Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Plimpton had already put him in a foul mood. Now to find Freya spying on him was too much.

  She reviled him and withheld her forgiveness for his admitted sins and yet he could not stop thinking of her. The revelation of who she truly was—a link to his youth—had made him vulnerable somehow. Vulnerable to her. When he walked into a room he knew where she was without looking. She glowed, a fire, burning brightly, luring him closer, appearing to offer him peace.

  Peace he would never have. She was not for him, she’d made that clear.

  He turned her to face him. The moonlight cast her in shades of gray, almost otherworldly.

  But she was a real woman, her arms warm beneath his hands, her eyes sparking irritation at him, her mouth twisting down.

  “You drive me mad, little thief,” he whispered, and gave in to the constant, terrible temptation.

  He kissed her.

  He was prepared to be shoved away, but instead her lips parted beneath his. It might be an aberration. She might remember in seconds that she hated him.

  But in the meantime, he’d take what she offered.

  His tongue slid into her mouth, the scent of honeysuckle heady in his nostrils. When she spoke her tongue held only bitterness and bile, but when she kissed she tasted of honey and rare wine.

  Sweet.

  Unattainable.

  He slanted his mouth over hers, changing the angle, holding her close, so close. She stood on tiptoe and pressed against him and he rejoiced.

  Eager. Wanton. Open.

  Oh God, if only.

  He’d lived so long alone, wandering a foreign desert of solitude, barren of friendship or comfort.

  Her breasts were heavy against him and he wanted to tear that ugly cap from her head, let down her glorious hair, and bury his face in it.

  She was memory. Family. Love.

  She was home.

  He groaned aloud and murmured, “Freya.”

  She pulled away immediately, breaking their embrace and the spell.

  He opened his hands and let her go.

  She took a step back, looking grave and remote now. “Don’t call me that.”

  He stared at her, trying to read her expression. “Why not?”

  “You know why,” she said, her voice cold. “No one knows my name here.”

  He raised his eyebrows, a flash of irritation making his voice sharp. “Not even Messalina?”

  She frowned and glanced away. “Of course Messalina knows me. But we haven’t spoken since that night at Greycourt.”

  He cocked his head, confused. “Then how—”

  “I just know,” she said, quite obscurely. She must’ve seen the skepticism in his face because she sighed heavily and expanded. “It’s in the way she looks at me. She knows who I am and she knows that I don’t wish others to know.”

  How Freya could tell all that from a simple look was beyond him, but women did seem to communicate in a nearly fey way at times.

  Her words reminded him of something else that had been bothering him since he’d discovered who she truly was. “What are you hiding, F—”

  The sound she made was nearly a growl.

  He caught himself and said precisely, “Miss Stewart. Why do you not talk to Messalina?”

  She closed her eyes as if in pain. “You know why. You know what her brother, Julian, did.”

  “Her brother, not she.” Christopher frowned, wishing he could see her better. “You cannot blame Messalina for what happened. She was a child, the same as you. Julian, me, the Duke of Windemere, even Ran himself, we are to blame for the tragedy.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him sadly. “That might be, but nevertheless the lines were drawn between our families, and we found ourselves on opposite sides.”

  “But you don’t have to be on opposite sides.” She started to protest, but he pulled her close. “No, listen. Hurl invectives and abuse at me—or never speak to me again—but do not take your anger and pain out on Messalina. She is just as innocent as you.”

  “You do not order me,” she hissed, as dangerous as any cornered wildcat.

  “I know I don’t,” he whispered, running his hands soothingly over her arms. “But I can plead her case to you.”

  She was breathing hard, her breasts pressing into his chest. She yanked away her arms and he forced himself to open his hands.

  To let her go.

  She stepped back, staring at him, her eyes made black by the moonlight.

  Then turned and walked swiftly back to the house.

  He didn’t follow.

  Christopher threw back his head and gazed sightlessly at the stars. Why did she bother him so? Perhaps it was because after he’d grown inured to the prospect of spending the rest of his life alone, an alien in his own land, she’d reminded him of all he’d lost.

  Family.

  Friendship.

  Home.

  He shook his head. Freya might smell of Scotland, her red hair might remind him of a girl, long ago, running over heathered hills, but she was not that girl anymore.

  What he thought he saw in her was an illusion.

  And he was just as much alone tonight as he had been last month. Or last year. Or a decade ago.

  Or, for that matter, as alone as he would be decades hence.

  He’d sinned and he was an outcast.

  Now and forever.

  Tess nudged his hand and he looked down.

  She was sitting, her head cocked to the side, gazing up at him. All the canine love in the world was in her eyes.

  He smiled and caressed her head, then snapped his fingers for her to follow as he walked toward the house.

  But as he did so, he couldn’t help but notice that the taste of wine and honey lingered on his lips.

  * * *

  Freya stood by a table holding the ugliest mock china vase she’d ever seen. The ballroom was stuffy—heated with a roaring fire and dancing bodies. The hired musicians were playing, and couples bobbed on the floor in a line. No one had noticed when she’d slipped back into the room. Her dress was straight, her hair neat.

