by Eva Devon
Allegra pressed her lips together lest she open them to give him that piece of her mind she’d so longed to give on her march up from the stables.
“Did you wish to say something, Alfred?” the duke asked with a slight raise of his dark brow.
She shook her head. “No, Your Grace.”
“Then up we go to my chambers. That’s where you’ll be spending your time. With me.” With those words, he strode down the hall, toward the servant’s staircase which led up into the sprawling castle.
She had no choice but to follow and she ran to keep up with his long stride.
His chambers? She swallowed. More like her doom.
*
Mrs. Thackery knew next to nothing about Alfred except that the boy had come at Gregory’s recommendation and Gregory, of course, was not on the estate today. Nicholas found it damned irritating, not knowing for absolutely certain that his suspicions were correct.
However, Mrs. Thackery had seemed most opposed to the idea of him taking Alfred as his personal servant. Was Mrs. Thackery hiding Alfred’s secret? It seemed impossible. Mrs. Thackery had never lied to him as far as he knew and he had known her since he was four years old. In fact, Mrs. Thackery was the only constant in his life and, perhaps, the only person he trusted.
So, he couldn’t give credence to the thought that she would keep such a thing from him. No, it was likely that she was afraid he was going to use the blade of his tongue on poor Alfred.
But from the way Alfred’s eyes had flashed in the hallway and in the stables, Nicholas had a feeling the servant could give as good as gotten. Still, it was damned annoying, all this suspicion. He liked things to be clear. Mysteries never remained mysteries long in his presence.
He was half tempted to order Alfred to take a bath so he’d have to disrobe once they reached his chamber, just so Nicholas would know, without equivocation, but even he wasn’t that much of a cad. Well. . . Only just.
Nicholas strode up the third flight of stairs, focused ahead, fighting a grin as little Alfred sprinted after him, taking the steps two at a time. If Alfred was a boy, he was quite a lithe one.
Nicholas turned down the landing, his boot steps muffled by the woven blue and green carpet, not bothering to slow his long stride. He certainly wouldn’t for a male servant and if Alfred was a girl, he wasn’t about to start treating her as if her ruse had been spotted.
As they headed up, the light dimmed considerably, the place darkened by the stained oak panel. The castle was remarkably dreary considering the extensive and expensive renovations his father and he had made. But medieval architecture was not meant to be cheery. It was meant to be a bastion of safety in a world fraught with peril.
There were days he wished his estate were a chalet with brightly colored silk hangings, but then he recalled his ancestors. They were men of power who had carved out their positions in society with a sword and political guile. That was who he was. Not a man poncing about in a powdered wig peering through a pince-nez.
“Your Grace!”
Nicholas didn’t even glance back. “Keep up, Alfred! Keep up!”
Somehow his long stride had drastically outpaced her and she was now actually running to keep up. He fought a grin. This was going to be too much fun. At last, he stopped at the winding stair that led up to his turret room. He stopped and turned.
Alfred panted slightly, her chest rising and falling in quick breaths beneath the loose, gray wool coat.
“Now, listen. The staircase wasn’t designed for the faint of heart or ninnies. There is no railing and it’s quite steep. Don’t break your neck. Do you understand?”
Alfred attempted to peer around him and up the stairs. Her face paled, making her red lashes almost golden against her suddenly white skin. “Up—Up there?”
“Yes. Up there.”
It was the furthest room in the furthest part of the castle from the central goings-on. It was his haven. And only Bardwell, the butler, was allowed admittance to tidy up and sort his clothing. He didn’t have a manservant and he didn’t allow footman in.
He loathed the idea of someone in such close attendance.
Long ago, he’d learned the importance of solitude, especially when one was forced by their position to constantly be thrown into the melee that was London society and government.
For one brief moment, he considered sending Alfred back to the stables. Of not allowing the young woman into his sanctuary. But he. . . He’d grown lonely of late, a strange sort of heaviness bearing down upon his chest. He’d thought, after returning from months around the globe, a visit to Rothton would restore him. He’d been mistaken. . . Until now.
“Give me your hand, Alfred,” he said softly.
“That’s not necessary, Your Grace.”
“Who is your master?” he asked. Slowly, he extended his hand, knowing Alfred would take it despite all the prickly determination.
Alfred eyed the appendage as if it were from a demon out of hell. “Really, I can—”
“I shan’t have you tripping and breaking every bone in your wee body on the first attempt. Get to know the stairs and then I won’t hold your hand.”
“It’s hardly the done thing, holding your servant’s hand,” Alfred blustered.
“Do I look concerned with the done thing?”
At that, her starch faded and her lips softened, opening slightly, exposing perfect, porcelain teeth. Alfred gazed at him with a sort of awe that one might see in a scientist discovering some rare and strange new specimen. “No, Your Grace, you do not.”
“And you can cease with the ‘Your Grace’ this and ‘Your Grace’ that.”
“What shall I say then?”
“Take my hand.”
Alfred bit her lower lip, turning it a delicious rose. But she did as told, extending her pale fingers. Fingers slim and delicate. Perfect fingers for guiding reins, or playing the piano, or for making love.
