Forbidden to the Duke

by Liz Tyner

  His head moved only an inch to each side as he shook it, but his eyes didn’t move at all. They remained locked on her. ‘Miss Cherroll. Please be comfortable. I am just as at ease wherever I sit.’

  She raised her chin in acknowledgement of his words. ‘I have been here too long. When I saw my family today, I realised how much I miss them. I…’ She moved back, planning to tell him she would have to leave.

  ‘My mother just stormed into the dining room where I was eating,’ he said. ‘She insists you are being contrary.’

  ‘I would not say I am the contrary one,’ she said.

  He turned to her, eyes shining, lips upturned. ‘I would say you are, but with a definite purpose. You annoy her to keep her mind from dwelling on other things.’

  ‘I suppose I must go see how she is faring.’ But her feet didn’t move.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Sit for a moment with me. I think you owe me,’ he said. ‘I soothed my mother and kept her from searching you out. She checked your room, by the way.’

  She sat, but kept her back straight. ‘I think you are contrary, too.’

  ‘Very.’ He sat on the sofa, legs stretched in front of him, one booted foot rocking back and forth on its heel. ‘But you do not need to go to my mother right now. She is currently looking for my valet. I have told her when I go to London next, I am going to purchase a waistcoat and cannot decide on the right colour to go with yellow stripes. She is hoping to convince my valet of the proper garments I should buy so I do not look like I have lost my wits.’

  ‘She tires me. All the sadness. It just reminds me of my own. I sit with her and have to remember that I am alive today. All of yesterday is gone. I must be alive for today or I will have nothing.’

  ‘I just study the ledgers or read when I am lost in sad memories.’

  ‘Or ride your horse, or check on the stablemen or write letters to your man of affairs.’

  He stared at her. ‘How do you know all that?’

  ‘I wake many times in the night and it is too silent. My sisters were always with me when I was young. My mother near. Now I wake up and the room is so large and I am alone in it, so I move about the house. I was— I see you writing at night. I have been in the hallway many times and noticed the light from the open library door. I hear the shuffle of your papers and your sighs.’

  ‘I do not sigh.’

  She took in a deep breath, looked at him, parted her lips and imitated the sound of a weary sigh.

  He shook his head in disagreement.

  ‘And you grumble. I do not even have to be near the door to hear you complaining to the paper.’

  ‘Next time, just walk into the room.’

  She settled back into the chair and let her fingers rest on the arms. ‘You must have many sad memories if you spend so much time working not to think of them.’

  ‘A few. Mainly of my brother. We pretended to be jousting knights. We had fencing duels. We took our lessons together. He never was as robust as I, but I never expected him to die, even when he got very sick. I wasn’t even here at the time. Now I ask myself, how could I have not known?’

  ‘I hate sadness. Sometimes the duchess’s melancholy almost swallows me.’

  ‘She was not this way before. Not always gentle, but never was she like this. She’s not the same person.’ He raised a brow. ‘I understand quite well. If you need someone to make you angry to take your mind from your sadness, search me out. I will do my best.’ He gave a definitive nod of his head.

  ‘That is kind of you.’ She smiled. ‘But I don’t wish to be angry.’

  ‘How does a person slap you with their words?’

  ‘By criticising my clothes or my hair. Telling me how I should act. Disparaging my boots.’ She kicked out her hem of her dress. ‘I like my boots even if no one else does.’

  Her chest flooded with warmth. His eyes. He appraised her with something she recognised as laughter, but it was also mixed with the same look Warrington often gave her sister. In this moment, she could look at the duke directly and feel cosseted by his eyes.

  ‘I cannot understand why your boots aren’t revered. It’s quite interesting how one even appears bigger than the other.’ His voice flowed smoothly. ‘And the toe appears to have a chunk out of it.’

  ‘I disarmed a trap with it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have used a stick.’ He studied her and, even as he commented on her footwear, he complimented her with his eyes and voice.

