by Karen Ranney
How idiotic was that?
They discussed literature, languages, history. He’d even found himself expounding on his plans for a new racing stable. They argued politics, religion, women’s rights, and various other subjects he’d never once discussed with a male acquaintance.
“Never seen you look so down, Gordon. Deal fall through? Heard Martin is being stubborn.”
“He can keep his munitions works if he wants. I’ve offered him a fair price.”
“Then you don’t really want it. The word is out, you know.”
“I didn’t know I was that easily deciphered.”
“If you don’t want something, it’s not worth buying. Surely you’ve seen that most of the market follows your lead like carp? They’re bottom feeders, Gordon.”
At another time he might be amused by the analogy.
The orchestra was beginning again, and the girl with the fan was fluttering a little madly.
“You really should give her a go.”
“I don’t dance.”
His companion glanced at him. “There’s nothing to it, Gordon. You simply go out there and resign yourself to playing the fool. It’s done all the time.”
“Not by me.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not in search of a wife. It’s a requirement, you know.”
He fingered the box in his pocket. It was time to leave. He’d come to this idiotic evening to prove, at least to himself, that his life hadn’t changed in the past few weeks. He could go and come as he liked, unfettered by conscience or guilt. He’d enjoy himself, and when it was time, he’d return home.
The problem with his plan was that it didn’t work. He wasn’t enjoying himself, and he wanted to be home more than he wanted to be in company. Every woman of his acquaintance was either insipid or too obvious, and none of them was graced with wit or intelligence or the ability to tell him what she really thought.
None of them was Beatrice.
He bid farewell to the man at his side and spent the next quarter hour locating and saying good night to his host and hostess. That done, he made his way to the entrance and spent an enjoyable few minutes chatting with another man of his acquaintance while waiting for his carriage to be brought around.
When it arrived, he gave Peter a destination the driver knew well.
The interior lantern was lit and illuminated the necklace as he drew it out of its box. A magnificent collection of yellow diamonds. “A necklace fit for a queen,” the jeweler had said.
He hoped Felicia thought so as well.
Beatrice sat in the middle of Robert’s bed in the room Devlen had set aside as his. Unlike the Duke’s Chamber at Castle Crannoch, this room obviously belonged to a child. The walls were painted a soft blue, and there were blue silk draperies on the windows. There were three armoires aligned against one wall, and two of them held an abundance of toys, anything a duke—or any child—might want.
Beatrice was an observer as Robert arranged his toy soldiers around the pillows and featherbed coverlet. He had already described several battles to her, and since her knowledge of anything military was somewhat lacking, she could only nod sagely and pretend an interest she didn’t have.
From time to time she glanced at the mantel clock, then away, pretending the lateness of the hour didn’t matter. In actuality, she was conscious of the passing of every minute. Robert, however, having readied for bed, was professing to not being able to sleep.
“I feel like I might have a nightmare tonight, Miss Sinclair.”
Of course she hadn’t believed him. Was it even possible to predict when one might have bad dreams? Nor had Robert had any nightmares since leaving Castle Crannoch.
It wasn’t concern for him that held her there or allowed him to remain awake and playing. She was lonely and angry and sad, and all three emotions were keeping her unsettled. Perhaps a little guilt kept her here as well. She hadn’t been the best or most attentive governess since leaving the castle.
The last weeks had been part of an idyll, weeks of hedonistic pleasure, and if she made up for it by playing toy soldiers until midnight, then it was a small price to pay.
Still, he was yawning every few minutes.
Earlier, she and Robert had had their dinner on a tray. Devlen had a social engagement he’d had to attend, and the house was oddly empty without him.
As the minutes advanced, she was all too certain that, for the first time since coming to Edinburgh, she was going to spend the night alone.
Where was he? What was he doing?
The clock struck midnight, and despite Robert’s protests, she began to gather up his toy soldiers.
“If you don’t sleep now, or at least try, you will be worthless for your lessons tomorrow.”
He gave her a rude look, and she returned it with a strict expression.
“You’ll be too sleepy to go on an adventure.”
“An adventure? Are you bribing me, Miss Sinclair?”
“I believe I am, Robert. But we should explore Edinburgh a little, don’t you think? Perhaps we can go and find a sweet shop.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
He allowed her to tuck him in and light one lantern. It was hardly necessary. Devlen’s home was lit up as bright as a harvest moon.
He was the most unusual man she’d ever known, and the most fascinating.
“You haven’t had nightmares since we left Castle Crannoch, have you?”
He shook his head. “Castle Crannoch doesn’t feel like home,” he said, scooting up in the bed and gathering the sheet around him. “Not since my parents died.”
Since she felt the same way about her own little cottage, she only smiled.
There were some things a child, even one of seven, was certain to understand. Death was regrettably one of them. Loss of parents changed everything, made the world a dark and unfriendly place.
Beatrice stretched out her hand and smoothed back his hair. He yawned in response.