Alfred was a young woman. He’d give his left hand, he was so certain. The perfect flush of her cheek and the swanlike curve to her neck said it all.
He wrapped his fingers around hers, astonished at how perfectly her small hand fit within his grasp. “Nicholas. My name is Nicholas.”
Chapter 4
Allegra couldn’t catch her breath. If she’d thought his nearness was unnerving, his touch was positively maddening. He was standing so close she could feel the heat from his body. His hand, warm and strong, enclosed hers as if he could guide her anywhere and never let a moment’s harm befall her.
The touch of his hand was light, firm, and slightly rough and she wanted more of it. So much more. She swallowed, shocked by her own thoughts. He was a Devil! A scandalous duke who had no business being so improper.
She leaned in toward him, drawing in that delicious scent of lemon and sandalwood. “Nicholas,” she echoed. . . only it sounded more like a breathy affirmation what with her brain barely capable of coherent thought.
It was like being overwhelmed by a giant mountain. It was the only thing she could compare his effect upon her to. One moment, she wanted to scale to the top of that precipice and delight in its dangers and the next she wanted to run for safe country and the promise of an uneventful life.
She shook her head. What a fool she was being! The duke didn’t know she was a woman and he was just being exceptionally kind, in his odd way. Looking out for a young servant. He hadn’t behaved inappropriately. In fact, he’d teased her, given her a promotion, and was offering to make sure she didn’t brain herself climbing up to his turret.
Clearing her throat, she made extra effort to lower her voice. “Shall we go, Your. . . Er. I mean. . . No. I simply can’t call you that, Your Grace. It’s far too informal.”
The duke sighed, the spell broken. “If you must. I have been called ‘Your Grace’ since I was five. It shall hardly break me now.”
He turned and tugged on her hand, leading her up into the narrow stairwell. The stone walls brushed his broad shoulders as he ascende
d.
How old was he now? Thirty?
Allegra followed him, suddenly grateful for his hand. The stairs were remarkably steep, more like a ladder than anything else and, despite her usually perfect balance, the narrow stairway suddenly had her fearing she would topple backward and break her neck.
Luckily, he was there.
But who had been there for him? At least twenty-five years as the most powerful man on the estate and one of the most powerful people in the country? Heady stuff for a child. And. . . Lonely. She’d seen how people treated dukes. With a deference nearing on Godhood and in her experience, that deference wasn’t refrained when children inherited titles. Oh, she’d seen little lords chastised for knocking another child down, but there was something different in the way they were spoken to. In the way no one quite dared hug them, or call them by their first name.
And Nicholas had lost both his parents when he’d received his ducal coronet. That she knew. Everyone did. The carriage accident had been bloody news and bloody news always stayed in circulation. Even she, at least ten years younger than the Duke of Roth, had heard how his parents had been traveling from London to their estate when the horses bolted and the coach was thrown from a cliff, crashing on the rocks below, leaving no survivors.
No. After that, there had been no one to call him simply Nicholas. Not his father, not his mother, and certainly none of his staff, not even his nanny.
And he’d asked her to use his name.
She blinked. Such thoughts were foolish. His asking meant nothing. A mere whim. The sudden tightening of her heart was naught more than the sympathy she felt for a small boy who’d lost both his parents.
Even she had to admit she was lucky that she still had hers. Even if they could not see that her hopes and dreams did not align with theirs.
The Duke of Roth mounted the last step and pulled her up into the circular room.
Allegra gaped.
The circular turret was dazzling.
Wood beams crisscrossed overhead, high above. From the cross sections, a model of a da Vinci flying machine, at least six feet across, hung. Its wings were outstretched and perfect as if in flight.
The light from the stained glass window spilled across the stone floor that was covered in elaborate Turkish rugs. Jewel tones of ruby, sapphire, and emerald seemed to dance on almost every surface, interrupted only by the fireplace, large enough for her to stand up in.
It was as if she’d stepped back four hundred years into a medieval solar. Even the books lining the mahogany table were beautiful, their leather-bound and gold-embossed covers so beautiful she ached to caress them with her fingertips.
And there, beside the fire, was the bed. A four poster, decked with dark green, velvet bed curtains, a nod to the current age. She doubted they had such luxury in the fourteen hundreds.
While the bed stood a good five feet off the ground and appeared fit for a giant, or a large man and several companions, she felt fairly certain it was the perfect size for the Duke of Roth.
Would the counterpane be soft? She studied that wide mattress and felt her cheeks go hot. No. She wasn’t imagining burrowing into those blankets and luxuriating in the linen that kept the Duke of Roth warm at night.
Suddenly, she envisioned him in the bed, his dark hair against the white linen, his arm outstretched, just as he had done at the bottom of the stair, urging her to take his hand. Only this time, he was unclothed.
Allegra swallowed. The only naked men she’d seen had been in books of antiquity and art. What would the Duke of Roth look like? Superior. He would be the most perfect of all men. For surely, a man who was so exceptional in so many ways would surely be exceptional in that as well. His height, the breadth of his shoulder, and the muscled power of his thighs, despite the breeches covering the flesh, encouraged her to believe that her fancy was true.