  She might never have kissed Kester Renshaw. Never have felt her blood rise in his arms.

  Except for the way she had to control her breath, the dampness between her breasts, the thud of her heart.

  She watched the dancers and wondered why she hadn’t shoved him away. She despised the man and yet she’d yielded to his embrace almost at once.

  And she’d do it again if he kissed her.

  She glanced down and saw that her hand was trembling. What was wrong with her?

  The doors to the garden opened and Harlowe strolled back inside, Tess trailing behind.

  She hastily looked away.

  Messalina was laughing at something Lord Rookewoode was whispering in her ear as they danced. Arabella was smiling at her mother as they stood at the far side of the room with Lady Lovejoy, but her gaze was fixed on Messalina and the earl. Mr. Lovejoy danced with Regina while Lucretia did her duty with Lord Lovejoy.

  Suddenly Freya felt weary. It had been years since she’d seen her family. Since she’d wandered the Scottish hills. Since someone looked at her and knew her.

  Truly knew her.

  The music came to an end and the dancers bowed and curtsied to each other. The Earl of Rookewoode murmured something and Messalina’s peal of laughter rang out over the ballroom.

  When Freya had overheard Messalina in the garden, she had been talking about an Eleanor with Lady Lovejoy. Lady Randolph’s Christian name was Eleanor.

  Could Messalina possibly know something about Lady Randolph’s death?

  Freya felt her lips twist. She’d been estranged from Messalina for years, had thought that Messalina would naturally take her brother Julian’s side in the matter. That Messalina was and always would be her enemy.

  But what if Harlowe was right?

  What if Freya had it all wrong and Messalina was just as much a bystander as she? To snub the other woman because of her f
amily seemed all of a sudden childish and foolish.

  And yet, having gone all these years without talking to Messalina, how was she to break her silence now?

  Lady Holland looked up and gestured to Freya.

  She nodded and made her way across the room. “My lady?”

  “I’d like to show Lady Lovejoy that rather unusual embroidery design you’ve been working on, Miss Stewart,” Lady Holland said. “Would you mind fetching it for me?”

  “Not at all, my lady.” Freya smiled politely and turned to the door. She was glad, truth be told, to have a respite from the stifling ballroom.

  She stepped into the corridor, sighing with relief at the cooler air.

  She hurried upstairs to her room, found her embroidery bag right away, and returned downstairs. She had just passed the library and was almost to the ballroom when the door to a retiring room opened and Messalina stepped into the hallway directly in front of her.

  Freya stopped.

  Messalina stared at her with wide gray eyes.

  Freya inhaled and made to step around her.

  “Freya.” Messalina’s voice sounded loud in the hallway.

  Freya moved without thinking, placing her fingers on Messalina’s mouth. “Hush! Don’t call me that.”

  Had there been anyone in the library? She glanced behind them, listening for any voices, any movement.

  All she heard were the distant sounds of the ball.

  Messalina pried Freya’s fingers away from her mouth, an irritated look in her eyes. “Miss Stewart, then, though I find it ridiculous that you’ve decided to hide under a false name.”

  Freya’s eyes widened. “I…” She winced. Only minutes before she’d been thinking of Messalina and how she might reestablish contact. Here was an opportunity handed her on a platter, but she didn’t know what exactly to say.

  How did one ask to be friends again after fifteen years?

  She looked at Messalina, patiently waiting for her reply, the hopeful light in her eyes nearly hidden, and blurted, “Oh bother. I need to talk to you.”

  “Really?” Messalina asked, looking delighted, and then continued without waiting for Freya’s answer. “Good. I thought you’d never come to this point.”

  Freya could feel heat rise in her cheeks. “But not here.”

  “Tonight, then,” Messalina said.

  Freya was already shaking her head. “Lady Holland will want to discuss the ball in her rooms later.”

  “Then tomorrow night,” Messalina said.

  Voices came from the direction of the ballroom.

  Freya darted a quick glance behind them. Someone was coming.

  She blurted without giving herself time to think. “Yes. Tomorrow night.”

  She turned, but Messalina grabbed her arm. “Where?”

  “Your rooms,” Freya whispered hoarsely, pulling her arm from Messalina’s grip. “I’ll come to your rooms.”

  Freya flashed a grin at her and turned and hurried away, her heart suddenly singing.

  * * *

  It was nearly six of the clock the next afternoon when Christopher rode into the courtyard at Lovejoy House feeling irritable that he had to wait until later tonight to settle with Plimpton.

  Christopher had spent the afternoon with the gentlemen of the house party touring the countryside on horseback. Normally he would’ve enjoyed the ride, but today it had been a rather boring exercise. At least Tess had delighted in the jaunt. She was sniffing alertly about the stable now as if she hadn’t spent the day running.

  He dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to a stable lad. He had to consciously refrain from running up the steps and into the house. Plimpton had begged off the ride this morning by pleading a headache—he’d hinted at too much drink the night before. But Christopher had been suspicious the entire day that the man was simply avoiding him.

  Christopher had to suffer through nearly a half hour more of social niceties until he could escape. He turned to the house, calling for Tess, but she’d found something in the stables—most likely a rat—and was pretending deafness.

