He took her up two flights of stairs, through parts of the castle she visited rarely.
He stopped at a large, ornately carved wooden door she recognized from her tour with Mrs. Haskins. It was the door of his tower, his personal rooms.
“Your Grace!” She pulled back.
“Oh, don’t you mind, Beauty. We’ll just pass through my rooms.” He didn’t let go of her hand but opened the door, drew her inside, and closed it behind them.
She swallowed, her heart chilled, her blood pumping, her stomach cold and knotted.
“My man did not know I was coming today. Let me light some candles. Forgive my lack of preparation.”
The duke moved through the room, lighting candles. Light flooded the area.
Beauty looked around in wonder at the wide, round chamber. A richly carved wooden staircase curved around one side of the wood-paneled walls.
It was a study. Bookshelves filled with books covered one portion of the wall. A writing table was before the window, littered with ink bottles, quills, and paper stacked high on top of books. The fireplace opposite the window was empty, the room chill, having been closed up since the duke left. A few potted plants sat near the draped windows.
The duke returned to her. “Come, Beauty.” He held out his hand, impatience and excited eagerness on his face.
This playfulness was new in him, making him mercurial and even more strange. And fascinating. Her heart thrummed faster in her chest.
She took the hand he held out to her. He flashed her a quick smile, a light in his eye. Her bare fingers tingled at the contact, and a warm thrill passed through her.
He drew her after him up the curving stairs. They entered the next level, a velvet-draped, partially round room. In the light of his lantern, she could see comfortable chairs before the empty fireplace, and—she sucked in a breath—a large bed dominated the room, blue velvet curtains overhanging the rich counterpane.
She tugged her hand away from his, pulled it into herself. “Your Grace, it is most unseemly to be in your apartments . . .”
“We are not going to approach the bed. It’ll be fine. What I want to show you is worth it.”
He paused, looked back at her. “You are not properly dressed.”
She opened her eyes wide at him. “What would be proper for this activity you propose, Your Grace?”
“One moment.” And he strode through the chamber, moving fast despite the limp, taking the light with him.
He entered a set of doors. Odd shadows danced over the walls and the sound of rustling, rummaging, and wooden lids opening and closing reached her.
She stood still in the darkness at the top of the stairs, only a little light reaching her from the candles below. She wrapped her arms around herself, her heart racing double-time.
He came back carrying a mass of dark fabric over his arm.
He set down the lantern and shook out the large garment before her. It flared as he draped it around her shoulders. She sucked in a breath, her heart jumping. The folds settled around her, woolen and warm. It was a caped driving cloak. It dragged on the floor from her lesser height.
His mouth curved up as he closed the clasp at the base of her throat.
It smelled of him, a heady mix of spice, ambergris, and man. She breathed it in deeply then chided herself for doing so.
“Ah, a hat.” He placed a tall hat onto her head. It settled over her eyes, blocking all sight.
He whipped it off her again, frowning.
“No. Better, a scarf.“
He wrapped a long length of knitted blue wool around her—the duchess’s work, surely—draped it over her head and around her neck.
“There. I hope this will be sufficient. Warm enough?”
“We are going outside, Your Grace?”
His eyes crinkled. “Yes, full exposure to the elements above.”
He picked up the lantern again and grasped her hand in his other. He limped faster and they climbed another set of stairs, up and up.
And another.
Her heart pounded, and her breaths became short. Her muscles burned at the unaccustomed exercise. The levels they passed were dark, and the bulky shapes of furniture were indistinct. The duke didn’t slow to let her examine them. As they passed undraped windows, she caught sight of the moon-bathed landscape below and the sky above.
When they reached the top floor, Beauty stood still and breathed heavily, grateful for the reprieve. The duke moved forward and pulled down a hatch above them, letting down a set of narrow, collapsible wooden stairs. She almost groaned at the sight of them.
He left the lantern on a table crowded with tools, metal cylinders, and other barely identifiable shapes and went up the stairs. He pushed open a hatch above. Cold air hit her, blowing through the scarf around her head.
She caught sight of the stars beyond the dark silhouette of the duke before her. He turned back and smiled at her, his face lit by the lantern on the table below him.
She braved the last set of the stairs and joined him on the top of the tower. She blinked, let her eyes adjust to only the moon’s light.
She breathed in the fresh, cold air. The sky above was beautiful, bright with stars. The moon was high in the sky.
“Let me pull out the telescope. My man always makes sure it’s put away properly.”
He opened the door of a shed of stone and slate and wheeled out a large octagonal wooden tube taller than the height of a man, supported at an angle in a frame.
“Forgive my lack of preparation. I had hoped to be home in time for the full moon, but my business ran long. It’s a mere two days into waning, only a sliver of the moon is unlit. It shouldn’t lessen your enjoyment, for along the edge between dark and light on the moon’s surface its peaks and valleys are even more distinct.”
“We shall be moon-gazing?” she asked.
