Forbidden to the Duke

by Liz Tyner

  ‘If he does not know—then he does not feel enough.’

  He swallowed. He moved and his elbow touched an inkpot, knocking it askew. He caught it, but not before splashes destroyed the paper.

  Turning, she moved to his desk. Ink had pooled on his work. She put the stopper back on to the empty bottle.

  He shrugged and touched a blot on his sleeve and frowned, still staring.

  She put her fingertip in the obsidian pool. She paused, studying the letters scratched on the piece of paper. Taking her time and reading. The list of things he planned to do in London. The places he would go and the people he would meet. She dotted her finger over the letters, obscuring them. Then she put another spot at the side of the first one, letting her finger drag over, smearing the lines into darkness.

  She looked at his eyes.

  Her index finger touched the back of his hand and she left a faint mark.

  ‘Have a pleasant journey.’ She walked out through the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A storm brewed, but not in the clouds. The sun warmed the morning, turning the day into a spring confection of promise. Bellona didn’t want to go back inside the mansion. Rhys’s carriage had just left the estate.

  The air moved aside for her arrows, creating the perfect pathway for each tip, taking them so close they clustered together, fighting for room. One thunk after another. She stepped back to give herself more of a challenge. It didn’t work.

  ‘Miss Bellona.’ The shout screeched into Bellona’s ears.

  She turned. The maid ran from the house, skirt clamped in both hands raising it enough to allow swift movement. ‘She’s fallen. She’s fallen.’ The maid stopped. ‘The duchess. Down the staircase. She won’t open her eyes.’

  Fear leapt into Bellona’s chest. ‘Send a rider after Rhys’s carriage.’ She dropped the bow. ‘Let Rhys know the rider will need to continue on for the physician.’ She rushed into the house and found the duchess lying at the base of the entry staircase.

  The cook’s bulk bent over the older woman, with only the duchess’s feet visible. The servant talked softly to the still form. The butler stood at the ready.

  The duchess’s eyes fluttered. Then she blinked, looked around and studied her surroundings. A puff of air escaped her lips. A sigh.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Bellona knelt beside her, relieved she was breathing. The lifeless form had plunged the memory of Bellona’s own mother into her heart like a knife.

  The duchess pushed herself up, looking at them all, but not speaking.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Bellona repeated.

  The duchess held out a hand to Bellona. ‘I had thought to see what heaven might look like. You are not it.’

  Bellona smiled and put her arm around the older woman, her ribs feeling as though they were hardly covered by skin. The woman winced, but managed to stand. She reached up and touched her cheekbone. A bruise would be evident soon, but for now there was only a scrape. Then she clasped her wrist and wiggled her fingers. ‘I’m fine. Fine.’ She pulled out of Bellona’s grasp and grabbed the banister. ‘I’m going to lie down.’

  She took each step up the stairs with great care.

  Bellona followed behind her and the cook did as well.

  ‘Just leave me,’ the duchess said crossly. ‘I fell. Simple enough. I didn’t watch my feet. I stumbled. Others cannot stay alive and I cannot die. I cannot die.’

  The sharp turn of Cook’s head alerted Bellona that the servant was checking her reaction to the duchess’s words.

  Bellona schooled her face to show no emotion, but she didn’t think it worked.

  ‘I’ll fix a purgative for Her Grace,’ the cook offered.

  ‘No. I’ll keep my bile and whatever else I have inside me right there. I just had a fainting spell. I’m fine just as I am.’

  The cook looked again at Bellona, and this time she grimaced.

  They’d hardly settled the duchess into a chair, with a maid sitting beside her, when Rhys burst into the sitting-room door.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘We don’t think she’s more injured than a few bruises.’

  ‘What caused her to fall?’

  ‘I am not sure. She said the world turned black around her.’

  ‘She has never fainted before…’

  ‘I fell, Rhys,’ the duchess snapped, eyes closed. ‘I fell. Do not worry about me. The house could burn around my ears and I would still be standing. Festering boils could appear all over my body and I would still see the sunrise every day.’

