Forbidden to the Duke

by Liz Tyner

  The palm of his hand tingled and burned. The cut had opened twice in the morning, but each time he’d cared for it and the bleeding had stopped.

  His morning meal had not gone well. The rasher of bacon left a tallow coating in his mouth and he’d had to wash it away with a drink of chocolate—even that had not been quite right. He’d almost sent to have the cook try again, but he just was not hungry. Eating with his left hand made everything taste off.

  The day’s lashing rain splattered against the window and Rhys only had the ledger books in front of him so he could look busy if someone walked in. The sums were not terrible, but rather the way he’d hoped them to be. Everything soured before his eyes because of his thoughts concerning Bellona. The woman had injured him and he had fallen at her feet. If his mother had known how simple it could be, she would have been arming all the ladies of the ton with knives in their reticules.

  This morning, he did not expect to see Bellona moving about the house. She wouldn’t be going out to practise archery because of the weather and she’d not slept much.

  The decision to leave for London had been taken out of his hands. The roads from his home would be difficult for a carriage and the trip wasn’t a good idea. He would get stuck. But he was already mired.

  How many times must he go wrong in order to recognise the right path?

  His proximity to Bellona had merely misled him. Misdirected him. Natural enough.

  He’d relived a certain kiss a thousand times and cursed himself a thousand-and-one times. What if he’d only kissed her because he’d been so long without a woman’s touch? Or worse, what if he had kissed her because she was like a meandering stream, winding and winding and seeming to be just a trickle until it pooled into something so wondrous the eyes could not believe it?

  He could not do this to her.

  His father would have counselled him. He would have shaken his head and closeted himself in a room with his son. They would have discussed the events. Or rather his father would have guided Rhys.

  His father’s main responses would have been, ‘I see. That sounds interesting. I hadn’t thought of it that way. What of the other people involved? Your future children? What kind of mother will best raise your son to be a duke? Help your daughters to make the best marriages? This is not a decision for you. It is a decision for your future heirs. And what of Bellona? What is right for her?’

  He forced the thoughts away, determined to make the best decision for everyone.

  His sister, his father and Geoff’s deaths had pounded his heart into dust. He could not resurrect it and expect to have the strength to carry on with his father’s legacy. To let the lands and the estate go to a cousin, while the remains of all those he’d loved would reside here for eternity, was something he could not risk.

  He had no choice but to marry a suitable woman, and he had no true heart left to give her. Perhaps that was why Louisa was the perfect wife. He’d not seen any real affection for him in her eyes.

  If Louisa died in childbed, and left a child behind, he would be able to care for it and continue on.

  He had courted her quietly while his brother was alive, knowing that his brother wanted Louisa—and why not, she was the perfect duchess. Geoff was no fool. Louisa’s head wasn’t easily swayed. Her thoughts were not altered by a duke pulling her one direction or his brother tugging her another, determined, on this one thing, to win.

  When Geoff had died, the letters Louisa sent Rhys had been written in almost the same tone he would have expected from his man of affairs and he had responded similarly. Letter after letter exchanged—with little more personal nature than those he might have sent to Simpson. He’d saved every letter. Every one, and read them over and over, and each one convinced him even more of her suitability. The guilt he felt at courting the woman Geoff had planned to wed only flared occasionally. Now he wanted her for another reason. After he observed the mourning period, he had told himself, he would ask her to marry him.

  Rhys had once believed his heart was in the right place. Perhaps. He no longer needed to think about that or question himself. He needed to go forward. Perhaps putting his body in the right place would cause his heart to produce the right response. Louisa knew what was expected of her in the role of duchess. Knew the ways of society. She was pleasant. Kind. Thoughtful. Perfect.

  He didn’t love her. To love someone else—to release his heart to them, was impossible. He could not give what he no longer had.

  *

  ‘Rhys.’ His mother stood in the doorway, whispering loudly. Rhys jolted as if caught in an illicit embrace.