  ‘I did the next time.’

  ‘I will be happy to have those beautiful boots replaced for you with an even more lovely pair.’

  ‘No. But thank you, Your Grace.’

  ‘I assure you, I can have someone fashion such suitable, extraordinary footwear that your toes will sing.’

  ‘You cannot have more suitable boots made for me because these are perfect. And I hope you do find a yellow-silk waistcoat with something fashionable painted on it. Perhaps blue slippers.’ She lowered her chin. ‘You would like to discuss my hair next?’

  ‘Hair like that…’ His eyes wandered away. ‘A man does not want to discuss it.’

  She tightened her jaw.

  But when he looked back at her, his eyes had changed. He’d lost the look that made her feel she knew him. ‘I’m sure Byron could find something to say about your hair much better than I could.’

  She wanted to bring back the feeling of companionship between them. ‘Try,’ she challenged.

  He frowned. ‘No. I am no poet.’

  ‘You are every moment the duke?’

  He gazed at her hair and his voice dropped to a whisper before his gaze took control of her. ‘I do not have to touch it to feel it against my skin. A caress. Unequalled by any other woman’s fingertips.’

  The explosions in her body took her breath. ‘I forgive you for what you said about my boots.’

  ‘I am fond of your half-boots.’ The seriousness left his face. ‘They are quite serviceable, you do not have to have a valet to care for them and they do cover your feet well.’

  She looked at her feet. ‘That is the first nice thing anyone has ever said about them and I do think it might be the worst as well.’

  He shook his head. ‘It might be. But you find them comfortable and you wear them and you do not care if they are not quite the thing. You like them and so they are on your feet. That is all that matters.’

  She half-nodded. They also held her knife. ‘They are indeed serviceable.’ But most importantly, they made her feel safe.

  Only even with the knife hidden in her boot, she’d still not recovered her ability to sleep well after the attacks she experienced on the ship from Greece to England—first from Stephanos and his men and then later from the crewman who had tried to strangle her.

  She’d been asleep when the pirate, Stephanos, had attacked the ship and she’d only woken when Thessa had burst into the room after everything had ended and Captain Ben had secured their safety. Realising she could have awakened to find her sister gone for ever had terrified her.

  Stephanos had always watched every move Thessa made when he saw her and when she and Bellona had fled Melos by swimming to the ship of Captain Ben—whose brother, Warrington, had taken Melina from the island—Stephanos and his men had followed them. The group had included the man who had wanted to marry Bellona… He had the demon’s eyes. Eyes that darkened to a soulless pit. All the demons in her dreams had devouring eyes. And they always, always had the same scent of rotted eggs, while jagged-edged black earth crunched under her feet when she ran from a man with eyes growing darker and darker as he came closer and closer.

  Captain Ben and his men had fought off the invaders and defeated Stephanos. The pirates had had no choice but to retreat and allow the Englishmen to leave with Thessa and Bellona on board.

  ‘I must keep my boots nearby me at all times.’ She studied Rhys’s face.

  ‘I feel the same about mine.’

  She looked at his feet. ‘Your valet is quite good
.’

  ‘I surround myself with the best.’

  She gave the merest nod of acknowledgment and let the thoughts rummage around in her head. She chose something safer to mention.

  ‘Your mother still says I must leave and when I agree with her, she becomes even more angry. She doesn’t want me to go, but she doesn’t want me to stay.’

  Nothing about him moved, except the rocking of his boot, until he spoke. ‘Before you came here, countless times, every day, my mother said she prayed to die.’

  He stood, towering up, but she did not feel frightened. ‘I would like you to stay. You have no notion how much better she is today than the day before you came. She has not summoned anyone but me since Geoff died. She has not looked at fashion plates since my sister died. You have roused her spirit.’

  His eyes stayed on hers. ‘You’ve been a boon to me in so many ways.’

  Looking up, she could only nod.

