, her voice shaking—though he knew it wasn’t from fear. “If I win, you’ll not ask for it again and you’ll not tell anyone of what happened in London.”

  “Do you really think I’d take up a sword against a woman?”

  “Coward.”

  He let her go, stepping back so suddenly she staggered. He’d wanted to shake her—or fuck her, he wasn’t entirely sure which.

  For a moment they stood there, chests heaving, glaring at each other.

  He should ignore her and her ridiculous goading. Should turn and simply walk away. But he was tired of her insults. She needed to be put in her place.

  And he needed his ring.

  “Very well. But when I win, you will hand over my ring without further ado.” He pulled his lips back in a grin. “I accept your challenge, Miss Stewart.”

  Chapter Six

  Rowan made up her mind to return to the grotto in the forest to see if there was something to explain the change in Marigold.

  But when she arrived it was exactly the same, green and mysterious, echoing with the sound of dripping water and apparently leading nowhere.

  She turned away in disappointment and only then saw a man standing watching her.…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  Late that night Messalina drew on her wrapper to answer a tap at her bedroom door.

  Jane Lovejoy, wearing a gold silk wrapper with butterfly embroidery that Messalina was not at all envious of, slipped into her room.

  Messalina shut the door and turned to see Jane watching her, arms akimbo. “Now what is so secret you couldn’t tell me on the walk to the village today? And why must we meet in the dead of night to talk? You’re quite lucky that Daniel drank so much brandy after dinner—he’s snoring like a fleet of drunken sailors.”

  Messalina winced. “I do apologize—I hadn’t considered how you would explain your absence to Lord Lovejoy.”

  Jane let her militant stance slip. “Yes, well, as it happens it doesn’t matter, so please tell me what is so urgent.”

  “It’s Eleanor Randolph,” Messalina said. “I want to know what happened to her.”

  Jane frowned, slowly sinking into one of the chairs grouped by the fireplace. “What do you mean? Eleanor died last spring.”

  “Yes, I know,” Messalina said, beginning to pace. “But the thing is, how did she die?”

  “I think it was a fever—or at least some illness that took her suddenly.” Jane watched as Messalina turned at the door and walked back across the room. “Why are you so interested now?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.” Messalina glanced quickly at Jane and away. “You know that Eleanor and I were friends? We met when we were eighteen and newly out, you see.”

  For two years she and Eleanor had giggled together and discussed gentlemen and their relative assets until Eleanor had inevitably married Randolph. Inevitably because Eleanor was kind and intelligent, the niece of an earl, and had a very nice dowry. Randolph was a big handsome man, a little older at five and thirty, but very powerful in the House of Lords.

  Since Messalina was the niece of a duke, one might think she’d be married by now as well. But Messalina had been…picky.

  She still was, in fact.

  But that was neither here nor there.

  Messalina drew a breath. “We used to send each other regular letters, Eleanor and I, but it had been several years since I’d actually seen her in London. She wrote that she liked the countryside and found London too wearying.”

  She stopped and looked at Jane’s reaction.

  Jane shrugged and shook her head.

  Messalina grimaced. “I know! It doesn’t seem like much, but the thing you have to know about Eleanor was that she loved to dance. And to go to balls. And shop. When I thought about it, this sudden urge to rusticate seemed…odd.”

  “Well, people do change,” Jane said practically. “When I first married Lord Lovejoy he was the most dreadful prig.” She looked thoughtful. “Actually, he still is. But you wouldn’t believe how much better he’s become—or perhaps I’m more tolerant of his foibles—which is the point. One changes when one marries. In a good marriage, you no longer make decisions on your own—you do it as a partnership. If Lord Randolph liked rusticating, perhaps Eleanor found out how much she enjoyed the country as well—particularly once she had her own house to manage.”

  “Perhaps,” Messalina said reluctantly. “But there’s another thing.” She dropped into the chair next to Jane’s. “You mustn’t tell anyone because I might be simply mad.”

  Jane nodded encouragingly.

  Messalina took a deep breath. “In the last letter she wrote me, Eleanor said she was going to leave Lord Randolph.”

  Jane blinked. “Leave as in…?”

  “Leave as in cause a huge scandal. She asked if she could seek refuge with me and I replied that of course she could, but I wasn’t sure for how long. It’s Uncle Augustus, you see. We might not live with him, Lucretia and I, but we’re rather beholden to him.” Messalina delicately chose each word to describe her relationship to the man she knew to be the devil. “If he took a dislike to Eleanor, or-or disapproved of her running away from her husband, he could make things very difficult for all concerned.”

