by Shayla Black
“No!” Darius took her by the shoulders. “You have Cropthorne to blame! He was not an innocent and should have known that dallying with you would mean involving your heart.”
Kira did not tell her brother that Gavin had set out to seduce her, not caring whether he involved her heart—or trampled it. The knowledge would only incite her brother’s anger again.
When she did not reply, his voice rose. “Damnation, Kira! I know you care for the lecher, but do not excuse him from—”
She held up her hands to stay the rest of his tirade. “No more. I know what Gavin and I are each guilty of and I shall have to live with my part.” And his betrayal.
Darius cursed in short, ugly words. “Please let me challenge him. Pistols at dawn will cure his corrupt morals.”
“It will likely kill him,” she argued.
“Why should that be a problem?”
“Or kill you.” Kira shook her head. “Let the matter be.”
“But—”
“Please…”
Reluctantly, he sighed. “I don’t know that I can. Lawrey said the cad came to see you again today while I was out. What did he want?”
Kira shrugged. She was weary. Lord, she did not remember a time exhaustion had weighed so heavily upon her. And sadness, and pain and regret… And still, she loved Gavin. She rubbed her aching eyes.
“I’ve no notion what he wanted. As you refused him yesterday, I refused him today.”
“Did you tell him not to return?”
“Darius, please. He will soon grow weary of rejection and stop coming. After all, it’s not as if he loves me.”
Kira steeled herself—her heart—against that truth.
Her brother frowned and put his arms about her, bringing her close. Darius was so familiar, of such comfort, that Kira melted against him and fought a fresh wave of tears.
“Besides being a libertine, he’s an idiot.”
Kira chuckled through her sadness. “What do you know of affairs of the heart? You have never had one.”
“Pray to God I never do.”
She kissed his cheek. “You will. Someday, a very sweet girl will snatch you up and take you away from me.”
“Sweet?” he grimaced. “We’re speaking of a woman, not a pastry.”
Kira could not restrain her laugh.
“There’s a smile,” Darius observed as he released her to retrieve the mail from the library table. “Have you looked at these since we arrived?”
She shot him a wry glance. “I had not imagined I would have any pressing invitations.”
“Then why are there so many?” He flipped through a stack of envelopes. As he stopped at one in particular, he frowned. “Do you know the Duke and Duchess of Ludlow?”
“No. Do you?”
“Never met them,” he murmured as he opened the envelope and read.
“What does it say?”
Disbelief transformed her brother’s face when he looked up at her. “We are invited to their annual ball.”
How odd. “That invitation is most coveted. Are you certain there’s not some mistake?”
He studied the envelope again. “Indeed. In fact,” he said, glancing through more in the stack, “they all look to be invitations of some sort or another.” Suddenly he paused. “Ah, here is something from our uncle.”
With mixed feelings, Kira watched Darius open the missive and read. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but anything other than the string of expletives he let loose.
“What is it?” She rushed to his side and glanced over his shoulder at the letter. “Is it dreadful?”
Darius refolded the missive and sighed. When he adopted a grimace and rubbed the back of his neck, Kira recognized that her brother was not furious, but ill at ease.
“Our uncle thinks I’m a bloody hero and wants to throw a damned party in my honor.”
Despite Darius’s annoyance, Kira smiled. He had done something so brave and selfless for her. It pleased her to see other people appreciating him as well. “How wonderful!”
His withering glare told her he disagreed. “I pursued Lord Vance to prove you innocent, not to be a hero.”
“That is heroic in itself. Why not let the ton laud you for it?”
Darius frowned, and his expression told her how truly heinous he found the idea. “Why listen to them preen and mouth platitudes?” He shook his head. “We are not going.”
“I think we must. If the party is in your honor, how can you refuse?”
Darius’s answer was more of a grunt than anything. And Kira knew that while he did not like the idea, he would attend. To avoid answering, he began sorting through the mail again.
He extracted a thick, well-worn letter from the stack. He scanned the front, drew in a deep breath, then lifted a somber gaze to her.
“It’s from Persia, for you.” He handed it to her.
Her heart skipped a beat. “From Mama?”
Shrugging, he offered the letter to her again. She took it this time with trembling hands and opened it. Mama had not contacted them in years. Kira had assumed she and Darius were simply no longer a part of her life. Perhaps she had been wrong. Her stomach fluttered as her gaze touched the letter.
It was thick and meaty, over ten pages. As Kira read, her mother offered details of her life while asking for those of her children. When she lifted her head, a tear splattered on the white page, running the black ink.
“Who sent it? What does it say?” Darius quizzed.
“It’s from Mama. She says she misses us.” Kira sniffled, trying not to let her voice break. But after everything with Gavin and James and Lord Vance, all the emotions coursing through her were too much at once. She had not heard from her mother in nearly five years, but her message now was most welcome.
Darius looked unmoved. He’d barely been seven when their father had returned them to England from Persia. Her brother likely did not remember their mother much. Kira, however, did.
“She says the biggest mistake of her life was to leave us.”