Perhaps, as his servant she would be able to see. . .
Allegra whipped her gaze to the subject of her sudden fascination. Surely, if she looked at the man, she couldn’t have such dangerous imaginings? She shouldn’t even be tempted! She wasn’t here to ogle. She was here to hide from her family while she formulated a plan to make them see that she was not going to marry a boring lord who only cared about dinner parties. And not even political dinner parties, but parties in which the fold of one’s cravat was the height of the evening’s entertainment. She was not going to succumb to her sister’s fate.
“You look quite perplexed,” he observed. “Unburden your thoughts.”
A guilty grin pulled at her lips. She couldn’t let him know where her thoughts had tended. “They are most boring.”
“I fear you’re concerned about your new duties.”
She snorted then gasped at her own impertinence.
The Duke of Roth stared for a moment then threw back his head and let out a bellow of a laugh. “Good God, Alfred. You are odd.”
She nodded. “Very odd. Most odd. It runs in my family.”
And that was altogether true. Which was why her parents were determined to marry her to someone boring. Eccentricities were no longer desirable. Or so it seemed, even if her own parents were full of odd traits.
“Truly, Alfred. You may speak freely. Reveal your fears.”
“Why are you being so kind?” she asked abruptly.
“Is there a reason I should not?”
“You’ve a reputation for terseness.”
“Have you realized that your vocabulary is exceptional for a stable lad?”
“Cravats!” she blurted. She was not about to answer that last question, so she would distract him with a former.
“Cravats?” he echoed.
“I was thinking about cravats and whether I’d have to take care of yours.”
“Eventually, Alfred. But for now, my butler will take care of my clothes lest you torch them all with an iron. I may, in fact, be made of money, but I don’t care to burn it. There are far better things to do with it than throw it away.”
She let out a breath of wonder. Could he truly feel this way?
“You looked stunned. Do you follow politics, Alfred?”
She scuffed her shoe against the floor. She did. She followed them avidly. Politics and horses were her two favorite things in this world. But a stable boy wouldn’t know. “Of course not, Your Grace.” A sudden lie popped out of her mouth, “I can’t even read!”
The Duke of Roth pinned her with a hard stare. “Do not lie to me, Alfred.”
Lies? She was neck deep in lies. Now that she had leapt into this particular abyss there was no going back. “I can’t.”
“I thought you said your father was a school master.”
“Oh.” She pushed down the panic that squeezed her throat. How did he manage to tangle her thoughts so? With everyone else, she’d been cool in her disguise, unshakable. A few moments with the duke and she was confusing her story and launching into new narratives about her fictional past. “Um. I lied.”
“About your father?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “He wasn’t a school master, Your Grace. He worked in the stables just like me. He couldn’t read either.”
“And your vocabulary?”
“I listen to my betters, Your Grace.”
“You eavesdrop?”
She nodded, trying to appear contrite. “It’s a terrible habit. My father was always after me to leave the lords and ladies be when they’d come to the stables. But I love words. I love the sounds and all the different meanings.”
“Why did you lie then?”
She shrugged, digging herself deeper and deeper. “I was embarrassed.”
His brows rose. “By your family?”
She winced. Now, she wasn’t lying. Her father and mother, though she loved them, made her sick with their political views. Or perhaps she should say lack thereof. They had all the wealth and opportunities the land had to offer and all they cared about was the latest dance or cut of cloth. And, of course, maintaining the power of the a
ristocracy. Or marrying their children off into cold, advantageous marriages.
“Your Grace, I love my family but they are ignorant.”
“You don’t wish to be?”
She shook her head vehemently. She’d run away to escape such ignorance and to escape eternal prison. She’d be damned before she was forced to marry someone who would control her tongue, force her into parties only for pleasure, and demand she ride to hounds every fall. Or crush her spirit. “More than anything, I wish for knowledge.”
He crossed to his table and lifted a leather-bound book. “It is a crime that you don’t read.”
“It isn’t a crime, Your Grace,” she said quickly, determined to give authenticity to her stable boy’s character. “Even I know that.”
“Well, then,” he said softly, “it should be. Words are the window to the world. They show us what could be. They make us question our lot.”
Was he saying what she thought? It was true, but surely, as a duke, he supported the aristocracy. She forced a frown. “Are you speaking of revolution?”
“What if I was, Alfred?”
“I’d think you were trying to see if I’m a traitor,” she said firmly. After all, someone born to the lower classes would be nearly afraid to mention the word revolution let alone discuss it. And Europe, at present, was faced with a revolution of both thought and physical upheaval.
“If you stay with me, I promise, you shall read. And you shall decide whether revolution is actually treason. Sometimes, there must be change. Without it, we wither and die.”
Oh! The panic she’d felt a few moments ago disappeared under her sudden fascination with this devilish duke. How she wanted to ask if he’d read Jefferson or Voltaire. If he had, she’d ask if he thought such ideas could eventually come to pass in England or would men such as the Duke of Wellington persevere and keep the lower orders locked in their burrows unable to leave their villages, blind to the freedoms and wonders of the world?