“Tell me a story. But not a fable.”
“They’re the only stories I know.”
“Tell me about when you were a little girl.”
“When I was little? How little?”
“My age.”
“You don’t seem very little at all. One moment you’re seven and the next you’re twenty-seven.”
“You’re avoiding the subject, Miss Sinclair.”
She smiled. “I am, actually. I haven’t had a very exciting life. My grandmother lived with us until her death, and it was from her that I learned French. When she died we came to live at Kilbridden Village. I was almost twelve. I remember because two days after we arrived was my birthday.”
“Did you have a celebration? Get a present?”
She shook her head. “There was so much chaos no one remembered. It wasn’t until nearly a month later my mother realized it.”
“I should have had a fit, Miss Sinclair. No one should forget my birthday. It’s June 26,” he added for good measure.
“I shall make a note of it.”
“But where did you live before?”
“In a small house on the border of Scotland and England. A very small farm but a lovely place. I don’t remember very much about it, but I know I was happy.” She tucked the sheet around his shoulders. “That is the extent of my adventures. See, I told you I didn’t have a very exciting life.”
“Didn’t you have any friends?”
“My very best friend lived at Kilbridden Village. I met her on my birthday, as a matter of fact. Her name was Sally.”
“Is she still your friend?”
Sally had been among those who’d died in the cholera epidemic. On the day Sally had died, a storm had suddenly appeared, turbulent and wild, stripping the branches bare until it appeared to be raining leaves. The birds had ceased their song, and even the raindrops, dripping ponderously from the heavens, were more like tears.
But for Robert’s benefit, she only nodded.
“But w
hat’s all these questions about friends?”
“I haven’t any. I’m the Duke of Brechin. Shouldn’t I have friends?”
She bent and before he could draw away, kissed him on the forehead. “Indeed you will. When you go away to school, perhaps.”
“Why not here in Edinburgh?”
“I shall have to send out notices to all my business acquaintances, I see. Announce to all of them the Duke of Brechin is accepting visitors, but only those around the age of seven.” Devlen strode into the room.
Robert grinned. “Could you do that?”
Beatrice turned and smiled at Devlen. He was so utterly handsome, her heart stilled at the sight of him.
She stood and walked around the end of the bed.
Devlen joined her there and grabbed her hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss her knuckles.
“How have you been?”
“In the four hours since you’ve been gone? Fine.”
He bent his head, but just before his lips met hers, he glanced to the side.
“Turn your head, Robert. I’m about to kiss your governess senseless.”
“I’m a duke,” Robert said. “I should learn about such things.”
“Not at this particular moment. And not from me.”
He turned her so his back was to Robert’s bed, and proceeded to kiss her until her lips were numb.
“May I escort you to your room?” he asked when he released her.
“I would like that.”
She stood at the doorway and watched Robert for a moment. “Sleep well.”
He feigned sleep for a moment before opening his eyes. “I’m hungry.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Tomorrow.”
He sighed dramatically. “Good night, Miss Sinclair.”
“Good night, Robert.”
“Good night, Devlen.”
“Go to sleep,” Devlen said. He still held her hand, and she felt as if they were children themselves, walking swiftly down the corridor to the next wing. For the first time, she was grateful for his advance planning in having installed her in a room far from Robert’s.
Instead of saying farewell to her at her door, he opened it and stepped aside. When she entered the room, he followed her and closed the door behind him.
They were immersed in shadows. The darkness gave her a freedom she’d never before felt. She linked her hands to the back of his neck and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss against his lips.
“Thank you,” she softly said.
“Why am I being thanked?”
“For your kindness to Robert.”
“Anyone would be kind to the child,” he said.
“Someone isn’t.”
“Must we talk about that at this moment?”
“Must we talk?”
“Beatrice, I’m shocked.”
“Are you?” She reached up to kiss his smiling mouth.
“The dress looks very complicated.”
“On the contrary, it is supremely easy.”
He placed both hands at her waist, his thumbs meeting in the front. Slowly, he drew them upward until he cupped both of her breasts.
“Have you many dresses? I would just as soon tear this one from you.”
“I only have three, and before you suggest it, no, I shall not accept any clothing from you.”
“How did you know I was going to offer?”
“It sounds like something you’d do. You’re very generous.”
He bent and placed his cheek against hers. “I’m not especially generous with other people, Beatrice, but I find myself wanting to give you things.”
“Then restrain yourself with the knowledge I will not accept them.”
“Do you dance?”
“Dance?” She pulled back to look at him, but the room was too dark to see his expression. “I do. Country dances mostly. Why?”
“I’d dance with you. I just realized that tonight.”
“You would? How very sweet of you to say that.”
“I’m not sweet. I despise the word.”
“Very well. You’re kind and well-mannered.”
“If I am, it’s because you summon forth my better nature.”