  ‘If she becomes too much for you to bear, seek me out. Any time of the day or night.’

  He left. The glass remained along with the lingering scent of shaving soap and leather from the chair. She’d not noticed it before. It had the same earthiness of the duke and it surrounded her on three sides—an embrace.

  Chapter Seven

  Bellona shut the duchess’s door with the lightest of clicks and stood in the hallway. Then she made a gesture she’d seen the sailors use.

  The older woman deserved respect, but certainly did not earn it. She’d called Bellona an ungrateful bumble-knot. A foreign muddle-mind. A featherhead.

  The woman had been unwilling to accept that Bellona did not want to learn to read English, had managed just fine so far without such a habit, and the letters did not all stick in her head.

  Bellona had explained she couldn’t read that much in Melos as she hadn’t had books and with so much work to do there hadn’t really been time. Then she’d been told she was not in Melos now and discovered that the duchess and Bellona’s own father had a similar way of expressing their ire. They waged a war on her ears.

  Bellona had promised to search out a book and study it—because that was the only way to finally quiet the woman and escape.

  The library was empty. Bellona pulled out the first book she saw, opened it, shuddered and, with a thunk, slid it back on to the shelf. That one was not even in English. She did not know the language at all.

  Poetry might be ideal, she mused. That was why people liked poems. A poem did not require as much reading.

  If she memorised a verse of a poem that she could recite in a mournful voice and become too carried away to finish… She could honestly claim it to be her favourite verse and favourite book and perhaps that would satisfy the duchess.

  Bellona searched until she found a volume of poetry with a long introductory section at the beginning. She skipped that.

  Bellona sat in the library with the book, staring at the few bits of words she recognised and the pleasant white space, knowing she would have to study the dribs of ink in more detail.

  Pages. Pages and pages. Whoever invented paper must have hated everyone. Whoever decided to put words into sentences should have had to sit in a room with nothing else but paper and ink and a pen and write for the rest of his life.

  But this family placed importance on books and if books meant something to them then Bellona would try to read. Especially if it might make the long stretches of night move more quickly.

  She tried to sound out the first word. E. X. P. O. S. T. The next letter, U, she did not recall at all. L. A. T. I. O. N. She did not remember enough to read even the first word. She groaned at the fifth line. Books. That word she could read. This poem had books in it, which made no sense at all.

  The duke strode into the room. He still wore the clothes of the day, but had discarded his coat. His sleeves would have been out of place on Melos, too much cloth and very white. The waistcoat, obsidian, and the night, took the lightness from his face, creating a cold look which reminded her of the marble pieces she’d seen on her island. They were all crushed and broken, though, and he didn’t appear possible to shatter.

  His face showed the beard trying to poke through for morning. He raked his fingers through his hair.

  ‘I thought you did not like books.’

  She could not make out the first word of the title. She held it up so he could see. ‘I don’t. This biblio…’

  He walked closer, bringing all the pleasant scents of the outside with him. He’d been riding. Leather and wool blended into the air.

  ‘Lyrical Ballads,’ he read aloud.

  She gave a sideways turn of her head. ‘I have read enough of it.’

  His eyebrows rose in question.

  Nodding, she admitted, ‘One word was enough. I even like embroidery better than reading. At least when you finish sewing you have something to show for it. When you finish a book, you still have the same pages you started with and tired eyes.’

  ‘You’ve not read the right story.’

  ‘I’ve not read any book.’ She stood. ‘I do not have to eat a tree to know if I would like how it tastes.’

  ‘Sit for a moment,’ he said, indicating the sofa. He walked to the shelves behind the sofa.

  ‘Do not try to make me read.’

  He tugged a book out and held it so she could see the title. ‘This is a tale you cannot help but enjoy. I’ll give you a primer on it.’

  ‘Does your mana like the story?’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Of course Mother likes the book. Everyone does.’

  ‘She expects me to read to her. She said when she holds out the book far enough to read the letters, her arms collapse.’

