by Eva Devon
After all, Tony looked like his mother. Dark with shocking blue eyes. He also had his mother’s winsome and good-natured personality. Unlike his father, Tony had never had a dark layer to his view of the world. At least. . . Not yet. And frankly, Derek hoped that Tony could keep such optimism throughout his life.
It was Tony’s optimism that would be the kindest way to let Lady Rosamund down. The boy, who probably shouldn’t know what his father got up to when it came to the ladies but did anyway, would be gentle and lighthearted about the whole thing.
Lady Rosamund might be disappointed but then she’d realize she’d been saved a great mistake. She’d return to her brother. She’d have had a bit of an adventure. And he’d feel secure in the knowledge that he had made the right decision. . . Something which did actually matter to him.
The only regret he had was that he was missing Christmas with his son.
Perhaps. . . Perhaps this year, he’d take Tony out of school and they could travel the world as they used to. He’d missed having him by his side.
“Aston?”
Derek sat at the pianoforte and blinked.
“Aston?” The Duke of Darkwell prodded his shoulder. “Forgotten the notes, have we?”
Derek cleared his throat and realized he’d been sitting at the instrument without playing a single chord.
Bloody hell.
Thinking quickly, he proclaimed, “I am transported by the vision of your wife dancing about the room.”
“Well, stop, or I’ll transport you to a permanently unpleasant place,” Darkwell ribbed.
Derek bared his teeth in what he hoped was a merry expression. “I think I’ll have a wander about the castle. No doubt the ladies have worn you out with all that dancing.”
Darkwell’s brows drew together. “Are you well?”
“Marvelous, old man. Marvelous.” He pushed back from the keyboard before any more questions might come his way.
He grabbed a bottle of champagne as he swaggered out towards the nearest darkened hall, leaving the dukes and duchesses staring after him.
There was no destination to his sudden departure or wanderings. All he knew was he needed to be alone. It didn’t help that he was alone in her home.
Visions of her lithe, strong body slipping down the halls came to mind.
It had been years since he’d ever been so thoroughly shaken by another person. . . In fact, he wasn’t certain he ever had been. He’d cultivated a deep distance from all those about him since his childhood. His only exception was Tony.
Tony was his heart. Tony made him smile and thank God he was alive.
In fact, if Tony hadn’t been born, Derek felt fairly certain he would have thrown himself into the Thames in a drunken bout of self-pity.
It had been a blessing the day the child had arrived on his doorstep, his hand clutched in his aunt’s. Tony’s mother had died. . . And well, there simply weren’t the funds to take care of him. Derek had had no idea of the child’s existence. He’d taken one look into the blue eyes and lost his heart forever.
He frowned, pulled away from the pleasant memory and back to the frustration at hand.
Rosamund shouldn’t be affecting him. Not the way she was. He should have been able to have a perfectly lovely fling with her and then end it with a jolly salute and wave of adieu when they’d finished.
That’s how he was with all the women in his life.
Except her.
She seemed to sense the cracks in his facade and she wasn’t content to just look at them. Oh no. She wanted to know him. And to know him, she’d have to pry at those cracks and break through to the man he was underneath.
Most women simply gazed upon him with the anticipation of the pleasure he could bring them through jewels or physical heights. Oh, it was clear Rosamund was excited by the prospect of joining him in bed. . . But there was something more in her eyes when she looked at him.
There was a pure and true curiosity about him. Bloody hell, she’d said she’d be pleased to be his friend if he refused to give her guidance in bed.
Friends? Friends with a woman who tried to look deep in his soul?
That was an impossibility.
Intimacy of body? Lovely. Intimacy of soul? Never. Because he’d never be able to tell anyone the truth about what made him the way he was. . . And frankly, if he was to have to take Rosamund to his bed, he doubted whether he could ever let her out.
He couldn’t bear to lie to her for eternity.