  He collected his ducal mien and with his left hand scratched a jagged figure on the page before him. His mother had not entered the library in a long time. ‘Yes, Mother?’

  ‘The maid said…’ The duchess rushed to his side. ‘She mentioned a cut on your hand. The footman saw it when you were eating.’

  ‘It’s nothing to concern yourself over.’

  ‘Let me see it.’

  He held out his hand, keeping the palm almost closed so the slice wouldn’t open again.

  She gasped, her thin fingers reaching out to hold the sides of his hand. ‘How…?’

  ‘It was just an accident.’

  She clasped her hands to her heart. ‘I cannot. I cannot lose you, too.’

  ‘I am planning to stay alive for quite some time, Mother. Please do not try to get rid of me so quickly.’

  ‘This is not a jesting matter. You—’ She turned and reached to summon a servant. ‘I am sending for the physician now.’ Her voice rose to almost a scream. Her body shook.

  ‘My babies. They cannot all die. I cannot be left by all my babies, Rhys. Can you not see that?’

  ‘I am almost recovered now, Mother. It is not my time to die.’

  ‘We must have the Prince’s physician. We must.’

  He took his time with each word, hoping to calm her. ‘If my hand becomes infected, we’ll send for the man, but the roads are too bad for him to travel.’

  ‘It will be too late by then. Look at it,’ she said, again clasping her hands to her heart. She collapsed on to the sofa, her voice rising. ‘I cannot live through this again. I cannot.’

  Bellona ran into the room. ‘Is he bleeding?’

  ‘Bellona. He is injured. Badly. His face is feverish. His hand must be infected.’ She clasped her head. ‘My baby.’

  ‘He is dying?’ Concern flashed in her face.

  ‘No more than I was this—last—yesterday.’ He did not wish his mother to know the truth. ‘I have a cut on my hand, Bellona.’ He spoke precisely. ‘A simple cut. That is all.’

  ‘I did not mean for this to happen. I cannot live with myself if you die,’ Bellona said.

  ‘He is my only…’ The duchess stared at Bellona in bewilderment. ‘He is all I have left.’

  ‘Ladies.’ Rhys’s voice calmed them. ‘I am only slightly injured. Not dead. Please do not hurry my demise along by wearying me to death.’

  His mother rose, pushing herself up. ‘A mother should not outlive all her children and have no grandchildren to carry on. It is not just.’ She looked at Rhys, but her question was directed to the winds. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ She put her arms out. ‘What have my children done?’

  ‘Nothing, Mother.’ He moved to her and held out his hand. ‘See. A little cut. I’m fine.’

  ‘You promise me you will not die. You must promise.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  She snatched his wrist. ‘I will keep you to it.’ Tears pooled. ‘And you will give me grandchildren? Soon, Rhys. Promise you will give me grandchildren soon. I want to hold them before I die. You must go to London as soon as the roads are safe.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bellona put her hands over her ears even though no one spoke in the room and she was alone. How many times in how many ways had the duchess said how much she missed her family and how Rhys must wed som
eone from his own world? And how many times had his mother expressed her fear that he might now die if the cut in his hand became putrid?

  Rhys had spent the morning calming his mother while Bellona listened, watching his hand to make sure it no longer bled. After he’d left the room, his mother had talked of nothing else but her younger son for hours. Then the discourse had travelled through each deceased family member and five handkerchiefs.

  Bellona waited until the duchess tired herself into a nap. Robinson Crusoe was in the room at the servants’ quarters. Perhaps she had found a man whom she could spend the rest of her days with, this Mr Crusoe, not that she particularly cared for him, but at least he did not have a mother nearby.

  Rhys was in the library. She knew it. She could almost follow his movements inside the house without ever seeing him. He varied little from his usual paths and when he did she could tell by the activity that changed in the household. A different servant would be at the stair or she’d hear his horse outside, or a scent of some baked treat brought upstairs would waft her way.