  Which of course was a great understatement. Dear Uncle Augustus was capable of much worse than merely causing difficulty.

  Fortunately Jane didn’t seem to notice Messalina’s unease in regard to Uncle Augustus. She merely asked, “What did Eleanor reply?”

  “She didn’t,” Messalina said. “She died a fortnight later.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Jane said with awful gentleness, “I realize her death was a shock to you, but might your worry that her death was unnatural simply
be, well, guilt that you weren’t able to offer her permanent refuge?”

  Messalina’s eyes welled up all of a sudden, which was most annoying and really not at all helpful. Of course she’d considered that her disquiet over Eleanor’s fate was merely her own guilty conscience. She’d even—horribly—thought it was possible that her own letter informing Eleanor that she had no place to run to permanently might’ve led her to take her own life.

  “The thing is,” she told Jane now, resuming her pacing, “I did think about that. I thought about it for months, and I eventually decided that it was all my imagination. That Eleanor was dead and I merely felt grief and guilt about her passing.”

  “Then why are you here?” Jane asked.

  Messalina halted at the far end of the room and turned. “Last month I saw Elliot Randolph at a ball. I hadn’t seen him since the news of Eleanor’s death, so I went to him to offer my condolences.” She inhaled, remembering that cold face, emotionless, inhuman—or nearly so. “He looked at me and smiled. I knew in that instant. I knew without doubt.”

  “Knew what?” Jane asked.

  “Lord Randolph murdered Eleanor.” She met Jane’s wide eyes. “I have no evidence—he said nothing at all suspicious—but the look he gave me was…was…monstrous, Jane. He was gleeful, I could tell. What’s more, I’m sure he let me know. He thinks that there’s nothing I can do about her death. That Eleanor is dead and he’s won.”

  “But even if your suspicion is true—and you must know it’s very far-fetched, my dear—what can you do?” Jane asked, her brows knit. “It’s been a year. Eleanor is buried.”

  “I know.” Messalina came and knelt before her friend, grasping her hands. “I know it will be difficult, but I want to know what really happened to Eleanor. And I need your help to do it. I’m a stranger in these parts, but you aren’t. People will talk to you as they might not to me. Will you help me find out if Eleanor was murdered by her husband?”

  “Yes.” Jane straightened her shoulders. “Yes, I will.”

  * * *

  They’d decided on the well house clearing. Even as Christopher made his way through the gloomy woods to their rendezvous the next morning he knew that this was a mistake. There was no way that Miss Stewart—short, delicate, and female—could best him in a sword fight. The very fact that she thought she could was evidence that she was mad.

  She was a woman ruled by her emotions—as all women were supposed to be. Many men thought women little more than children who must be guided and guarded.

  Except that he didn’t believe women were such base creatures. Certainly Miss Stewart wasn’t. She seemed perfectly intelligent and not particularly emotional—except when it came to him.

  Were he a simple man he might think her explosive anger merely a symptom of sexual attraction to a man she didn’t like.

  He wasn’t a simple man, though.

  He was a man who had lived among strangers in a strange land for nearly half his life. He’d long ago learned not to believe what was only on the surface.

  The best he could hope for was that he’d beat her quickly and regain his ring. If he did so she’d merely hate him even more than she did already.

  The worst possibility was that she’d somehow hurt herself during their so-called duel.

  He was scowling over that thought when he walked around the last turn and saw her already waiting for him.

  Tess took off galloping toward Miss Stewart as if the woman were the dog’s long-lost friend.

  Stupid animal.

  She looked down at Tess and smiled.

  A bright, beautiful, easy smile, and he was struck with jealousy.

  For his own dog.

  She glanced over the dog’s head—she was fondling Tess’s ears—and the smile disappeared at the sight of him.

  He refused to be disappointed.

  “Do you still mean to go through with this, madam?” he asked, unwrapping the swords he’d brought with him.

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  Of course. Christopher decided he would beat her as swiftly as possible so as not to prolong her humiliation.

  Were she not so stubborn, he’d let her decline gracefully and find another way to retrieve his ring. But he knew her well enough by now to know she would not back down.

  Therefore, best to get it over with.

  He placed both swords over his forearm, the hilts toward her, so she could choose her weapon.

  She stepped forward and examined them carefully before picking the slightly shorter one. The one a smaller, weaker swordsman—or woman—would be better able to handle.

  That was his first hint.

  She swept the sword through the air and then brought it before her and looked at him. “Ready?”

  He nodded. “Call it.”

  “En garde!”