“Now that we’re grown and no longer need her, I’m certain that’s easy to say.”
Since there were times Kira wanted to be bitter too, she understood Darius’s frustration. But her mother’s written words were such a balm—and so needed—today.
Kira touched her brother’s arm. “She says she wishes that she had stayed in England and fought harder for acceptance, cared less what people thought of her. And she wishes she could have seen us grow.”
“An old woman with regrets is nothing new.” His lip curled with contempt.
She scolded him with a glance. “A woman with regrets who can admit her error is to be forgiven.”
Darius looked unconvinced.
“Her letter says she was tired of fighting the stain of her heritage while she lived here. She grew weary of the whispers and the insults, the slurs on her homeland and parents. She merely wanted to be accepted but feared she never would.” A sentiment Kira easily identified with. “Why have you never felt that way?”
“I shall never be a proper English buck. It matters not if I am. Kira, what is wrong with being different? Do not let anyone tell you there is. I refuse to take any insult about being part Persian without a fight. If someone needs his face pounded, I happily comply.”
Kira rolled her eyes. “Fighting is not always the answer.”
“What has it failed to solve so far? If you’d let me, I could cure you of that pesky Cropthorne—”
“Enough! I am retiring to my room for a nap. Pray the rain stops before dinner. I am sick of it.”
He nodded, and Kira noticed that as she left the room with the letter from their mother, he looked at it with curiosity. She would have to let him look at it later, but for now, she wanted to read again the passage that moved her most:
I told you many years ago, my darling daughter, that mixing cultures is impossible. Age and wisdom make me doubt my rash words. Mixing cultures can make for something wonderful. You and Darius p
rove that. My only regret now is that I left England before I understood that the key to acceptance begins within one’s self.
Kira gripped the page and scanned the passage again. What had she meant in saying that the key to acceptance begins with one’s self? She wished with all her heart that her mother was here so that she could ask questions. Since that was impossible, she was left to ponder the words alone.
In her bedchamber, Kira drew the draperies against the rain and lay upon her bed, the thick white counterpane comfortable beneath her. The smell of wet earth and damp air seemed everywhere. She closed her eyes.
For long moments, she did nothing but listen to herself breathe. Usually this relaxed her enough to sleep, but thoughts crowded in today.
I shall never be a proper English buck. It matters not if I am. What is wrong with being different? Do not let anyone tell you there is. Her brother’s words came back to her. How fortunate that his heritage did not trouble him. In fact, people rarely disturbed him about it, though they hounded her constantly. She frowned. Why should that be? Because he was a man?
Or because he accepted what he could not change?
The key to acceptance begins within one’s self. Her mother’s words flashed through her mind again. Perhaps people did harass Darius because of his Persian blood. But he never allowed it to trouble him. Had he already learned the lesson it had taken their mother years to understand? The lesson that Kira was just now grasping?
She remembered with some fondness her time in Persia. They often slept in tents, and her mother’s rich singing voice would lull her into dreams. Each night, she and Darius peeked outside to gaze at the wide open sky and the twinkling stars above. In the morning, they would travel someplace new, begin life afresh, secure because she’d had her mother’s lilting voice and music teachings as a constant. Kira knew she had seen things and met people most ordinary Englishwomen never would. Why should she have to be ashamed of that? Why should she feel inferior because she had grown up understanding East and West, and embracing what was good in both? Why should anyone think that wrong?
Kira frowned. Why indeed? And if she accepted herself, her differences, why should their opinions matter? She knew who she was. She knew her faults, her assets, and she had both, as everyone else did. Her mother had been from another country, not another planet. And even if Mama had been from the moon, Kira could not change that.
Resolved, she rose and dashed to the small secretary in her room to draft a long, thankful reply to her mother.
The key to acceptance began within herself. And now she understood that. She refused to allow Mrs. Baycliffe or the Lady Westlands or Litchfields of the world to disturb her peace. She was half Persian. What of it?
* * * *
He loved Kira, God help him. Gavin could reach no other conclusion. He thought of her at least ten times a minute, missed her as if he’d lose his mind without her—found himself willing to defy society and everything he’d ever held dear just to call her his.
And she would not speak to him.
Gavin paced the length of his study, pausing to retrieve a sip of brandy. Who cared that the time was barely two in the afternoon? It felt like half past hell to him.
He could no longer evade the truth. He had been stubborn and considered all the negative consequences to wedding Kira before weighing any of the good. And yes, he had been far too proud, assuming a half-Persian miss had no business with a duke of pure English blood. How stupid it sounded now. Kira was still half English. Why hadn’t he considered that sooner? She would make a fine duchess—certainly the most interesting. Hell, she could be half Zulu and he would not care. She was Kira. He loved her.
And why had he ever imagined he could seduce the siren with the gentle spirit of a sprite and not be caught in his own web? Ignorance and arrogance, of course. Both of which he would pay for with his heart. Damn, he should have apologized to her long ago, right after he kicked himself for his stupidity.
So her refusal to see him chafed in every way.
Not that he expected to win her back. Why should she have him when he proved himself nothing but a haughty boor?