  ‘Mother.’ One strong reprimand.

  She opened her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean for you to have to return. I am just sitting around every day, waiting for the end.’

  He turned. ‘You may slap her, Bellona. We will see if she can chase you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She shook her head. ‘I just fell down the stairs.’

  ‘An accident? Or on purpose?’ Rhys said grimly.

  ‘Neither. I was crying over Geoff. The tears were in my eyes and I had to go to the garden. I had to pick some honeysuckle. I’d almost forgotten to pick the honeysuckle for him.’ She waved her arms about, her white sleeve billowing. ‘I might not have done it on purpose, but I certainly wouldn’t have minded waking up somewhere else. When I opened my eyes, I realised the truth. I am in a different kind of purgatory. My back hurts and my face aches. My wrist burns.’ She sniffed. ‘I would like some port.’

  ‘How will I know you won’t stumble again once you take a sip?’ Rhys asked.

  ‘Because I cannot die. A thousand times I have asked to be with my husband and children and I cannot. One year ago yesterday Geoff was taken from me. They are all waiting in heaven and cannot be happy without me and yet I cannot join them.’

  ‘I would have thought you might wish to stay here on earth with me,’ Rhys said quietly. He strode from the room. Bellona followed.

  Outside the door, Bellona caught his sleeve.

  ‘She is just distressed. She means none of it.’

  He stopped, face stone. ‘I understand that.’ He pulled his arm from her grasp and strode to the stairs.

  ‘Rhys,’ she called at his heels.

  He turned to her on the stairway. ‘You don’t understand.’ His face rested near hers. ‘It is not my title. It is not my estate. It was never meant to be. Never.’ His words flowed faster. ‘I do not know why Geoff did not marry and have children. I was not supposed to have it all. I don’t know whether to feel guilty for taking it or angry that it’s now mine and I cannot escape it.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with this moment.’

  ‘It is everything to do with it.’ His eyes darkened. ‘If he were here none of this would be happening. Things would be as they should be. They would be—controlled. The world was taken and torn like little scraps of paper and tossed into the air. All scattered and in bits that cannot be mended.’

  ‘Do you wish to tumble down the stairs as well? Would that make it all better? Leaving a cousin to inherit. Would it be his destiny either?’

  He raised his hand, the mark showing. ‘I do not care at this moment. I must get to London, find a wife, bed her and produce a child. Hopefully before nightfall.’

  ‘Oh…’ She dragged out the word. ‘More’s the pity.’

  He lowered his chin.

  ‘From where I was born,’ she said, ‘even the people who cannot read have no trouble with that.’

  ‘You witch. It is not quite the same for me.’

  ‘I imagine you will find some way to have pleasure doing it. I have heard it can be done.’

  ‘An unmarried woman is not supposed to know about these things.’

  ‘And what turnip were you born under?’

  ‘Not the same one as you, apparently.’

  ‘Now go to London and do as you must.’ She put a foot beside his and moved down the stairway, turning back to him. ‘Safe journey.’

  ‘Bellona.’ He rushed after her and caug
ht her arm. His voice softened. ‘I cannot leave you like this.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘I don’t want to be alone now, and there is no one in the world I would rather be with than you. And perhaps you are right. Perhaps you are the one able to see this clearly without the heart being involved.’

  She didn’t answer, but her hand grazed her skirt, above the red blemish hidden from view.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She continued down the stairway and heard his footsteps behind her. She rushed ahead, moving to the servants’ quarters where she could shut out the world above the stairs. No one was about and she moved to the small room she’d taken over.

  Only the door didn’t shut when she pressed it. Rhys’s hand caught it and pushed it open again.

  ‘So this is the room where you feel safe,’ he said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Yes. It is more my world than any other room in the house. You can see it for what it is.’ Even as he looked around, she knew he could only see the room. He couldn’t see the truth of her past. This room was a palace compared to where she’d grown up on Melos.