  ‘She has spectacles. She refuses to wear them when anyone is near.’

  ‘Spectacles? Then I will not worry about reading. If she wishes to read badly enough, she will do it herself.’

  He rested the book against the top of the sofa back. ‘Perhaps you could just read some Robinson Crusoe to her. If you do not like it, then you can truly say you do not like books.’

  ‘If I do not like him, then you will believe me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She settled into the edge of the sofa, her back straight. A crease appeared between his brows, but then his attention returned to the book in his hand.

  Letting him worry about the words would be so much easier than doing it herself.

  He moved to the chair across from her, whisking the lamp along with him and setting it at the side. He took up much more of the area than she’d believed possible. ‘Listen.’

  He read aloud for a few moments and his voice became like a soft thunder off in the distance when rain was needed. Something pleasant and hopeful. Her thoughts were pulled along with his words.

  ‘Wait,’ she interrupted.

  He looked up from the words, his brows knit again, and that caused her own face to tighten.

  ‘You are reading about a man who is being told to be happy he is not of higher birth—that to be born in a situation of middling life, not poor, not wealthy, is the best. Is that how you feel?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He turned back to the book, reading again. ‘The writer was correct for Crusoe, but not for everyone.’

  ‘Wait,’ she interrupted a second time. ‘The older man is crying. You cannot like that.’

  ‘Perhaps you should not really listen,’ he said, not raising his eyes. ‘But only sit there and pretend—to please me.’ He took a breath, frowned and said, softly, ‘Imagine I am enjoying reading the book and would like to have your company while I do so.’

  He continued reading aloud.

  Her company, she mused. What an odd thing to say. She intended to tell him she did not want to listen, but when she opened her mouth to speak, his voice increased and his words filled the air. She leaned back in her chair and his tone returned to normal.

  She crossed her arms in annoyance, but the story wasn’t so terrible. After a few moments she relaxed. If reading made him happy, she could pr
etend to listen.

  The duke read of the man’s age. He was only a few years younger than Bellona’s age of twenty-two and he was planning to go on a sea voyage. Bellona shut her eyes and leaned back with a sigh the duke could not have missed. She’d been on a ship. If one liked bland sea biscuits and ale—in a gaol surrounded by water—then sailing was the best place of all to be.

  Now, the tale told of the young man’s mana trying to dissuade him from travelling. She nodded in agreement. If her own mother had lived, Bellona would never have stepped on the ship and left her.

  Bellona shut her eyes and listened, letting her arms relax. His voice could make even the tale of sailing sound pleasant.

  He paused a moment, but she didn’t look at him and he continued reading.

  She listened to every word and time vanished.

  When his voice stopped, her eyes opened.

  ‘See, reading isn’t bad.’ He handed her the book still warm from his hands. ‘Finish the story and then tell me you don’t like it.’

  She challenged him with her eyes, and smiled. ‘I really cannot read English.’ She’d been so determined to forget every word of English her sister had taught her. Forced it from her mind, but now she wished she’d kept the knowledge. Not that she wanted to open a book any more than she wanted her skin scraped with thorns, but perhaps her mind might change.

  ‘No matter.’ He tossed the words aside. ‘As a gift to you for spending your time with my mother, I will have a tutor installed here.’

  ‘The dancing master didn’t work out.’ A tutor. She shuddered. Brambles in human form.

  The duke’s lids flickered just a bit. ‘I am sure I can find someone you get on well with.’

  ‘I am not educated. Warrington saw no reason for me to be taught if I did not wish it.’

  ‘I do not care if that is how Warrington feels. It is a gift. From me to you.’ He spoke as if the words were straight from some ecclesiastical scribe.

  ‘I will consider it,’ she said finally. It would not take her long.

  ‘Yes. I am sure you will. In the meantime, I will have someone go to London tomorrow to collect a tutor for you.’

  Bellona shook her head, eyes never leaving the duke.