  He shook his head and left her to her sport.

  Once he was done with Plimpton he could leave this damned house party.

  Leave Freya and all she represented.

  He paused at the top of the stairs, closing his eyes and tipping back his head to inhale. He’d been reconciled to his life. Reconciled to being alone and without a family. Reconciled to never feeling completely at ease.

  And then Freya had burst into his life, set fire to his apathy, and burned everything he thought he knew down around him.

  He wanted. Home. Family. Familiarity.

  Freya.

  That was the most ridiculous thing of all: he wanted her as a woman. She spit hatred at him with soft lips and at the same time gazed at him with those green-gold eyes as if he meant something. As if she might want him.

  As if he might win her and find respite.

  And it was all illusion.

  A man could go mad longing for a woman just out of the reach of his fingertips. That was why he needed to leave this bloody house.

  Christopher shook himself and strode to his room.

  He found Gardiner, his valet, waiting for him there with a hot bath and a change of clothes.

  Christopher scrubbed himself vigorously, splashing the water and dunking his head. It was a relief to rid himself of the sweat and dust.

  He dried himself and Gardiner helped him into a fresh shirt and suit and then Christopher waved him off.

  The hell with waiting, he needed to confront Plimpton now.

  The man had put him off too long. The thought made him angry enough that when he turned the corner into the main corridor he was scowling.

  A boy was lingering in the passage, and at Christopher’s advance his expression changed from uncertain to cowed.

  Still he got up the courage to call out. “Your Grace?”

  Christopher paused. “Yes?”

  The boy gulped. “You’re the Duke o’ Harlowe?”

  “Yes.” Christopher looked at the boy impatiently.

  “For you, Your Grace.” The boy thrust out a simply folded piece of paper, sealed with a blob of wax.

  Christopher took the letter, and the minute he did, the boy hurried away.

  Christopher raised his eyebrows and then tore the note open.

  I have what you want. Meet me in the well house at seven of the clock with the money.

  He turned it over, but the back of the page was blank. Of course there could be no doubt as to who had sent the note.

  As he wondered what time it might be, a clock nearby started tolling and Christopher swore under his breath.

  It was already seven of the clock.

  He swiftly took to the stairs. Plimpton might want his money, but Christopher had no intention of giving it over until he had the letters—all the letters—in hand.

  He strode to the side door and went out, making for the wood at the edge of the lawn.

  Inside the trees it was dark and silent. The place had an odd feel to it, as if time had stopped or did not matter here. He realized suddenly that he’d forgotten Tess in the stables. Damn it. Still. She should be fine there for an hour or two—the grooms all knew who she was.

  Behind him something rustled.

  He turned, expecting Tess to come bounding up.

  But nothing moved.

  Christopher turned back to the path, grimly intent. If Plimpton thought to enact some sort of ambush he was going to be very sorry indeed.

  Another ten minutes’ walk and the path wound around a large tree and then revealed the little well house.

  The door was standing open.

  “Plimpton?” Christopher paused, eyes narrowed, but didn’t hear a reply.

  Was the man playing hide-and-seek?

  “Plimpton!” His shout was swallowed by the trees.

  Ducking his head, Christopher stepped into the well house.

  God, it was s
mall. And dark.

  He shuddered all over like a horse and immediately had to fight the impulse to back out again.

  Plimpton wasn’t here. He could see that right away. Perhaps he’d wait in the clearing outside.

  Behind him, someone stumbled into the chamber.

  He whirled.

  A woman with a man’s neckcloth wound around her eyes crashed into him. Instinctively he caught her and snatched the neckcloth off.

  He had only a moment to glimpse Freya staring up at him with wide eyes.

  And then the door slammed shut.

  Chapter Eight

  “What do you mean?” Rowan cried.

  “The King of the Fairies has stolen the lady Marigold away to the Grey Lands,” said Ash, “and left a changeling elf in her stead.”

  “But how can she return?” Rowan asked.

  Ash laughed. “She cannot. A mortal would have to journey to the Grey Lands and ask the Fairy King to let her go, but that’s dangerous and quite impossible besides.”

  “But you could take me there, I think,” Rowan said.…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  Freya froze as the well house was plunged into darkness, compounding her disorientation from the cloth that had been over her eyes.

  There was a shout. She was shoved aside, and then there was a frantic pounding at the door.

  Growling and pounding at the door.

  She found herself ducking, her hands over her head as if she were afraid the next blow would land on her. The racket was terrific, making it hard to think.

  Harlowe had caught her when she’d been pushed into the well house. She’d seen his face when he pulled the cloth from her head. The banging and growling—that must be Harlowe. He sounded like a wild beast driven out of his mind, bigger and stronger than she, and dangerous.

  Her instinct was to cringe away.

  What had happened to him? Was he hurt or somehow out of his mind? But he’d seemed perfectly fine—if angry—in that brief glimpse she’d had of his face.

  Before they’d been shut in darkness.

  Surely…?

  She shook herself. It hardly mattered why he was like this. She had to stop him somehow.