  Nothing marred by salt from sea air. Nothing marred by life. This room had belonged to a scullery maid and it was the closest she’d found in the house to what she’d had.

  His eyes furrowed. ‘I did not know such a place even existed in my home.’

  The small bed had a washstand beside it. Resting on the washstand was a small mirror propped against the wall, a tallow candle and Robinson Crusoe’s tale.

  ‘This is how most of the servants’ rooms are.’

  The bed covering wasn’t torn. The walls were solid. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and saw no stains. At the washstand, she pushed against it. No wobble. ‘I am sure Mr Crusoe would have been pleased to have such a place on his island. I would have.’

  Rhys sat on the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled and his chin resting on them. He raised his eyebrows. ‘I have been angry these last few years. Enraged that my sister died, my father and then my brother. Now I anger at even my mother, who suffers deeply.’

  Brown eyes, more rich than any silk or sable, peered at Bellona. He smiled. ‘But it doesn’t matter. Nothing changes. I tried shaking my fist in the air. Pounding the wall. It changed not a thing. Didn’t make me feel any better, only more angry because it was senseless.’

  ‘I did not mourn my mother after she died. But I did not need to. While she was ill, I cried and thought my life could not go on. But she talked so much with us towards the end. We talked of everything and she prepared us. I missed her, but the hardest part was her suffering. The last week of her life. That was cruel. She hurt so.’

  In front of him, she rested her hand on his shoulder and then let the back of her hand move upwards, along his cravat, to the skin above it, letting sensations engulf her as she talked. ‘Your mother will get over this. It is just the valley before she climbs back up the hill of life again.’

  ‘I thought if I went to London I might be able to put the loss behind me. But when I return, there will be even more. You will be gone.’ His eyes flicked to her and one side of his lips turned up.

  She brushed his hair from his temple. ‘There is the duchess you must find.’

  ‘Do not remind me.’

  ‘Why not? You will do it. You have put your mind to it. Don’t tell me you do not think of the woman. How you will approach her. What you will say. How you hope to feel something for her in the way you used to feel before Geoff passed away.’

  ‘When I close my eyes at night, it’s not her I think of. When I open them in the morning, she is nowhere in my head.’

  ‘Truly?’

  He turned to her. ‘Look at my face. What do you think?’ He touched the earring at her ear. ‘I notice you always wear these.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I think it makes your mother feel better.’

  His hands clasped her waist. Warm bands. Strength that made her feel delicate.

  ‘I want to make certain you are provided for,’ he said.

  ‘It is not needed.’ She held her chin up.

  She shook her head and turned her gaze from his. ‘When you wed, I will never again see or speak with you. It is for the best. I will not forget the past. The good or the bad. Yet I will not fall into the same trap of the heart that my mother fell into. When it is done, finished, it is over and done with.’

  She didn’t raise her eyes, but kept the expanse of his chest in her view. The cravat rested close to his heart, but she didn’t know what emotions lay inside the man. No words of love reached her ears and only the warnings of her mother sounded in her mind. She would heed them.

  Rhys’s hand slid up, sparking eruptions she had only heard about in myths. He cupped her cheeks in his hands. One kiss. Then another. So light. Lighter than the one before. Soft. The barest moment of contact and then he pulled back.

  She kept her eyes closed, her chin upturned, and savoured the softness of the lace on his sleeve against her face.

  Opening her eyes, she said, ‘You dressed so fine to go to London.’ She grasped his wrist, trapping the thin cloth so that she kept it between them. His jutting wrist bone rested under her fingertips. Then she stepped back and let her hand fall slowly, and land on the buttons of his waistcoat.

  ‘Bellona…’ He said her name, but it wasn’t really a word. More of a caress. He paused. ‘I cannot. Not now. Not ever.’

  ‘Cannot?’