  He had told his mother the roads would be better the next day and he would leave for London. Bellona could not let him go without seeing him again.

  She walked into the library.

  Rhys sat at his desk. He didn’t have the usual ledgers in front of him, but a chessboard with several pieces resting to the side and most on the board. His right arm lay on the desk and he moved a white pawn with his left hand.

  He turned to her. Sensations of their kiss returned to her body, but this time, his eyes created the warmth swirling inside her.

  She could stay at the door, safe, far enough away from him, or she could step inside. She moved forward, unable to do otherwise. ‘The duchess was quite fractious today—your injury on the anniversary of Geoff’s death.’

  He nodded. ‘I thought to leave so she might not learn of my hand, but decided it was not for the best, because of the date.’ He moved a black knight.

  ‘You have no opponent?’ she asked.

  ‘Not for this game.’ He grinned at her. ‘If you are unarmed, you may join me.’

  ‘I have no knife,’ she said, then answered the question in his eyes. ‘Or weapon of any kind. Nothing that can jab or hurt you except my hairpins.’

  ‘I suppose one must take progress where it is found.’ He nodded to the board. ‘Do you wish to play?’

  She shook her head. Another thing she could not do. ‘How is your injury?’ she asked Rhys, stopping near his hand.

  She waited, moving closer. He turned his palm towards her. The gash was closed, the skin around it slightly puffy, but reassuringly healthy.

  ‘The valet has told me he has seen a man recover after having his leg cut off,’ he said, ‘and that his own father died from a toothache. He said when it’s my time to go, something will find me. But he said it’s not my time to go. He knows this because he peered at the whites of my eyes and pinched the top of my foot. The best check of all, he said, was to slap a cold cloth across my face. I almost let him, but when I declined, he said I passed his test.’

  ‘I have hidden my knife, even from myself. It is with my bow and arrows.’

  ‘Do you continue with the nightmares?’

  ‘I have had dark ones, but I’m fighting back with the knife in my dreams now. It’s much better, and when I wake I tell myself I can shout for help. I remind myself I can scream out.’

  ‘Is my mother treating you well?’

  ‘Well enough. She asked me to read to her again. A letter she’d saved from your sister this time. I could read most of it, and when I did not know a word she was able to tell me without looking. She said I have progressed much with my reading.’

  ‘She is correct.’ Gently spoken words.

  ‘As a mother must be,’ she said. ‘When I have my own children she assures me I will understand.’

  ‘I think you understand perfectly well now.’

  She stepped to the mantel and noticed a vase, not as tall as her hand, had been added. Primroses were tucked into it, their perfume so delicate she’d not noticed until she stood near the flowers. She brushed one yellow petal, feather-soft. ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘You didn’t want to leave your island. But you did. It was for the best.’

  ‘Best for me?’ She let laughter into her words.

  ‘Yes. It has not turned out so bad, surely?’

  ‘No. I cannot mind. I know how things must be.’

  ‘I cherish those thoughts. I would not want you unhappy.’

  ‘I’m not. Though I don’t know that I wish to live on Warrington’s estate any longer or live in London. I do not think I should stay here now. I want to have true contentment.’

  ‘Do you truly know what you need for that?’

  ‘Yes.’ She met his eyes. ‘I have known since I was a child.’

  She went to the bookshelves and knew just where to find the Cobwebs book, seeing that she had placed it back there. She pulled the book out and looked at the title again. ‘I thought about how Mana would have rejoiced to see her daughters so well placed. She would have bargained with the heavens that she would suffer so her daughters would not have to. And perhaps she made a bargain in another way to give us more. So when I feel sadness, because she could not share this life with me, I tell myself it is not so bad. She would have been joyous to know how bountiful my life is. And I will not let her struggles be for nothing. I will not.’

  She traced a finger over the cover of the book where his hand had rested. ‘I even know what would cause me the greatest of unhappiness. The union my mother had.’

