Never Say Duke

by Erica Ridley

  His jaw fell open as the beast practically rolled its feline eyes in reluctant submission and sat on its haunches. How on earth…?

  The woman paid no attention to her improbably obedient pet, as though she took it as a matter of course that all cats should respond without question to their masters’ commands.

  Instead, she scrambled over the hill of snow lining the road. With a tender look upon her face, she, too, dropped to her haunches and disappeared completely out of sight.

  Rapt, Theo rolled his chair closer to the window.

  Moments later, the woman rose to her feet with aching slowness, her leather gloves cupped together to protect a tiny puff of feathers. A baby bird. She tilted her head back and craned her face up toward the branches overhead. Theo’s heart skipped in trepidation.

  She would not attempt to climb a tree. She would not attempt to climb a tree.

  She was absolutely going to climb the tree.

  Chapter 2

  Miss Virginia Underwood and “Duke,” her cherished cat and faithful companion, were strolling through Christmas on their afternoon constitutional when Virginia spied the tiny orange feet of a baby redwing poking up from a snowbank.

  Oldest friend or not, Duke was first and foremost a cat, and a proficient one at that. Which meant he was quite adept at pouncing upon anything that resembled prey. Under normal circumstances, Virginia allowed—nay, encouraged—her cat to behave as catlike as he pleased. She did not believe any living thing should be prevented from the pursuit of happiness.

  Except in the case of animals in need. Hurt creatures deserved to be helped.

  Ever since she’d come to Christmas, Virginia had been unable to resist adopting strays and nursing wounded beasts back to health. Once her beloved patients were released back into the wild… well, nature could do whatever nature would do. But for as long as she was in control, baby birds like this one would be free to live another day.

  After depositing the chick back into its nest, Virginia dropped down from the tree and brushed the debris from her gloves and person as best she could.

  Her bonnet had gone askew and her freshly pressed coat was wrinkled, but what did it matter? Christmas was the furthest haven in England from the disapproving glares of beau monde grand dames and other such exacting personages. Just like her cat, here Virginia was free to be as Virginia-like as she pleased.

  Unlike her cat, Virginia had not suddenly disappeared.

  “Duke,” she whispered.

  He did not respond.

  “Duke,” she called a little louder.

  Nothing.

  She sent a suspicious glance up the tree. No sign of Duke there, either. Nor did his paw-prints lead in this direction.

  In fact, it appeared as though he had set off in the direction of… the Duke of Azureford’s cottage. Every one of the wide glass windows were inexplicably cranked open, despite the falling snow and winter chill.

  Just as Virginia could not resist adopting strays, her cat could not resist the temptation of a beckoning window.

  She dashed across the street. Little paw-prints in the snow led past the appropriately closed front door to just below the sill of a ridiculously gaping window. There the trail stopped.

  The naughty beast had invited himself inside.

  With a sigh, Virginia presented herself at the main door. She did her best to summon a winning smile when the butler answered her knock.

  Swinton neither smiled nor frowned at discovering her upon the front step. “Good afternoon, Miss Underwood. How may I be of service?”

  Virginia’s smile fell. It probably wasn’t doing her any favors. The back of her neck heated in response to the confession she was about to make.

  “You have an unexpected visitor,” she admitted.

  “How do you know?”

  “I followed his tracks.” She motioned around the corner. “I think he went through that window.”

  Swinton blinked. “He left through the window?”

  “Entered,” she corrected. “He might be plump for a cat, but he has no trouble leaping to great heights when he puts his mind to it.”

  “Your cat went through the window?”

  She nodded. “May I fetch him?”

  Swinton did not immediately respond. Worse, he maintained that same frustrating mask of no-smile, no-frown.

  Those were the two expressions Virginia could reliably read. Without one or the other to guide her, she often did not know how to proceed.

  Like now. Did Swinton not understand her query? Should she impress upon him the importance of corralling her runaway cat before Duke took it upon himself to frolic in the larder, or disrupt the crystal on the table, or leap at the sparkling glass of the chandeliers?

  Or had she missed some other cue? Should she have begun with a more effusive greeting? Or a more abject apology? Or—blast, this was probably it—inquired whether the Duke of Azureford was at home and receiving visitors?

  Swinton stepped aside. “Of course, you must retrieve your cat. Shall I summon a few footmen to aid you?”

  She shook her head. “Even the most fearless hunter will hide when he senses he has become the prey.”

  “As you say.” Swinton ushered her inside and shut the door behind her. “May I take your coat and bonnet?”

  “I shall only be a moment.” She hurried forward in search of her cat.

  Duke was not in either of the front parlors, which were the only rooms Virginia had spent time in on previous occasions. Nor was Duke in the kitchen or the larder, to Virginia’s great relief. The dining room was also intact.

  She headed toward the living quarters at the rear of the cottage, grateful that Azureford was not present to witness this gross trespass of his home.

  “Duke,” she called into each open doorway she passed. “Duke, please come out.”

  Not that she could blame him for running off when opportunity had presented itself. It was one of the reasons they shared such a kinship. Virginia had often wished she could dive into someone else’s life, too.