“Yes.” She could hear a smile in his voice. “I’ve been wanting to show you my observatory, you see, but it was too cloudy before, and then I’ve been gone for too long. Forgive the wait while I set the telescope at the correct angle.”
She could not make out details well, even in the moon’s light, but she watched him as he set up the apparatus with the deft movements of long practice.
“Have you ever looked through a telescope, Beauty?” he asked.
He did not seem to notice that he had not called her Miss Reynolds at all since his return.
“Only a handheld one on my father’s ships. I’ve never used one to look at the moon, or the stars.”
He fiddled with knobs and checked the viewfinder. She stood next to him, admiring this new side of him he was revealing to her.
“This is one of William Herschel’s own make. He discovered the new planet Georgium Sidus using one of like design. Or Uranus, as the Europeans like to call it. It’s a reflecting telescope, not refracting, so no color fringing.”
“Fringing?” She smiled and pulled his cloak around herself more closely. She was warm despite the chill, a calm joy radiating in her heart at being near him.
He gave her an explanation of light refraction in glass lenses she only half followed. He chatted like a child showing off a beloved toy.
“I’m hoping the mirrors haven’t tarnished in the weeks I’ve been gone. My man does hate to be the one to polish them. He’d rather be polishing my boots. Speculum mirrors do take a tremendous amount of upkeep. They are a metal alloy, you see. No glass. Though if you drop one, it will break like glass.”
While he fiddled with cranks on the telescope, she leaned against the tall crenellated wall that encircled the large open space of the tower top.
The landscape spread out below her, its gentle rise and fall, its hedges, woods, and cultivated land in patchwork, all edged silver by the light of the almost-full moon. It was beautiful.
“Ah! There we are! The moon, perfectly framed.”
She moved over to him and the tall telescope.
&n
bsp; “Oh.” He made a frustrated noise. “Now it is too tall for you to look through.”
She studied what she could of it in the unclear light. “The piece I look through is not on the end?”
“No, the mirrors reflect the light back up. Here.” He arranged the telescope again, moving it next to a stone bench.
He looked through an eyepiece at the top of the telescope. “Yes, the moon is properly framed again. Now, step up here.”
He came close to her in the dim, silver-edged light, and picked her up by the waist. She gasped and gripped his broad, broad shoulders. He set her on top of the stone bench.
The crenellated wall of the tower was now at her hip. It was no longer adequate protection. She felt she might fall back into nothingness. She was so very high, and so precarious. She gripped his shoulders, clutching the cloth of his wool cloak to keep anchored.
He looked up at her, the moon’s light illuminating concern on his face. “I have you, Beauty. Don’t fear.”
His hands were warm on her waist. Her breath was quick. But time slowed as she looked down on him, his dear, tender face. Her heart throbbed in her chest.
His eyes moved, both the opaque white and the clear silver gray, scanning her before him. She must be haloed by the moon above. She doubted he could read her expression, and she thanked the heavens that he couldn’t.
He swallowed, moved his hands, broke the spell between them.
He took one of her hands from his shoulder and urged her toward the telescope.
“There, now, look through here, Beauty. Gaze on the face of the moon.”
She was now taller than the brass eyepiece. She bent, put her eye to it, and let out a sound of delight.
Huge and magnificent, the moon was completely different than she had ever seen it before. She had seen diagrams of its magnified surface, but to see it for herself was amazing. It was glorious in sharp contrasts, light and shadow, crags and pockmarks.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It is. It is amazing.” She looked away, glanced down at him, smiled. “But I cannot seem to find the man in the moon.”
He chuckled. “Not one man, but perhaps many men, too far away to see.”
“What?” She laughed.
“I am serious!” He smiled. “Astronomers believe the moon must be peopled, just like our world. Do you see the peaks and valleys? The seas, and the craters of volcanoes?”
“A very many craters of volcanoes.” She stared at the foreign surface. It was shades of light and gray and dark.
“It is a world like our own.” His voice grew distant. “Do the men there look down on us with wonder, as we look up at them?”
She frowned. “It’s such a colorless world, though. White, black, and gray. Does anything grow there?”
“All their flowers must be white, and their leaves silver.”
She looked down at him. His eyes were the same: silver and white.
A smile tugged at his rugged face. “And they grace marble halls and palaces of alabaster.”
He was waxing poetic. She repressed a smile.
He was handsome in the moonlight. It gilded his features, highlighted the strong lines and masculine planes.
He was craggy like the surface of the moon, and just as fascinating.
Her heart pounded, the blood quickening in her veins. The warmth of his hand at her back spread over her with awareness, heating her face even in the cold breeze that blew continually over them at their elevation.
Her cold fingers ached to reach out and trace the moon’s light where it bathed his features.
Instead, she turned again to the telescope and the wonders it revealed with its reflecting mirrors.
The duke told her more of the topography of the moon, the names of its seas.
He assisted her down when the moon moved out of the telescope’s view, intending on adjusting the angle again. But in the middle of a sentence, he swayed.