  *

  Rhys had to gaze at her. He had no choice. He turned. That crown of hair she wore would topple around her shoulders some day and the man who could see it every day would fall to his knees and give thanks.

  ‘What did your father tell you about love?’ she asked. ‘Your mother has mentioned it to me.’

  ‘He said if the head could lead, the heart would follow. He said many men have lost their families, their lives and their world by trusting the most untrue organs of the body. He said the heart lies. A man’s body lies. But he must separate himself from that and look from a distance. I thought them wise words, but he could not have known he did not need to say them to me.’

  ‘The Robinson Crusoe. It was your father’s book first?’ Her lips quirked up and her expression nearly felled him. This moment was the most precious one of his life. He felt the strength of the world inside him as some mystical force flowed from her eyes, igniting a flame within him.

  ‘I’m certain,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Crusoe. A man who wanted adventure and then spent most of his life alone. I don’t think I will finish it after all.’

  He looked at her long enough to see the smile in her lips and the sadness in her eyes. ‘I want you to take the copy of Crusoe when you go. You may sell it if you wish. I will never read it again. It would always make me think of you alone on the island of Melos.’

  ‘I would not sell this book. Perhaps I should read it at night when I cannot sleep. I could see how truthful the book is.’

  At his side, she took his cut hand, examining it closely. ‘I think you will live.’

  ‘I think we both will,’ he said.

  He reached out with his other hand and let his forefinger touch her skin. She accepted the movement as one might let raindrops linger on the face. His caress slid over the contours of her cheekbone, feeling the silk. One fingertip was not enough. He stretched his hand so he could sweep more of her into his senses.

  ‘I never thought dark colours could be so bright,’ he murmured. ‘Your eyes. They shimmer.’

  His fingers moved to the valley at the side of her temple, where her cheekbone rose. ‘They linger in my sight. They take my soul and hang on to it.’ He ran his touch over her nose. ‘You were created for a warrior god.’

  She shook her head, but not enough to move from his fingers, but to brush against them. ‘I am blemished. More so than my
sisters.’

  He chuckled. ‘Marred? That could not be possible.’

  Her nod moved her closer. ‘I have a longing mark.’

  ‘That cannot be bad.’

  ‘My sisters’ marks are brown, almost the shape of hearts, but mine is red, more like a scrape that never goes away. With my sisters we believed my mother wished for love for them, but for me, we could not think what she wished for.’

  He moved, the smallest bit closer to her. ‘Did you ever ask her?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stumbled over the word. ‘She said she had wished for love for my sisters, but by the time I was born she said she had realised her error. She told me the two red blemishes on my skin are where a heart was torn in half. She said she wished that I would never fall in love. She said it hurts too much. She thought like your father. Perhaps you and I are in agreement on the foolishness of possessing a heart.’

  He’d touched her lip when she spoke. She could no longer move. This was not the same immobility of fear, but of an embrace of security. He was fire you could walk into and never be burned, just feel the tingle and caress of the flames.

  Now the fingertips from both his hands rested on her skin and his breath whispered against her. ‘Your mother was wise for you.’

  ‘She was. I know. Because I already saw my father leave my mother and I want no man near who will not stay with me all his life. Who will not place me above everything and everyone else.’

  His hands slid from her face and he closed his fingers. ‘I hope to remember the touch of your face. You’re the magic I will hold within me for the rest of my life. In a secret part of me that keeps me whole and gives me breath. But I cannot give you what you need most.’

  She touched above her breast. ‘And I must have a man who puts me above…his father. His mother. Even his children. Who loves me with all the intensity of the sun’s heat and his love reaches to the stars.’

  ‘You ask—’

  ‘For what I wish for. Why should I ask for less? I am happy to be alone before I will be with a man who does not cherish me as I wish.’

  ‘A man can say the words easily enough. Words, Bellona. But how will you know if he speaks the truth? And what if he’s not sure about his own future? What if he does not even know if he can feel for a woman what you wish him to?’