  “Duke…” She nudged open a cracked door and came to a full stop.

  There, perched high atop a wardrobe with his dark shoulders hunched low and his furry hips wriggling high, Duke prepared to pounce.

  Just below, seated in a stiff, wheeled chair beside a four-poster bed, sat a man cloaked half in bandages and half in shadow.

  His face snapped toward hers. “Get out.”

  She stepped closer. “I’ve come for my cat.”

  “I don’t have your cat,” the man growled.

  “He who does not look, knows not what he possesses.” She rushed forward to place herself between the innocent bystander and her mischievous cat before Duke could cause the poor man more harm than he’d obviously suffered.

  He flinched at her sudden movement, then gave an almost simultaneous wince, as if the mere act of flinching had caused him extraordinary pain.

  Virginia’s heart twisted. She might not be competent at reading expressions or subtle social cues but wincing and flinching were behaviors she very much recognized. Every single one of her wounded strays had begun just so before they healed.

  “Don’t take another step,” the man ordered, his harsh voice little more than a cold rasp.

  She inched closer.

  Normally, Virginia did her best to follow all explicitly spoken directives.

  If anything, she often wished everyone could state their desires plainly, instead of expecting the crease of a brow or the position of a painted fan to convey what actual words could communicate so much more effectively.

  Wounded strays were different. They didn’t want her help. They needed her help. They just didn’t know it yet.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered. “I’ll do my best to block the attack, but he is very good at being a cat.”

  The bandaged man went completely immobile. It was as if he was cloaked not just in dappled shadow and strips of cloth but encased in a thick layer of ice. His long black l
ashes did not blink. His wide lips did not grimace. Not even a twitch on the visible half of his chiseled face.

  With effort, she tore her gaze from his soft black hair and rigid muscles and spun to glare at the fluffy predator atop the wardrobe.

  She held out her arms. “Come here, right now.”

  Ignoring her, Duke lowered his haunches and bared his teeth.

  “I mean it.” Virginia lifted her hands higher. “Right now, Duke.”

  He gave a loud hiss, retracted his claws, and launched himself into her arms.

  She cuddled him to her chest. “You naughty scamp. Please leave nice gentlemen alone. You could have hurt…” She turned toward the bandaged man. “What was your name?”

  “I didn’t give it.” His voice was as frigid as the wind outside.

  Virginia liked the cold. She sat on the edge of a wingback chair, careful to keep Duke trapped in her arms. “I apologize for my cat’s behavior. I didn’t mean for him to stalk you. He slipped away while I was climbing a tree and…”

  She clamped her teeth together. Short explanations. That was one of the rules. One cannot say the wrong thing when one says nothing at all. That had been the very first rule. She was breaking them both.

  The man stared at her. No smile, no frown. No mockery. He was a mystery.

  She gazed back in interest. If he was this handsome half-hidden in bandages, he must be absolutely stunning when fully unveiled. She gave Duke an extra scratch behind the ears. Coming here had been an excellent choice.

  “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” the man said at last.

  She shook her head. “We’re on our afternoon constitutional. The castle won’t have supper for a few more hours.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re a guest in the castle?”

  “No.” That answer was easy to keep short. Virginia knew better than to say too much about herself.

  The man glanced at the open bedchamber door, then back to her. “Where is your maid?”

  “Though the sloth traverses its path alone, peace is all around it.” She, too, cast her concerned gaze about the otherwise empty chamber. “Where is your nurse?”

  “I do not have one,” the man enunciated in harsh, clipped syllables.

  Perfect.

  He needed Virginia.

  She rose to her feet. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Do not come back tomorrow.” His dark eyes glittered with the fire’s reflection. “Do not come back at all.”

  Virginia tilted her head. The Duke of Azureford had personally told her she was welcome back at any time.

  This man was clearly not the Duke of Azureford.

  Therefore, she would ignore his bluster, just as she would with any creature too scared to trust a stranger. She would prove her goodwill with action.

  “I’ll be your nurse,” she promised him. “Don’t worry.”

  “I don’t require a nurse,” he said, his voice and posture stiff. “I want for nothing at all.”

  This could not be true. “Nothing?”

  “Perhaps a spare face,” he said, his tone harsh. “And my favorite ice cream. And a new leg. Is there a ‘spare leg vendor’ in this village?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” she assured him. He would be a pleasure to visit. She was already more intrigued than she dared admit.

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Who are you?”

  “Virginia,” she answered, and whisked Duke out of the bedchamber and away from temptation.

  Chapter 3

  The following afternoon, Theo unwound his bandages. He turned to face the looking-glass with determination. The ragged welts crisscrossing half his face glared back at him.

  Was he a monster? Perhaps. But he was not a monster on the brink of death, and for that he was grateful. His wounds looked raw and swollen, but not gangrenous. His face would scar. His side would heal. His knee… Well, at least Theo got to keep his leg.

  Gently, he reapplied fresh bandages. Not so much to protect the new skin, as to hide the unsightly mess from view.

  The damage was not as severe as he had at first feared when he’d regained consciousness in the middle of a bloody battlefield. He would need to take care not to reopen the freshly healed wounds as he worked on regaining his strength.