He was able to be friends with Duchess Cordelia because she respected the barriers he’d built so carefully. Oh, she might prod here and there, but she had no desire to bring them down and find what lay behind them.
Rosamund? Rosamund had the sort of air about her of a journeyman ready to tear down walls to get to the very foundations of a man. And his foundations were built on a secret.
It was a secret far too serious to allow the light of day.
Tony was the only one who knew. Well, and his own father, the dead duke. But that cruel old man wouldn’t be saying anything from his mouldering grave.
Just as Derek lifted the open champagne bottle to his lips, the Duke of Blackburn strode down the shadowy, moonlit hall, his own face dark as thunder.
It was the only accurate description that came quickly to mind.
Blackburn’s mouth was set hard, his eyes twin shadows in the darkness. His entire stance suggested that of a judge about to send a man to his death. Blackburn lifted a hand. “I’m not in the mood for any of your comments, just now.”
“God forbid,” Derek riposted. Clearly things had not gone well in the clandestine visit between Blackburn and Imogen.
“Drink?” Derek asked, holding the bottle out.
Blackburn looked as if he were about to say no, but then he reached out and grabbed the beverage. He took several swallows, tilting the bottle up.
Derek admired his precision. Once, Blackburn had been a man who knew how to quickly put away the bubbles, even if he did seem a Puritan now.
Lowering the champagne, Blackburn sighed and looked at the three-quarters empty vessel. “I seem to have depleted your supply.”
“Only a tragedy if we don’t head to your wine cellar.” This was a standard sort of Duke of Aston reply. One of thousands he’d cultivated for such moments but suddenly and belatedly he realized the danger of the comment. It sounded unquestionably like an invitation to start a drink session with Blackburn. Given his current obsession with Lady Rosamund, such a thing was inadvisable.
So, he quickly added, “Then again, drowning one’s sorrows in liquor is the sign of a weak—”
“This way,” Blackburn cut in and charged off down the hall, leaving Aston little option but to follow.
The drafty castle was different than his own ducal mausoleum done largely in the French style. This one suggested ancient clansmen readying for battle.
Large tapestries decorated the stone walls, doing little to alleviate the chill.
With each step down the moonlit corridor and subsequent circular stone stairs that the Duke of Blackburn was taking with utter ease, Derek began to understand what Rosamund meant when she had mentioned loneliness.
Oh, Derek had been alone for most of his life. . . But the castle had a sort of magnificent melancholy to it, as if it reflected its duke’s emotional state.
Was this why she’d been so desperate to escape for what most considered the most joyous days of the year?
Perhaps.
And that was something he could understand.
Loneliness was a cruel companion. Especially if one wasn’t actually alone like Lady Rosamund. Her own brother’s troubled company had, no doubt, simply made her feel more adrift which only impressed Derek with how incredible her strong sense of self was.
Most women would have withered away to apologetic shells. Rosamund, on the other hand, seemed a tropical flower, ready to burst from its tight bud into full resplendent bloom. The state of her brother and his castle had not dim
inished her. If anything, they had honed her and propelled her to a wish to find any other path than the one of solitude that her brother had taken.
A dismaying wave of admiration washed over him.
He liked Blackburn.
Rosamund?
He was astonished by her. By her good humor, her resilience, and her desire to lead a life not restricted by the definition of women.
Very few women chose such a dangerous and rough course. And he’d always liked an adventurous sailor, ready to steer into the storm.
It was impossible not to give belief to the thought that if other women who had held such promise, who had been heiresses themselves, had chosen some other aim than being a Jewel of the ton’s First Water, that they would not have been so entirely crushed.
Too many women were trapped in loveless marriages which demanded they diminish themselves so as not to outshine their usually boorish husbands. He couldn’t imagine Rosamund succumbing to such a terrible fate.
A slow, fading death.
“Aston, what in God’s name are you thinking?”
“Pardon?”
Blackburn scowled. “You have the strangest look upon your countenance.”
