By the time she drifted down to the far edge of the rose garden, her heart had been slightly saddened by her stroll. At one point in time, this garden had been glorious—the bones of the past splendor were still evident. But neglect, for whatever reason, had taken the beauty and battered it down, leaving only a mess in its wake.
Humming interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to the sound, finding a lone man in simple clothes walking up the hill from the stables.
He didn’t see her in the night shadows of the garden—that was evident, as he wasn’t avoiding her as all the other staff had done.
Not wanting to surprise him before he was upon her, she called out, “Hello, sir.”
The man jumped, searching the landscape until he spotted her waving at him.
“Aye, good eve, m’lady.” He quickly turned and started walking in the opposite direction.
Adalia hissed out an exasperated sigh. She’d had enough of this avoidance nonsense. She rushed after him. “Excuse me, sir. Please stop. Please.”
He took a few more steps before slowing. Hesitantly he turned back toward her, pulling the hat from his head to clutch it between his thick hands. He was old—as old as the rest of the staff, but solid, any creaks in his bones held off by his fast walk. A white shock of hair ruffled straight up from his head, glowing in the moonlight. “I meant no interruption, m’lady.”
Adalia closed the distance between them, coming to a stop only when she knew she would have his full attention. “I am quite done with the foolery of everyone in this place running from me on sight, sir.”
He blinked hard, looking over his shoulder, his fingers on his hat tightening. “Ye be what now, m’lady?”
“I am done with this avoidance. Who are you, sir?”
“The stable master, m’lady. Valence.” He glanced over his shoulder again toward the castle, his weight shifting back and forth on his feet.
“I apologize for waylaying you, Mr. Valence—”
“No mister, m’lady. Just Valence.”
“Valence, then. Is it not late to be in the stables?”
He shrugged. “There be a mare due to be foaling within days. I was checking on her progress before I bed down. That be all, m’lady?”
He was going to bolt, she could see it. She took a step closer. “Forgive me, Valence, I do not mean to keep you—but no, that is not all. Tell me why all the staff is like you—avoiding me as you just tried to do—as you are clearly still itching to do?”
For a moment Adalia thought her question would make him turn and run.
But then the deep-etched lines on his face crinkled somewhat, a cautious smile coming to his thin lips. “It’s what we do, m’lady.”
“Avoid me? But I have only been here four days, sir. Why would you avoid me?”
His head shook, his smile widening. “Ye misunderstand, m’lady. We avoid His Grace. And ye are one and the same by extension of yer upcoming nuptials to His Grace.”
She drew her eyebrows together, fully perplexed. “Why in heaven’s design do you avoid the duke?”
Valence shrugged, his busy feet relaxing to stillness. “We have since his parents died. Ordered to do so, though I never thought it be right. Little boy in that big castle. Nothin’ but a ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ we be allowed. Lost me post once, ’cause of it, ’cause of talking to the boy—then ol’ Pauly up and cracked his back on a horse, so I got me post back. Never talked to His Grace after that. Only a nod. I do what I need to, that be all.”
“When did his parents die?”
He bit his lip, weathered teeth gnawing, struggling for memory. “Don’t recall, m’lady. His Grace be a wee one, though, when it happened. Two, maybe three. Walkin’, but not much more if I ’member with me ol’ brain.”
He glanced over his shoulder again, and Adalia could sense he was ready to excuse himself. She reached out, touching his arm. He jumped and looked at her with a crooked white eyebrow.
“Wait, please, Valence, just another moment to explain this to me. I would like to understand. The staff does not speak to His Grace?”
“No. Them be the orders back twenty-five—bugger that—thirty years past now. No staff could talk to ’im ’cept his solicitor guardian, and the governess. And she was a cold wench, that one. Don’t ’magine she talked to that boy ’cept to be scoldin’ him. Don’t know why. His father n’ mother were not of that mind—kind, they be, and they be laughin’ all the time. A shame, but it just be what it be.”