Slowly and with great dexterity, he unfastened her bodice, and spread it wide, unlacing her stays with such skill it was as if his fingers could see in the darkness.
In a matter of moments she was down to her shift, her dress thrown on the nearest chair, along with her stays.
Her fingers found his coat, eased it off his shoulders, uncaring it fell to the floor. His waistcoat was next, and she unbuttoned it with the same skill he’d shown earlier. Over the past weeks, they’d learned each other’s clothing. His shirt came next. She unbuttoned one button and bent forward to kiss his bare chest. Another button, another kiss.
While she was intent upon removing his clothing, he was equally intent upon learning her curves beneath her shift. His hands roamed from her shoulders to her elbows to her hips to her buttocks and up her back, soothing strokes that made her shiver.
They were matched in sensuality, the only part of their lives where they were equals. His wealth was enormous, his position enviable, his possessions covetable. Her status was not so high-flown, and she had nothing to her name but a cottage and the contents of a well-worn valise. No one would ever clamor for her presence at dinner, and there would not be hordes of invitations awaiting her perusal as there were for him daily.
Suddenly, she was in his arms, and he was taking her to bed. This loving would be slower, less fevered, and perhaps more devastating. There was a component of tenderness now that made her want to simply hold him to her. She framed his face with her hands and kissed him sweetly.
Don’t ever forget me.
They didn’t speak, didn’t tease each other with words.
When he entered her, a lifetime later, she arched off the bed, a small gasp of wonder escaping her.
“Please,” she said, knowing he was the only one who could end this eternal wanting.
When it ended, and she was sated, she turned in his arms, exhausted. She heard him whisper her name, just before she slid into sleep, feeling safe and protected for the first time in a very long time.
Devlen left the bed and donned enough clothes so that he wouldn’t shock a footman if he were seen. He left her room, soundlessly closing the door behind him.
The lovemaking was one thing, but it had a remarkable ability to put him in a reflective mood, and he was damn tired of feeling guilty about Beatrice Sinclair.
She was driving him mad.
He wanted her constantly, and it was obvious she felt the same. But her conscience was evidently not bothering her as much as his; witness the fact she’d rolled over and gone to sleep, and he was prowling through his home like some nocturnal creature.
He should leave her alone. Why couldn’t he?
He should send her back to her village with enough money to live for the rest of her life. A dowry, if you will. She’d marry a farmer, maybe a brewer or a shopkeeper, and bring to that union assets of her own.
Why should he banish her?
Because hiding in the shadows was no life for a woman like her. Because he was not used to skulking around like a passion-crazed weakling who couldn’t get enough of a woman.
Because he didn’t want to keep her as his mistress.
She was probably better educated than he was, and no doubt had a more traditional upbringing. Her manners were impeccable, her speech upper-class, and she had an annoying tendency to be right during most of their arguments.
Then why treat her like a doxy on the London wharves?
Damn it.
Chapter 27
When Beatrice awoke Devlen was gone. Her first thought was that she missed him, and her second was that she was being foolish. He hadn’t been in her life long enough for her to miss him. He wasn’t firmly fixed in place, wasn’t someone to whom she could point with pride and announce he b
elonged to her.
Devlen Gordon was so much himself that the idea of him belonging to anyone was amusing.
The snow was full on the ground, and they were months away from spring. The squirrels were hiding away in their burrows, and there was a wild and fierce wind blowing against the building, but nevertheless the day looked to be one of promise. She felt like the happiest person alive. Was that tempting Providence?
The garment she chose was a dark blue dress with red piping along the cuffs and collar. It was cinched at the waist and fastened up the front. Very proper attire by any standards. Perhaps not grand enough for a guest at Devlen’s Edinburgh home, nevertheless, it was the best of her three dresses and must do.
In the last three weeks, Devlen had tried to convince her to accept the services of a dressmaker, and she’d repeatedly declined. It was one thing to engage in an idyll, sharing weeks of hedonism for the sake of it. Quite another to be kept openly like a mistress.
Devlen’s mistress. The label should have shocked her, and the fact it didn’t was an indication of how utterly depraved she’d become.
She left her chamber and went to Robert’s room, not unduly surprised to find it empty. The child was no doubt down in the kitchen again. He was often to be found there, chatting away with the cook and her helpers, and stuffing himself full of purloined treats.
The staff had still not warmed to her, and she wasn’t surprised. During the day, she and Devlen practiced a careful avoidance of each other in front of the servants. Were they fooling any of them? Or was the staff at this enormous home busy speculating behind closed doors about the master and the governess?
She found her way to the kitchens, and there was Robert, perched on a chair, one hand braced on the top of the table, the other in a large ceramic bowl.
At the sight of her, he grinned.
Evidently, the Duke of Brechin was in the process of picking another biscuit. One or a dozen, she couldn’t be certain. A selection was already arrayed on the table in front of him.
She reached him and brushed off the crumbs from the front of his shirt.