  The words sounded pulled from him. ‘I cannot touch you because I cannot…touch you. You deserve the promise along with the touch.’

  Her gaze stopped at his face. She could see him more clearly than she had ever seen another person. Her eyes even caught the tenseness at the corner of his lips and the slight sheen of moisture at his brow.

  His eyes darkened, but with an emotion that didn’t frighten her in the least. But he still did not move one bit—even one hair closer.

  Then she waved fingertips over the silken waistcoat. The fabric working as a barrier between the life of him and her hand. He took in a breath yet still didn’t move towards her. Nor away.

  He made her think of the statue of an armless woman she and her sisters had found on Melos. If the artist had carved a male, Rhys could have been the perfect model. His face. The stance. Unmoving.

  She trailed her hand up, turning the palm so that the back of her knuckles moved past his cravat and caught the slightest bit of roughness on his cheek. He was strong enough to have moved away at any time, but she knew he couldn’t. His eyes closed. The back of her fingers stroked his chin. His lashes rested just above her touch.

  With the lightness of a feather, his fingers clasped over her wrist. Eyes still shut, he pulled her hand away. ‘You must go to Warrington’s estate.’

  Slowly, his eyes opened. Her heart crashed alive in her body, flooding her with such pounding she could hardly take in air.

  She had an arrow, of sorts, and she carefully aimed it. ‘When I do, your mother has said there is a kind vicar…that you provide a living for…who might be looking for a wife. I should meet him.’

  His lips barely moved as he spoke. ‘I will see that he calls on you.’

  ‘You do not have to. I will.’

  She pulled back from his grasp but she couldn’t walk to the door.

  His body remained still, but his gaze didn’t. The thoughts she couldn’t touch were there, showing in his eyes.

  It wasn’t fear of dying without him that overtook her when she looked into the brown, but the truth of living without his touch. And she took the strength he used to stand still and captured it in her body to stand there immobile.

  His hand reached to her face, but she flicked her head back out of reach.

  ‘You must not forget, I’m not an English society miss,’ she said, ‘which your mother tells me is important to you. I have tried for two years to want to be one and I see I am not, and will never be. I will be always free. I may not be a lady by birth, but
I am worthy to walk the same earth as you.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I saw my mother cry when my father left us and I swore I would never beg for a man’s attentions. I would have them freely or not at all. Whether he is a vicar or a soldier or a carriage maker, I will find a man who falls to his knees and thanks the heavens for me. And when he speaks words to me, they will be true. How I feel for him is not so important—as how he thinks of me. I am not a goddess. I do not wish him to think I am such. But he will have me in his heart as if I am.’

  ‘I would like to see you with your hair down…’ His voice was a whisper with a rumble that could only come from a man’s throat and hardly touched the air, but swirled around her at all sides, as if an artist with a thousand brushes had taken her as his canvas and danced his brushes lightly over her body.

  She pulled one pin from her hair.

  He took it and held it between them, letting it linger in their vision, and she couldn’t take her eyes from the fingers that held it so lightly.

  ‘Your hair always looks as if your next movement will tumble the locks around your shoulders. I catch myself holding my breath, waiting. The wisps dance with your body, but the rest of it stays, looking soft and…like you. But even with the pin removed—’ instead of returning the clasp to its place he palmed it ‘—it doesn’t fall.’

  His hand fell away, as if he’d forgotten what it held. His gaze moved over her tresses before returning to her face. ‘A meadow. Did you know, it is always as if meadows or forests surround you? When I was a child, I would lie in the grass and look up at the puffs of clouds, and then close my eyes. Sunshine warmed my face. The grass softened the ground beneath me.

  ‘The world had the same scent of an oak leaf held to my nose. At that moment, if a bird flew over me, it was as if its wings brushed my face and I was alive and everything was quiet in a way it had never been before. I could feel the poetry of the world and now that same verse surrounds you. I can feel the warmth of your hair against this pin.’