Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “Mmm.” Messalina didn’t bother looking up. She simply lay and listened to her sister’s retreating footsteps.

  They needed to get Eleanor out of that wretched cellar as soon as was humanly possible. Lord knew what state she must be in after a year locked up. Lord Randolph really was the devil.

  Messalina jumped up from the bench. She needed to consult with Freya—surely she was more experienced with freeing imprisoned ladies than Messalina was.

  She took one of the paths along the outer edge of the garden, admiring the roses in full bloom as she passed.

  She turned the corner and halted. Ahead, at the side of the path, was a bench, and on the bench sat a man. He was dressed neatly all in black. He had sleepy black eyes above sharp cheekbones, and despite a thin white scar under his left eye he would’ve been handsome had it not been for his eyebrows. They came to a sharp point above his eyes, making him look decidedly satanic.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Hawthorne?” Messalina asked sharply.

  He rose gracefully, his full, wicked mouth curved at each corner.

  As if he were laughing at her.

  Still, Gideon Hawthorne’s voice was grave when he answered, “Whyever shouldn’t I be here, Miss Greycourt?”

  His accent was perfect, as if he’d been raised in wealth and privilege, though she suspected he hadn’t.

  “You’re spying on me.” She fought to keep the fear from her voice.

  “Perhaps.”

  “You can tell my uncle that I resent this constant surveillance by his creature,” she spit.

  His face went blank for a split second before resuming its previously calm expression. He tilted his head to the side, looking like a curious rook. “He only wishes to keep you safe.”

  “We both know that’s a lie,” she said forcefully. “My uncle cares for no one but himself. Go away.”

  Messalina didn’t wait for his rejoinder. She turned and walked rapidly toward the house. She could feel her heart beating—too quickly, too lightly, and she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

  Damn Gideon Hawthorne and her uncle.

  She made the terrace, and it was a battle not to turn.

  To see if he was behind her like some horrid childhood monster.

  She opened the door to the house and went in, shutting it firmly. Then she sank into a chair, her head in her hand.

  Had he followed them here? Why?

  “Messalina?”

  She jerked upright.

  Freya stood in front of her, looking concerned.

  Messalina cleared her throat. “Yes?”

  Freya eyed her intently. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” Messalina rose and busily smoothed down her skirts. “Actually, I’m glad to see you. I wanted to talk to you about Eleanor.” Her eyes widened. “But aren’t you supposed to be playing lawn games?”

  Freya smiled. “Lady Holland sent me in for her shawl.”

  “Then I’ll accompany you upstairs,” Messalina decided.

  They turned toward the stairs.

  “Where is Lucretia?” Freya asked.

  “She’s probably returned to her bed,” Messalina replied. “My sister is the laziest thing you’ve ever seen.”

  Freya’s lips twitched in that manner she’d had ever since they were eleven. “Even lazier than Quintus?”

  Messalina snorted in a quite unfortunate way. “Do you remember when we sneaked into his room and tickled his nose with a feather?” They’d been very bored that summer, and Quintus with his high rages had always been too tempting.

  Freya grinned. “I remember he jumped up roaring and chased us through the house. I was never so scared.”

  “You were giggling the entire time!”

  “I was.” Freya looked down, her smile dying as they mounted the stairs. “How is he? Quintus?”

  “He’s well.” She glanced up at Freya and then away. Quintus had spent a year in outbursts of nearly homicidal rage after Aurelia’s death and then become very quiet. Truly she had no idea how he was—she could no longer tell. She said awkwardly, “It was hard for him—for all of us—when Aurelia died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Freya said, taking her arm and bumping her shoulder companionably. “It must’ve been awful.”

  Messalina felt tears start in her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Freya nodded. She turned to the remaining stairs. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Messalina blotted her eyes with a handkerchief. “Yes?”

  “Do you think Jane could invite Lord Randolph to supper tomorrow night?” Freya asked slowly.

  “As far as I know they’re on amicable terms,” Messalina replied, suddenly alert.