Adalia nodded, both horrified and curious by what Valence was telling her. “That must have been quite stark for His Grace, growing up like that.”
“Not be our place to question it, m’lady. But, yes, I ’magine ye be right on that. What started was ne’er changed in the years. Still be so.”
Adalia dropped her hand from his arm, a tight smile on her face. “Thank you. I think I do understand the avoidance now, but I do want you to know, Valence, that I am not His Grace, and I need not be avoided.”
He inclined his head, his scruff of white hair swaying toward her. “That is kind of ye to offer, m’lady.”
“Oh, and I do enjoy an exhilarating ride, Valence. How is the stable?”
That drew a wide smile from his face. “We do have several fine mares—thoroughbreds that itch to get out far more often than they do, m’lady. His Grace does keep a fine stable.”
“Excellent. I look forward to meeting those mares soon.”
“Good eve, m’lady.”
Adalia watched him walk up around the far end of the gardens to the castle. His steps were quick, belying what she imagined his age to be. If he had been in employ when the duke’s parents had died, he had to be well past fifty.
She looked to the border of low boxwoods on the lower side of the rose garden, fascinated by what she had just learned.
No one on the staff talked to the duke. Hadn’t for the past thirty years.
As she walked along the lower border, her fingers brushed along the ragged tops of the boxwood hedge, its singular scent filling her nostrils. She speculated on what it had been like for the duke growing up, but knew her imaginings had no basis in reality, for her own reality was so very different. Her parents had died before she was old enough to remember them—the same as his—but she had always had someone next to her to talk to. Her brothers, always. And many of the Alton staff had always been like family to her.
Silent. Lonely.
She could imagine nothing as atrocious.
Walking from the stables, Toren saw Lady Pipworth in the moonlight. Strolling along the lower boxwood border to the rose garden, she had her face tilted up, moonlight casting a glow about her head as she looked to be pondering the stars. Her red-blonde hair was hanging loose down her back; this was the first time he had seen it free, not piled in tight knots at the back of her head.
Her left hand lifted, her slender fingers diving under her hair to the back of her neck as she turned into the path winding up through the rose garden. She twisted her hair with one hand, the long waves wrapping around her wrist and forearm. Letting it unfurl, she settled it to drape forward over her shoulder.
The simple muslin gown, almost white in the darkness, floated with an ethereal airiness about her, while hugging her curves in the appropriate spots. She was slight, but surprisingly strong—as he had witnessed when he watched her carrying one of the twins up the long main drive days ago.
The sight of her in the moonlight gave him slight pause, and rarely did anything give him pause—slight or otherwise.
If this was the woman he was going to marry, at least she was pleasing to the eye. He would have no trouble bedding her.
He wondered if she would be as cantankerous in bed as she was outside it. The woman was predisposed to it—he should have known from what Theodore had told him of her years ago.
Theodore. Maybe that was why. Being raised by three brothers, she had likely had little opportunity to become anything but naturally contrary. It was a wonder she was as refined as
she was.
She had been raised to be loud and boisterous. He could imagine nothing as atrocious.
Never had he envisioned he would have to work so hard to convince a woman to marry him. He had presumed he would ask, and the woman would say yes. Quick and efficient.
But Lady Pipworth had made it arduous, and he didn’t care for tasks that took longer than they should.
He sighed. He imagined Lady Pipworth was about to make a lot of things arduous for him.
Damn his vow to Theodore.
But he would stand by it. Theodore deserved it.
A pang of guilt swept him. Would Theodore approve of the lies Toren needed to tell his sister?
Fur brushed against his fingers, nestling under his hand, and he looked down. The great beast of a wolfhound—Hazard, the twins had called him—looked up at him. He had gathered the dog from the Alton town house in London to bring him to Dellon Castle. If Josalyn’s story about the gray-white dog had any truth to it, the wolfhound would be the best protection available for the twins.
The dog caught sight of movement—Lady Pipworth strolling up the pathway—and it was only a moment before it went tearing toward the rose garden.