Even though he loved her and accepted her for the wonderful, exotic woman of conviction she was, Gavin knew he could not wed her. The damned Daggett curse still stood squarely in his path. He accepted the loss of control he felt around her. Maybe some of that was love. He wanted to believe so. But without proof, he refused to take Kira down the path to ruination with him.
All chances for happiness seemed to slip away. He cursed.
Eventually, he would be forced to take a bride. As a duke, it was his family duty. He’d already let Cordelia out of his grasp, knowing it would be unfair to wed her today when he loved another. It seemed too much to hope that he would ever fall in love again. He could not imagine loving another woman the way he loved Kira.
Pacing the room again, he sighed as he reached the massive stone fireplace. His head was a tangle, his heart a bloody mess. Impotent anger rose inside him, raged. He cursed again. Then he did something singularly impractical: he tossed the crystal glass into the fire. The sound of it shattering satisfied some part of him, and he was proud when he did not even pause to consider the cost of his catharsis.
At least until the patter of slippered feet in the hall snagged his attention. He turned to see Aunt Caroline throw open the door.
“Goodness, Gavin! Are you well? Hurt?” Her aging blue eyes scanned him with worry.
“No. I am in good health.” If not in good spirits.
His aunt hesitated, then closed the door behind her slowly, silently. She approached him.
“You have been moping for some days now.”
He evaded her gaze. “Exhaustion, likely. I will recover.”
“I taught you better than to lie to me.” Caroline frowned her disapproval. “We have not spoken since the day Miss Melbourne left.”
“We’ve no need to speak of her now. I know your feelings on the matter.”
“I daresay you know nothing of my opinion.”
His aunt wasn’t leaving until she had her say; Gavin grasped that quickly. Since Kira would never be his wife, he could stand, listen, nod—and grieve for her loss in private. But for now, he felt the need for another drink…
Crossing the plush green-toned carpet to the small cabinet, he extracted another glass, poured another finger, and turned to face Caroline.
“Fortification?” Her voice was no less sharp than her expression.
“I am prepared to hear your opinion.”
“With liquid courage, I see. Very well. When James brought Miss Melbourne to Norfield, I think we all agree I was stunned. I disapproved of her scandalous reputation. She did not love my son, nor did he love her.”
“That is true.” Thank God.
“James is happier pleasing others, giving himself over to a cause he deems worthy. As a clergyman, his reputation, and that of any wife he takes, must be impeccable.”
“Agreed.” What did she mean to convey? He already knew everything she had said.
“You look confused. James has not your strong nature, but rather a tender heart. Had he married Miss Melbourne, he would have soon learned by means most harsh that the public is neither understanding nor forgiving. When he was shunned and his sermons avoided, your cousin would have been devastated.”
“Likely, yes.” Did she have a point? Not seeing one in sight, Gavin took a long swallow of brandy and regarded her again with an impassive gaze.
“You, on the other hand,” his aunt continued, “could withstand the scrutiny and slurs that being married to such a woman would bring.”
Only because he loved her. If not for the blasted Daggett legacy that would bring shame and misery to them both eventually, he would beg her to marry him today. But he still had his family to consider as well.
“Aunt Caroline, I appreciate your sentiment, but it would be unfair to force you to endure the scandal.”
“Nonsense! I may not like su
ch a circumstance, but to see you happy, I would do it a hundred times over.”
“Indeed?” He smiled, pleasantly surprised. Perhaps his aunt was no longer haunted by his father’s awful actions. “That is very good. But I will not be wedding Miss Melbourne—”
“Why not? She loves you.”
She sounded as if… No, it was impossible. Surely. “You want me to marry her for that reason? Not because I’ve ruined her?”
His aunt smiled. “I saw you kiss her. There was no mistaking the manner in which you looked at her as she left the parlor that afternoon. I think you love her. If I’m right, of course I want you to marry her.”
Gavin believed he would indeed be happy with Kira, if the Daggett curse made such things possible. But—
“Well, do you?” she demanded.
He frowned, thoroughly puzzled. “Do I what?”
“Love her?”
He sighed. Why fight the truth or keep secrets anymore? “Yes.”
Aunt Caroline beamed. “Have you told her so?”
“No. I have been `round to see her several times.” Every day for nearly the last week. “But she will not see me.”
With small, white teeth, his aunt worried her bottom lip. “I suppose I ought not to have mentioned that you plotted to compromise her so she would be forced to end her engagement with James.”
“What?”
His heart sank to his toes. No wonder Kira had rejected each of his overtures. Aunt Caroline’s confession had put the final nail in his coffin, as if he hadn’t looked the part of the cad already. Now there could be no doubt. Gavin sighed, covering his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“Why did you tell her?” he asked.
“I owed her an apology. She did help bring my James home. And he told me that Miss Melbourne ended their engagement because she did not love him. Many women, I daresay even myself, would not have had the courage to sacrifice their comfort or reputation in the name of love.”
Caroline was right. And Gavin felt all the more terrible in the face of the truth. What had he sacrificed for love?
Nothing.