  “Good,” Freya said grimly. “Then I propose you and I rescue Eleanor tomorrow night.”

  * * *

  Freya headed for the sitting room before supper that night. The thought of seeing Harlowe again after the gentlemen had been away all day made something spark in her chest. She’d missed him.

  She caught herself on the thought. When had she begun noticing Harlowe’s absences?

  More, when had she begun to rely on his presence to lift her mood? Surely this wasn’t healthy or good, this sort of feverish joy? She couldn’t make a clear decision about marriage to Harlowe with this warm feeling zinging through her veins.

  It was almost as if she’d drunk too much brandy, and she certainly would not make an important decision if she’d done that.

  And then she realized that she had started seriously thinking of marriage to Harlowe. Despite the fear of losing herself and her autonomy.

  Despite her family and the Wise Women.

  Perhaps she was drunk on lust.

  By the time Freya halted at the door to the sitting room, she was quite peeved with herself.

  She scanned the room and went to sit by Lady Holland. “My lady.”

  “There you are, Miss Stewart,” her employer said rather absently.

  Freya followed Lady Holland’s gaze to Arabella, sitting next to Lord Rookewoode, their heads close together. Arabella was giggling while the earl looked at her through his eyelashes, amusement plain on his face.

  Her brows rose. “That seems to be going well.”

  “Hm,” Lady Holland hummed noncommittally.

  Freya darted a quick glance at her. “No?”

  “What?” The older lady glanced at her, and her eyes seemed to clear of her internal thoughts. “Oh, don’t mind me. One should not make plans for one’s children,” she said somewhat obscurely. “They never turn out as one thinks they should.”

  Freya was still wondering about that comment when a figure in the corner caught her eye.

  Lord Stanhope was staring at her quite malevolently.

  Freya looked away. “Where is Regina?”

  Lady Holland sighed. “Abed. I fear she’s pining for Mr. Trentworth.” Her gaze drifted back to Arabella, who was laughing softly over something the earl had said.

  Freya studied her employer for a moment and then said, against her better judgment, “You are her mother, my lady. If you truly disapprove of the earl, couldn’t you simply forbid that she see him?”

  Lady Holland laughed wryly. “On what grounds? That he’s too rich, too well born, too handsome, and too likable?” She shook her head, sobering. “No, that would only make him more appealing to her, I think. And to tell her the truth of the matter—that I think he’s not well matched to her—would break her heart. I’ll not do such a thing to my Arabella.”

  Freya knit her brows and said slowly, “You’ve mentioned nothing unacceptable about Lord Rookewoode. In fact you list only his good traits. Forgive me, but I don’t see why this would be a bad match.”

  “Don’t you?” Lady Holland smiled a little sadly. “Perhaps I’m seeing future sorrow where there will be none, but tell me: Do you think the earl loves my daughter?”

  Freya blinked. In all her many years witnessing English society and matchmaking, she’d never heard the word love.r />
  She turned to watch the couple. Lord Rookewoode really was very elegant, wearing the latest style, lace at his wrists and throat. His smile was quick and a little cynical. One had the feeling that he was almost too charming. But he looked at Arabella with a gentle expression, leaning closer to hear what she said to him.

  “He obviously values her opinion,” Freya replied. “Look how he listens to her. I’m not sure if one can diagnose love from afar, but he’s quite obviously fond of her.”

  Lady Holland nodded. “He’s fond of her, but I think my Arabella loves him.”

  “Isn’t that to be desired?” Freya asked, puzzled. “If Arabella loves Lord Rookewoode, then she should be very happy to marry him.”

  “Ah, but marriage isn’t only one day—or even one week,” Lady Holland said. “It’s years and years of living with the same person, discovering their habits and possibly being disappointed by their more human foibles. If one doesn’t have deep and abiding love to see one through marriage, I think there’s the danger of eventually feeling contempt for one’s spouse.”

  “Surely not.”