Its lumbering bulk uncanny in its speed, the wolfhound reached her before Toren could lift his forefinger and thumb to his lips and whistle.
She turned just before the dog reached her, a shocked screech escaping as the dog lifted onto its hind legs, knocking her down and out of Toren’s sight.
Hell. He sped into the garden, only to find the blasted dog pinning her to the ground, smothered squawks coming from her.
He lunged to grab the wolfhound by the scruff and yank it off Lady Pipworth.
The dog yelped, struggling against him, but Toren refused to free him.
Then the laughter reached him.
Lady Pipworth sat up, laughing. “Stop, Your Grace, let him go. No need.”
Toren looked down to her, relieved to see her face hadn’t just been mauled. Scooting closer to the wolfhound, she threw up both of her hands to scratch the wiry fur along the dog’s neck as its long tongue bathed her face.
She fell into a fit of laughter again.
He loosened his hold on the furry fold of skin he had grasped. Still unnerved, he kept his hands at the ready. It took a full minute of Lady Pipworth laughing and the dog licking every inch of her face and neck for him to believe the dog would not attack.
Finally, she looked up at Toren as the dog’s tongue worked over her cheek. “How I suffer so. It is no small feat to be loved like this. Even if it is by a dog. You did not need to yank him off of me as you did.”
Toren offered his hand down to her, and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. “That hound outweighs you by a number of stone. I thought he was crushing you—if not eating you.”
She laughed, bending down to gather the edge of her skirt, and she lifted it, wiping dog slobber off of her face. “Thank you for bringing him back with you. However did you get him to follow you?”
“I brought Mary’s shawl with me to London. From that story they told me of him, I guessed he would follow that scent to the ends of the earth to find her.”
“You would be right.” Face wiped, she let the edge of her skirt drop and rested her hand on the top of the wolfhound’s neck. “The girls will be beyond ecstatic Hazard is here. They were so distraught at leaving him, but I did not know how to manage him while traveling in the stagecoach.”
Toren motioned toward the castle. “Shall we go in, or did you want more time out here? I did not mean to interrupt.”
“No, it is fine. Worry has me, and I could not sleep, that is all.”
They started moving upward along the path, their boots crunching along the crushed granite, and within three steps Hazard had wedged himself between the two.
Adalia chuckled, her fingers scratching the dog’s ears. She looked over at Toren. “I just discovered this garden tonight. It must have been magnificent in its prime.”
Toren scanned the flower beds. Even in the moonlit shadows, he could see the monstrosity of weeds choking out the remnants of the roses. “I would not know. I never saw it in its prime. It was my mother’s garden.”
“Your parents died when you were young?”
“Yes. Before I could remember them. My mother shortly after I was born. My father when I was two.”
Lady Pipworth nodded, her gaze going to the gravel path before them. She looked as if she would say more, but remained silent.
Several more steps and her look jumped up to him. “Why did you not have it kept up? The flowers?”
“It serves no purpose in the running of the estate.”
Her delicate eyebrows drew together as she looked at him. “Beauty serves no purpose?”
Toren shrugged. Beauty had never been necessary to his life, and after the long ride back to Dellon Castle, he was not interested in a philosophical discussion on the purpose of beauty. “No.”
Her look at him twisted, and for a long moment she stared at him strangely. So strangely he was on the brink of saying more when she shook her head, then directed her attention to the gate and arbor in the evergreen hedge they approached.
“All went well with the archbishop?”
“Yes. We can marry tomorrow.”
Was that the slightest flinch on Lady Pipworth’s face? It flickered away so quickly, he couldn’t decide if it had been real or imagined.
“The girls are very excited I am to marry you.” She noticed a leaf stuck on her shoulder from her roll on the ground and brushed it off. Angling away from him, she pointed over her shoulder down her back as she pulled her hair to the side. “Is there more?”