  His second hint was when her sword nearly took his nose off.

  Jesus.

  He leaped back. Thrust his sword before him to block her next attack. He watched how she moved as he defended.

  Perhaps Miss Stewart wasn’t insane after all.

  She fought like someone familiar with a sword.

  She fought like a woman who might very well best him.

  Her sword sang as it scraped along his. She disengaged before their swords could catch.

  Pivoted.

  Bared her teeth and went for his belly.

  Christopher wheeled back, barely bringing his own sword up in time.

  Her face was set and determined—too determined. She truly wanted to beat him.

  Perhaps kill him.

  Why?

  He had no intention of wounding her. He’d meant to simply disarm her. Teach her a lesson about better reach and stronger muscle.

  But agility and better skill also came into play—unfortunately.

  He was a fool to ever have agreed to this.

  She darted at him, her sword flashing, her eyes intent and furious.

  He turned away a stab meant for his shoulder. Stepped into her next attack.

  And was rewarded with a pink to his left arm.

  “Bloody hell!”

  She flashed him a triumphant grin.

  He blinked.

  There was something familiar in that grin.

  She lunged for him.

  Forcing him to dodge.

  He circled her.

  She whirled to follow, and her cap fell from her head.

  “Stop this,” he commanded.

  “Not good enough?” she mocked, trying to impale him, the wildcat. “Perhaps you prefer to stand aside and let others do your gory work.”

  He stared, confused. Aroused. “What?”

  Her gaze was almost feverish. Her hair coming down about her shoulders. “You’re a coward who orders others to beat a man nearly to death.”

  She lunged again, past his guard, the tip of her sword at his throat. He felt the needle prick of pain.

  She stood, panting, her hair wild about her shoulders. Her red hair—not dusty brown at all. Red, fiery curls, waving in the breeze as if they had a life of their own, and he saw her as if for the first time.

  “Yield,” she demanded, an avenging fury.

  His world tipped upside down. “Freya?”

  Her eyes widened.

  He knocked her sword tip away from his throat. Caught her wrist and twisted.

  She yelped and dropped her sword.

  Her lips parted—most likely to curse him.

  He didn’t care anymore. He yanked her into his arms and kissed her.

  She opened her mouth to him. Teeth clashing, lips snarling together. Anything but yielding.

  Freya.

  How could this be? That slim girl, running wild over hills so long ago, her flaming hair a banner. This woman, voluptuous and furious, her hair still a flaming banner.

  He thrust his tongue into her mouth, confused and angry. How had this happened? Why was she here?

  But those thoughts melted away as he explored h
er hot mouth, felt her hands clench in his hair, pulling him closer.

  Freya.

  Her passion was exhilarating. He wanted to strip this drab gown from her body. Find out how plush her breasts really were. If her sweet hips would cradle him.

  He caught her glorious hair and held her, taunting her tongue. Licking at her teeth.

  Drinking her—Freya—memory and reality.

  He felt a change in her body, a stiffening of her shoulders as her hands left his hair, and he broke the kiss just in time. Her teeth clicked together on the bite she’d meant for his lip.

  “Why are you here?” he rasped. He was still hard, despite her effort to bloody him more.

  “Why shouldn’t I be here, Kester?” she mocked.

  No one had called him that in…

  Fifteen years.

  It had been a nickname—a shortening of Christopher—that Ran and Julian had given him. Kester had meant friendship, warmth, Scotland. A place where he could relax from the constant pressure to be correct that his father put on him.

  Where he could be himself without apology.

  He was almost brought to his knees by longing.

  But he wouldn’t let himself show weakness. “You know what I’m asking. Why are you working as a chaperone? You’re the daughter of a duke.”

  “And the sister of one,” she growled, low. “Have you completely forgotten Ran?”

  He inhaled, letting her go. “I could never forget Ran.”

  “No?” She bent for her sword where he’d dropped it at their feet.

  He stepped on the blade.

  She straightened, glaring. “He lost his hand, did you know that? Gangrene set into the wounds and they had to amputate.”

  “I…” He swallowed, remembering when he’d heard that ghastly fact. A stranger in a tavern had mentioned it. He’d had to walk outside to cast up his accounts. “I didn’t know until I returned to England.”

  “He’s crippled,” she whispered as harshly as a shout. “It was his right hand. He can’t draw, can’t write. Can you imagine that? Ran unable to draw?”

  He felt ill. Ran, tall, whip-thin Ran, laughing as he sketched comic faces. Frowning as he drew glorious trees and mountains. “Oh God.”