“Just thinking about the unfairness of this world on the gentler sex.”
“Gentler?” Blackburn snorted. “Have you met my sister?”
Derek stumbled on a loose stone. What was he to say? Had Rosamund mentioned him? “What does your sister have to do with it?”
“Gentle is not the word when one speaks of her. And to think of it, Lady Cavendish isn’t gentle either.”
Derek smiled. Imogen, Lady Cavendish, was another woman he admired. “No, Imogen is a rough diamond who speaks her mind quite easily.”
“As are all the ladies of my recent acquaintance. What has happened to the women, Aston?”
“Perhaps a few of them have realized they needn’t be limited to the bleating of sheep.”
Blackburn opened his mouth as if to argue then stopped. He suddenly turned left and wrenched open a massive oak door.
Finally Blackburn said, “Rosamund will never bleat. She’s a goat. If anything, she’d ram you with her horns. Singular, that one.”
Aston grinned at the apt, if not necessarily flattering, description. He gnawed on his lip for a moment then ventured, “A husband will cure her of her goatish ways.”
Blackburn snorted. “Not bloody likely, mon. She’s vowed to never marry. I don’t know for certain if she’ll keep to it. She’d make a bonnie mother, ya ken. But. . . Well, she’s a fortune of her own and no need to submit to the whims of a husband.”
There it was. Affirmation that Rosamund wouldn’t wed and from her own brother. “You don’t mind?”
“Mind? With Rosamund if one wishes for any sort of peace, one best not mind. Besides. . . Marriage is a dangerous proposition for a woman.”
It was an interesting sentiment for Blackburn to assert. He was tempted to push but just as he was about to ask, there was a scuffling of noise then a flame bloomed in the darkness.
Blackburn hung a lantern from a hook on the wall.
Shelves and shelves of bottles of liquor gathering various degrees of dust greeted them.
“Beautiful sight!” Derek declared as he knew he typically would.
Right now, he wasn’t certain he was truly ready to meet this conversation with any skill. He was all for the independence of women. After all, if his own mother had not been quite so obedient, she’d still be alive.
Granted, he never would have come to be. . . However. . . He couldn’t help but think of the gentle-eyed portrait of the woman who had brought him into the world. How he wished she could have had something more.
“There you are again, Aston. You’re damned quiet tonight.”
“If you must know, Blackburn, I’m thinking on how damned dangerous it is for a woman to be gentle.”
Blackburn stared at him for a long moment then turned his broad back and studied the shelves of drink. “My mother was a gentle woman.”
“You loved her?”
“What kind of a bloody question is that?” The Scot paused then pulled a bottle down. He held it carefully then brushed the dust from it. “Yes. I loved her deeply. I felt every moment of her suffering. And my father caused her to suffer greatly. So, yes. . . You’re correct. It’s dangerous for a woman to be gentle.”
“And you’re happy for Lady Rosamund to be. . . Well, without that particular quality?”
“She’s perfect the way she is, if you must know.” Blackburn’s dark eyes warmed with the love he obviously felt for her. “If she was different, she wouldn’t be able to take my moods. She’s a damned good sister. She keeps me in line. Well, as much as anyone can.”
“And Imogen?” Derek asked, unable to stop himself.
“Let’s not discuss it. Let’s drink instead.”
“A sound decision.”
“I do wish Rosamund hadn’t gone off though,” Blackburn suddenly said. “She deserves a respite from me, it’s true, but I doubt she knows how much I rely on her no nonsense view of my brooding. She won’t indulge my darker moods.”
“Brood?” Derek echoed, somewhat surprised. “You admit it?”
“Only when I am about to drink half the contents of my cellar.” Blackburn extended the bottle to Derek. “Open it.”
Derek took the bottle whilst Blackburn turned back to his shelves.
He twisted the cork out of the brandy bottle and waited. It was damned tempting to just start swigging away, but such an action might reveal that he was under duress. It was important to never show your hand to those about you, to always appear either slightly madder or more in control than anyone else.