“Oh!” She caught him up against her, concern sharpening her voice. “Are you unwell?” His heavy weight pressed against her, threatened to crumple her.
“I fear the long ride has caught up with me. I do believe I need to sit down.” He slipped from her grasp and landed heavily on the stone bench. He pressed a hand to his head.
“Forgive me. I may have overdone it.”
“How long was your journey?” She rested her hand on his shoulder.
“I did seventy miles today. The weather was so fine, I left my horse with an ostler when he was spent and hired hacks so I could keep going. I would have stopped for the night, but when I saw that moon, I had to get back. I’ve been wanting to show you.”
“It is beautiful. Thank you.”
“Beauty, I—Do you think—?”
“Yes?”
He looked at her, his face upturned. The moon shone on his eyes, the silver and the milk-pale.
He looked away, seemed to reconsider what he wanted to say. “At the new moon, if it is clear, I wish to show you the planets and their colors. Mars, Jupiter, or Venus, if they are visible. You must come up again then.”
She ought to do no such thing, but she could not bring herself to say it.
He took her hand, and a warm thrill went through her. He lifted her hand to his lips and blew warm breath over her fingers.
“Forgive me. I have chilled your fingers.” He turned his face up to her again. Did she imagine the warmth in his eyes?
He pressed her cold fingers to his stubbled cheek. The heat of his body radiated through the cloak as she leaned against him. Her heart soared. She felt on the edge of lifting away into the sky, only his hands on hers keeping her tethered.
He drew her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers, his eyes closed. She inhaled deeply.
Then he released her, drew back, stood, and moved past her with a swift stride.
“It is late. I’ve kept you up far too long. Let me escort you back down.”
She blinked against the broken spell. The bubble of ease that had surrounded them burst. “Of course.”
She followed him down the narrow stairs, and he closed the hatch behind them. Then down each round of stairs. On the second to the last staircase, he stumbled, grabbed the handrail, almost lost the lantern, and skidded down three steps.
“Oh, William!”
She grabbed the lantern from him then put an arm under his to steady him. “You are exhausted, sir. I must insist you rest. You’ve pushed too far today.”
“It’s tiredness, merely.” He struggled to stand, made it to a chair, then collapsed into it again. They were in his bedchamber. Concern drove all other issues from her mind.
“I hate to say you are right. How humbling.”
”Do you want me to ring for your valet?”
“No, let the man sleep. But I need to see you to your room—”
“You stay. I know my way back well enough. But let me help you to your bed.”
“No, no, that would be the other side of enough, Miss Reynolds. I can make it to my own bed. But take the lantern, and . . .” His lips tightened.
He had called her Miss Reynolds. Reinstated distance and formality.
She turned her face away. “Let me at least light the candles.” She took the lantern around and lit the candles around his bedchamber from it.
She felt his eyes on her. She controlled her expression and turned back to him in the brighter light.
His gaze had a heated intensity. She felt an answering heat rise in her cheeks.
“I bid you goodnight, Duke. Thank you for the lovely view of the moon.”
“Goodnight, Miss Reynolds.” He looked away. “Be careful leaving. Forgive me, but try not to be seen.”
Now he was concerned about proprieties? She gave a sharp nod and retreated, half-running down the final staircase. Once beyond the protection of the duke’s carved door, she imagined leering footmen and Lady Judith’s scornful gaze with every step and froze at ev
ery unknown noise.
When she finally made it to the safety of her room, she clutched the duke’s driving cloak and the scarf around her, hefted the lantern, and stared at herself in the mirror with dismay.
Cold reached through, chilled her to her bones.
Chapter 17
Beauty woke in a cold sweat and spent several seconds reorienting herself.
She was not deep in winter-cloaked woods. There were no wolves. There were no distant howls. She had not come upon the death-white form of her father lying motionless, half-buried in snow.
No. It was spring outside. Her father was at home with her family, safe and healthy. Had she not received a letter from him a week ago? And in it, all had been hearty. Her family was fine, her father was fine. She shook off the bad dream and rose, though it was early.
The blue light of early morning was lightening the room, and that was enough. But the gaping horror of the dream lingered over her consciousness, disturbing her peace.
What had brought on that dream?
The duke was home—William was home. He had sought her out before all else, had ridden hard in order to share something he loved with her. Last night had been wonderful. Magical.
And dangerous.
She paced the floor of her room, unable to leave yet. Any early morning wanderings would be viewed with salacious suspicion.
Beauty had hid the duke’s cloak and scarf in her portmanteau and pushed it into the back of the wardrobe. However would she get it back to him?
The lantern she’d put under the bed, shoved as far toward the center as she could reach. She hoped none of the chamber maids would spot it.
She felt restless like a caged bird.
This was unsupportable. Would the rest of her life be like this? Attending to the duke’s mother while achingly, desperately in love with the duke? A man so above her station it was laughable? A man she would never be able to love fully except from the opposite side of honor?
Would this only be for as long as the duchess lived? When she no longer did, what would Beauty do then?
Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4) Page 11