  A footman entered the guest chamber with a portable writing desk under one arm. “Where shall I place this, sir?”

  “I’ll take it.” Theo rolled forward and held out a hand.

  By necessity, he had arrived with little. Only the possessions he’d had with him in France. Toiletries, regimentals, a book of poetry, Lady Beatrice’s letter.

  He had not yet written a response. Indeed, until this letter, he and Lady Beatrice had never corresponded at all.

  Perhaps it was unromantic of him to have tossed his future wife’s first communiqué into the fire.

  Not that she had written a love letter. In addition to demanding he present himself at once in order to increase her popularity by making her a “war hero’s” intended bride, Lady Beatrice had presumed to dictate where, when, and how.

  Apparently, the fête of the Season was to take place in two months’ time. Everyone of importance would be there, and that number needed to include Theo. Lady Beatrice expected him to stand up with her in a dance not once, not twice, but thrice. Eyebrows would raise. People would whisper. And then they would announce the betrothal to gasps and applause so that Lady Beatrice would see her name in the Society papers, linked to his.

  Of course, he would not submit to such machinations. He had no wish to be gossiped about, and even less intention of allowing his future bride to preside over him like a puppet-master. Theo obeyed no one’s orders but his superior officers’ and his own.

  He opened the lid of the writing desk to examine its contents. Quills, ink, foolscap, a small cloth, a bit of sand. Everything one might require, if one had a message to dispatch. Unfortunately, he had no good news to impart, such as when his legs would walk again.

  Theo removed the writing table from his lap and placed it on the tea table. There was no sense penning unnecessary correspondence. He would write Lady Beatrice as soon as he could estimate a date for his return to London. For now, it was better for her to continue to imagine her “dashing war hero” off slaying enemies in France than rolling himself about in a wheeled chair because he was not strong enough to do aught else.

  He glanced down at his leg. As soon as it could support him again, he would return to London and make a formal offer. Not in a ballroom, but to Lady Beatrice’s father. She would be appeased, and more importantly, so would Theo’s sire.

  Theo’s lips twisted. Wedding the woman Father had chosen for him could be the missing piece to finally earn the marquess’s approval.

  Or at least a modicum of recognition.

  He slid a glance over at the writing desk. Theo supposed if he sent word to anyone, it ought to be his parents. His stomach tightened. He could already imagine Father’s familiar disappointment in his sole offspring. He had been furious when Theo went off to war. That he got himself injured would only serve to enrage the marquess further.

  For Father, oppressed, impoverished, or terror-stricken people were irrelevant. Especially those in foreign lands. All that mattered was the title. Which meant marrying well, bearing sons, and avoiding risking one’s neck in battle if one was the heir apparent to a marquessate. Did Theo want the title to go to some beggarly cousin? Where were his priorities?

  To some degree, Theo had wanted to get his hands on the marquessate his entire life. Not as a sudden inheritance after his father’s death, but as an opportunity to manage at least some small part of it side-by-side with his father while the marquess still lived.

  Theo had studied every journal of accounts endless times. Visited every inch of property they owned. Interviewed every tenant, every member of staff, to understand their roles and needs and abilities. Researched areas to improve, places to invest, opportunities for growth. By now, Theo knew the marques
sate even better than the worn book of poetry that never left his side.

  None of it mattered.

  Father had never once inquired about Theo’s opinion about any matter. He certainly had no interest in sharing an inch of control. It was perhaps one of the reasons Theo had gone off to war despite the risks. At home, he had no duties. He was useless.

  Theo wished to be useful. To be needed. To matter.

  Not decades hence, when he inherited the title and its accompanying position in the House of Lords. But today. Now. While he was young and strong and capable. Or had been.

  He was still young, at least, Theo reminded himself as his swollen knee throbbed and the fresh scars beneath his bandages hurt like the devil. He might not be strong or useful at this precise moment, but he would not rest until his body fully recovered.

  How long would that take? Would he be stuck in this village for weeks? Months?

  Theo rolled over to the window and slid his finger in the crack between the curtains. He gazed outside at the relentlessly beautiful view. Anyone could fall in love with a place like this. It wasn’t too far from his own country pile. Theo’s problem wasn’t the town of Christmas. His problem was—

  A familiar figure picked her way down the snow-packed lane. Today, Virginia was cloaked in a coat of berry red. In one gloved hand hung a large wicker basket. The black cat was nowhere to be seen.

  Theo let the curtain fall. No doubt the beast was imprisoned inside the basket. An intelligent precaution, but unnecessary. All the windows were closed tight today. Neither she nor her cat would be coming inside.

  The faint thud of a knock sounded from the other side of the cottage.

  Theo wheeled as fast as he could to throw open his chamber door and growled into the empty corridor, “I am not at home!”

  Scant moments later, the butler appeared with a calling card in his hands. “You have a guest.”

  “I am not receiving,” Theo enunciated.

  “I’ll add her card to the dish in the front parlor.” Swinton paused. “Shall I show her in there or do you prefer visitors here in your private drawing room?”