“A few.” He reached over the wolfhound’s head and flicked free the few dried leaves sticking to the muslin.
“Thank you.” She set her hair down her back. “The twins think you quite their gallant knight. Slaying all evil. Perfect for the princess roles they’ve adopted.”
“I have slain nothing for them as of yet.”
“Yes, well, you managed to make them feel safe in the hours you spent with them.”
“Mary too?” His eyebrow cocked. “She is so quiet. Josalyn does all the talking for them.”
They reached the arbor, and Toren opened the gate for her. Hazard made sure he was second through it.
She waited for him as he closed and latched the gate. “You can tell the twins apart already?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Toren turned to her. “Josalyn has the small freckle directly in front of her left ear.”
Lady Pipworth’s eyes went wide, crinkling at the corners as she smiled at him. The moon lit her face, making it almost glow. “That is the smallest thing—you are right—but it is the only physical difference between them.”
Beauty—her beauty—actually has purpose in the world—that of offering joy to others.
Fanciful. The odd thought that had randomly struck him was nothing but fanciful. He instantly disregarded it, wiping it from his mind.
He motioned toward the castle, and they resumed walking, Hazard still stubbornly between them.
“They also laugh differently,” he said. “Josalyn has more of a chuckle, and Mary has much more of a chortle.”
“A chortle and chuckle, whatever is the difference?”
“Well, Josalyn’s is more like this.” Toren imitated a laugh, attempting to send his pitch high in a titter. “And Mary’s is much more like this.” He let three sharp bursts fly, sending spurts of air to vibrate the cords in his throat.
Toren looked at her. Lady Pipworth stared at him, her mouth appearing to strain into a straight line.
She cleared her throat. “I am not positive I heard the difference. Could you repeat that?”
Toren did so, his throat itching after his repeated imitation of Mary laughing.
Lady Pipworth’s giggle pierced the air. Within a second it turned into body-shaking laughter, so intense she had to stop and ben
d over, her hands on her knees for support as she gasped for breath between cackles.
“You were teasing me.” He wasn’t quite sure what to do with her. She was laughing, yet appeared quite distressed, her body spasming in fits. He’d never seen anything quite like it. Pat her back? Hold her upright? She was clearly having trouble breathing, and tears were streaming down her face.
She looked up at him, words uttered breathlessly as she tried to drag air into her lungs. “Yes. Forgive me.” Her head shook as she lifted one hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Neither of those laughs sounded anything like either one of the girls. But it was an admirable try in mimicking them.”
The smallest smile came to his lips. “I don’t sound like a seven-year-old girl, do I?”
That sent her into another quaking fit of laughter. It passed, and she managed to pull herself upright. “No, and I am glad for it. I do wonder if I could be married to a man who laughed like a tiny girl.”
“We are not officially married yet.”
“No, so it is good and proper we got that out of the way before we became so.” Her hand flat on her chest, she took a deep breath, her smile still beaming at him. “But I am happy you are able to identify the twins. For as close as they are, they both do like their independence from the other. Not everyone can do that—in fact, very few can.”
“It merely took concentration on details.”
“Yes, and I have seen that you are observant of details.” Lady Pipworth waved her hand in the air and started walking to the castle once more. “Thank you. I have not laughed like that in a long while. It felt good.”
“That felt good?” He fell into step beside her. “You appeared as though you were in pain.”
She looked at him, her green eyes incredulous. “Have you never laughed until you cried?”
“No. What would be the purpose?”
Her head tilted to the side as she glanced down at the path and then back up to him. “We are very different, you and I. Are you positive you would like to marry me? I do not think I am what you envisioned in a wife.”
He met her eyes, trying to determine if she was reconsidering her decision to marry him. He didn’t particularly want to have to convince her once more that marriage would be the best action in the situation. The twins and her safety depended upon it, whether she understood that or not. “The decision has already been made, and I am committed to it, Lady Pipworth.”
Of Valor & Vice: A Revelry's Tempest Novel Page 6