  Lady Holland turned to her with a sad smile. “You’re a romantic, Miss Stewart. I assure you that I’ve seen many a marriage falter in later years, the partners becoming more and more cruel to each other. Or worse, ignoring one another.”

  “But,” Freya objected, “you’ve said you think Arabella in love with the earl.”

  “Yes, and I said I think the earl is fond of Arabella.” She looked at Freya. “Fondness isn’t love.”

  Lady Holland thought a marriage between her daughter and Lord Rookewoode would inevitably deteriorate—because he didn’t love Arabella. Freya frowned at the couple. But Lady Holland might be wrong. Perhaps Lord Rookewoode would discover Arabella’s wit and kindness. Perhaps his affection would turn to love during a marriage. That would be a wonderful fairy tale.

  Freya didn’t believe in fairy tales.

  Arabella was such a sensitive woman. She seemed to experience everything—joy, grief, rage—more deeply. If Lady Holland was right, this had the makings of something awful.

  Beside her, Lady Holland inhaled sharply.

  Freya looked up, expecting her eyes to be on Arabella.

  But it was Viscount Stanhope who stalked toward them, an oddly triumphant expression on his face.

  He stopped right in front of Freya and said with clear satisfaction, “Witch.”

  * * *

  Christopher paused in the doorway to the sitting room, startled by the accusation Stanhope had spit at Freya.

  Witch.

  Dear God. Stanhope must be the Dunkelder—the man who wanted to burn his Freya.

  Christopher glanced at Freya. She’d gone entirely blank.

  Damn the man. How dare he accuse her of bloody witchcraft?

  “What are you babbling about, Stanhope?” he demanded, stalking across the sitting room.

  Stanhope was staring steadily at Freya, his eyes wide, a rather eerie smile on his face. “I’m talking about witches, Your Grace. Those who traffic with the devil. Who engage in foul rites in order to gain power over their fellow females—or males. Witches must be questioned, tried, and burned.” He licked his lips. “This witch needs to be burned.”

  “Nonsense,” Christopher growled.

  “Is it?” Stanhope’s large brown eyes were suddenly sardonic when he looked at Christopher. “But then a man beguiled hardly makes the best judge.”

  Lady Holland sighed as if their argument was a tedious waste of her time. “What makes you think that my companion is a”—her lip curled ever so slightly—“witch?”

  “I have knowledge of her past,” Stanhope cried, so loud that Lady Holland recoiled from him. “She is from a family that is well known for witchcraft. Her own aunt was declared a witch and escaped burning only by the vilest sorcery. Look at her hair.” He darted forward and snatched the cap from Freya’s head, revealing her red hair. “They all have hair of such a vile color in that family.”

  “What madness!” Lady Holland’s face was ruddy and she sounded outraged. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re charging my companion with witchcraft because her hair is red?”

  Freya had gone white as a bone. She stood from her chair and faced Stanhope, her expression calm. “I’m not a witch.”

  “Of course you’re not a witch,” Lady Holland exclaimed under her breath. “Silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I think you need to apologize to the lady,” Christopher said, looking around the room. Most of the guests were curious, or startled, or eager for spectacle, but Lord Lovejoy was eyeing Freya with something close to alarm. Christopher raised his voice. “No person of sense believes in witches or witchcraft. You’re either drunk, Stanhope, or you’ve overheated your brain in the sun this afternoon.”

  The viscount’s lips were thin and bloodless. “By taking her part you reveal yourself as an ally to the devil. Beware, Your Grace. Wealth and rank will not defend you against the angels and their just revenge. You, too, will feel the fires of hell burning your flesh.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Christopher took a step toward the other man, looming over him. “Leave the room, Stanhope, before I make you.”

  Stanhope sneered, but his eyes had widened in what looked like alarm. He turned and hurried from the sitting room.

  “What a terrible man,” Lady Lovejoy exclaimed.

  “Yes, but why would he think Miss Stewart a witch?” Lord Lovejoy asked, staring at Freya with a hint of suspicion.