As he waited for Blackburn to choose his own bottle, he cleared his throat then asked, “So, we won’t have the pleasure of seeing your sister?”
“No. She’s hied off to a friend’s for Christmas. She deserves a happier season than the cold ones I give her. The holiday is. . .” Blackburn grew silent, the clinking of bottles the only sound.
Derek waited for the other man to finish but it became clear that he wouldn’t be revealing whatever memory had been on the tip of his tongue.
“She’ll be back then at the New Year?”
Blackburn grabbed another bottle and twisted the cork free. “No. She’s been invited for a prolonged stay in London by a school friend.”
Blackburn lifted his bottle in salute. “Cheers.”
Derek gaped, his own bottle midair. “London?”
Taking a long swallow, Blackburn pulled up a small barrel then sat, stretching out his long legs. “Aye.”
“But surely, you should accompany her?”
“The Highlands are my home and I’ve much work here. I’m shocked you’re so nannyish. I told you she’s not like other young women.” Blackburn eyed him up and down. “Sit down man. You look as if you’ve been brained. Does brandy not suit you?”
Derek shook his head, desperate to clear his rioting thoughts. Rosamund? In London?
“Do you know what friend?” he asked carefully.
“Mmm.” Blackburn drank again. “Lady Gemma, sister to the Duke of—”
“Hunt,” Derek cut in.
“Aye, that’s correct.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that there was a great deal of scandal surrounding Lady Gemma’s mother and that such a woman would likely lead Rosamund down the path of sin rather than steer her clear of it. Surely, Blackburn knew. But then again, ensconced so entirely up here in the north, and hating Sassenachs as he so clearly did, perhaps Blackburn had no idea that his sister was clearly about to launch herself into society in a way that would make any proper brother shiver with horror.
“You seem very interested in my sister.” Blackburn arched a dark, suspicious brow. “You’ve not met?”
There it was again. . . What to say? He had no idea what Rosamund may or may not have said about their encounters. The last thing he wished was to get her into a
difficult spot with her brother. That wasn’t his style. Though it might have been the smarter course.
If he could just tell Blackburn that Rosamund was not acting the proper young lady, the duke would hie off after his sister and bring her to heel.
But such a thing seemed so entirely disrespectful of the fiery woman he’d met that he couldn’t bring himself to betray her.
So, he smirked and replied, “I’m always fascinated by the ladies, Blackburn.”
“Well, not this lady.” Blackburn arched a brow. “Stay away. She’s not for the likes of you.”
Derek finally took a drink. Not too deep of one. Just enough. Enough not to seem like a man who’d already hanged himself from a rather short rope. “Don’t I know it, old man. Don’t I know it.”
Chapter 9
Rosamund had discovered that she quite liked champagne. Champagne was even better paired with a book. And a book and champagne in front of a fire on Christmas with a pleasant companion? Surely, there was no greater bliss in the world.
As she scanned the print of the second volume of Tom Jones, she felt her eyes growing wide again at the young man’s antics.
Truly, if the fellow was around a female. . . He seemed incapable of keeping his breeches up. . . Despite his undying love for his childhood friend, Sophia. She took a long drink of champagne then turned the page and came across a rather shocking engraving. My goodness, was that young woman about to be ravished?
She studied the page. The lady’s gown was torn, her bosoms exposed and she was being dragged off. Yes, ravishment seemed nigh. But not by the hero.
“Your cheeks are a bright cherry.”
“Yes, well, your taste in literature is a bit more adventurous than mine.”
“I’m disappointed.” Tony gave her an exaggerated pout. “Are you saying, you don’t like it?”
He sat in the chair by the fire, quite casual, one booted leg hooked over the cushioned arm as he read another novel. Apparently, the one he was reading was too shocking for her. . . Which meant that she was simply going to steal it later.