  Christopher scowled and opened his mouth, but Lord Rookewoode beat him to it.

  “Because he’s obviously insane,” the earl drawled. “Imagine believing in witches in this day and age.”

  Lord Lovejoy frowned. “But what of the new Witch Act? There are those in Parliament who obviously find witches quite concerning.”

  The earl sighed heavily. “Despite my esteemed colleagues in the Lords, we live in an age of reason. Only the most unsophisticated would fall prey to primitive superstitions.”

  Rookewoode caught Christopher’s eye and nodded subtly.

  Christopher felt a sudden wash of gratitude toward the man. He nodded back in thanks.

  “I for one hope that act never passes,” Lady Lovejoy said quietly. She looked at her husband. “Far too many were harmed in the witch hunts of the past.”

  Lord Lovejoy looked uncertain.

  “Well,” Aloysius Lovejoy said brightly. “I’m famished. Time for supper, what?”

  “And that is why I love you, dear Aloysius,” Rookewoode drawled. “Nothing comes between you and your stomach.”

  Christopher felt his shoulders relax fractionally. Stanhope was a definite threat to Freya—who knew what a fanatic might do?—but at least the remainder of the party didn’t seem to side with the man.

  He bowed to Lady Holland. “Might I escort your companion into the dining room, my lady?”

  “Please,” Lady Holland responded.

  Christopher crossed to Freya and held out his arm, watching her closely. Her face was pale and her mouth thinned and tense, but she was beginning to regain some color.

  She gave him a tiny smile and laid her hand on his arm.

  The small gesture shouldn’t have made his entire body warm, but it did.

  He escorted her into the dining room and damned all propriety by seating Freya at his right side. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight until he figured out what to do with Stanhope.

  Supper was roasted grouse—the game the gentlemen had shot earlier in the day—and was very good, which seemed to go a long way toward relaxing the company after the altercation in the sitting room.

  Christopher sipped his wine before he said to Freya, keeping his voice low, “Stanhope is the witch hunter you told me about.”

  There wasn’t much doubt in his mind, but he still felt alarm when she inclined her head.

  “Will he try to hurt you?”

  “That is what Dunkelders do,” she said with
far too much serenity. She must’ve sensed his outrage, for she went on, “You needn’t worry about me. I’ve run across Dunkelders before.”

  “Have you,” he growled, feeling violent.

  She drew her brows together, glancing at him warily. “Yes, I have. And I’m quite capable of dealing with Lord Stanhope.”

  “Why should you deal with him alone?” For some reason he felt a pang of hurt. “Did it ever even occur to you to ask my help in the matter?”

  “Frankly, no.” She took a sip of wine.

  Did he mean nothing to her?

  Christopher inhaled, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Will you at least let me help you if you find yourself in need?”

  She hesitated.

  He knew her answer plain enough. “Why?”

  “Why what?” she asked, beginning to sound irritated.

  “Why can’t you ask me for help?” he said, trying to keep his voice down. They were at the dinner table, surrounded by the other guests, but he couldn’t find the patience to postpone this discussion.

  “I don’t need your—”

  “Damn you,” he hissed. “Don’t you tell me you don’t need me.”

  She turned and met his gaze. Her calm expression was belied by the flags of color in her cheeks and the warning narrowing of her eyes. “Why does it bother you so? Why should I need you?”

  “Because,” he said, struggling with himself, trying to find another way to put it and in the end simply giving up and laying it bare between them. “Because I need you. Because if you don’t need me then all that has happened between us is for naught. Because need is the most fundamental part of love—without it there isn’t anything.”

  She blinked, seeming to waver at the word love.

  Then she lifted her chin. “I cannot help it if I don’t need your help.”

  “No, no, you can’t.” Strange he could still speak with his chest caving in, here in this bloody public setting. He made himself drain all emotion from his voice. “It must’ve been hard, all these years, living away from your family, relying only on yourself. In any case, my offer remains. If you need me, I will come to you.”