The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  Oliver sailed through the crowd, parting three rows of revelers. His fist crashed directly into Mapleton’s teeth.

  Music screeched. Dancers stumbled into each other. Impossibly, predictably, the entire pretentious circus came to an utter, gleeful halt.

  “Did you strike him?” asked one genius.

  “Over Miss Halton?” exclaimed another.

  Mapleton spat blood, but smirked up at Oliver. “That light-skirt must have the devil’s magic in her cunny for you to—”

  A pair of calm but firm hands pulled Oliver away before his fist decided Mapleton ought to lose a few more teeth.

  “Stand down, Carlisle,” came a low voice at his ear. “What the devil are you about, man? Think of how this looks!”

  Ravenwood. The two of them could level Mapleton and all his cronies.

  Oliver grabbed the duke’s arm. “That rotten knave said the only way to avoid Miss Halton’s accent was to—”

  “I heard him,” Ravenwood continued quietly, “but the orchestra was too loud for his voice to carry.”

  Oliver broke out into a cold sweat as he realized what the duke was trying to tell him.

  Very few people had caught Mapleton’s original remarks. Most of the party had seen Oliver attack him from out of nowhere. And in the ensuing silence, every last one of them had heard Mapleton refer to her as a whore, and proclaim Oliver’s carnal relationship with her as the reason behind his outburst. Nausea bubbled in his stomach as his fingers dug into his palms. His spine slumped.

  Just once, he’d like one of his bloody rescues to work out right. In attempting to save Miss Halton’s reputation… He’d ruined it.

  “Lord Carlisle?”

  Oliver’s fingers went cold. A dangerous tingling sensation prickled across his chest. He turned ever so slowly, forcing his frown to melt away. The sight of Miss Halton’s stricken expression slashed into his heart. He’d wished to defend her. Instead, all he’d ensured was that Mapleton’s remarks would be repeated over breakfast the next morning, and every day after. Her invitations would soon be to all the wrong sorts of parties. And her suitors…Well. No one respectable would court a woman he believed to be Oliver’s seconds.

  “Miss Halton.” Oliver took a tentative step forward. “I only wanted…” He cleared his throat. “That is, he…” Shite. His stomach sank. “I’m so sorry.”

  He reached out, but she jerked away from him, her glittering eyes as much hurt as angry. Then she swung her face toward his and sniffed hard.

  “Drunk.” Her lip curled in disgust.

  What on earth? The port. It had only been one glass, but to Miss Halton even a faint scent of wine must be too much, because she was already shaking, already tearing away, already gone.

  Oliver didn’t pursue her. The scandal would be legendary enough without him making a bigger arse of himself on top of it all. Hell, this might be the last time they saw each other. He didn’t call out to her, but nor could he look away from her retreating form.

  There was something in her hands, something she was stuffing back into a reticule…The letters. He was meant to post her letters, and hadn’t had a chance to pick them up. Now he never would. His shoulders sank.

  He hadn’t just let her down. He had failed her completely.

  Chapter 10

  A week later, Grace was back in the sea of spinsters. Now that the beau monde suspected her of being easy with her favors, the invitations had actually doubled. They just weren’t to the sorts of places where one might find a marriageable suitor. She straightened her spine. This was the last of the upper-class soirées. She had to find a husband here. Tonight. Or she would never see her mother again.

  She finally understood how desperation might drive weaker wills to strong drink. But all wasn’t lost. Not yet. There were still a few hours left before dawn. She downed the last of her punch in one gulp. She had many, many faults, but giving up without a fight was not one of them. It was simply not an option. Even if the butler of tonight’s crush almost hadn’t let Grace and her maid through the door.

  Where the dickens did that girl get off to, anyway? Grace peered through the crowd. Not that it signified. Her reputation was already suspect. She tore her gaze from the blank dance card hanging limply from her wrist and focused her eyes on the ballroom entrance in the hopes of espying a potential suitor. Any suitor.

  But there were none. Grace lowered her eyes to her empty glass. No one rushed to refill her cup. No one noticed her at all.

  At this point, she’d be grateful for one of the dirty old roués, as long as he didn’t need her money and was willing to let her return to America for her mother. The rest of her list of requirements had gone out the proverbial window.

  In a flurry, Miss Jane Downing rushed into the ballroom from an adjoining corridor, her eyes alight and her face flushed. Grace frowned. She couldn’t recall Miss Downing ever moving at speeds greater than glacial, much less having color in her cheeks.

  Beautiful and clever, Miss Downing was the one solid friendship Grace had managed to make since her arrival, and she was deeply sorry she wouldn’t be able to keep it. Miss Downing was respectable. Grace was not. No matter what the girls might wish, society’s rules were clear. And Grace would never ruin anyone she cared about by association.

  To her surprise, Miss Downing practically wriggled when she caught Grace’s eye. She made an inelegant beeline straight for the vacant seat at Grace’s side. She threw herself onto the hard wooden chair as if it were a cool lake at the end of a hot race. Her slow, cunning smile was nothing short of victorious.

  Grace narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”

  Miss Downing all but clapped her hands in glee. “You’ll never guess! I was in the library, thumbing through the latest Radcliffe—forgive me, but I must know how a book ends before I know whether I can bear to read it from the beginning—when Lord Carlisle grabbed me by the hand and said, ‘Jane—’”

  “What?!” Grace’s heart banged against her ribs. She had tried so hard not to even think about him these past few days, but just the sound of his name twisted her into knots all over again.

  “Oh dear, you’re not one of those the-end-of-the-book-is-sacrosanct snobs, are you? My brother Isaac about has fits every time he catches me reading the ending first, but I honestly cannot imagine—”

  “Lord Carlisle grabbed you by the hand?” Grace’s stomach soured. She was jealous of Miss Downing. Over a man she couldn’t have. “He calls you Jane?”

  “It is my name,” Miss Downing responded primly.

  It was all Grace could do not to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Whatever news she’d come to impart, she was dragging it out a-purpose. But why? No matter. If Grace was angry and hurt and jealous, she would have to endure.

  After all, she had no grounds to be displeased about whatever had just transpired in the library. No grounds at all for the bile in her throat at the thought of other women’s fingers in the palm of Lord Carlisle’s hand. Or for the blow to her chest at the realization that Lord Carlisle felt intimate enough to first-name Miss Downing in a private setting, when he wouldn’t be able to pick Grace’s given name out of a hat. Oh, stuff it all. Miss Downing would answer Grace’s questions, or Grace would drown her in the ratafia bowl.

  “How do you know him?” she demanded. “How does he know your name? Why did he grab your hand? Are you enamored of him?”

  Grace’s questions only served to stretch Miss Downing’s smile even wider. Her grin faltered when she finally realized the depth of Grace’s distress.

  “Oh! Miss Halton, no. Not like that. Well, I mean, at one time, I had thought perhaps… Years ago, when Isaac took him to task for bending heads with me over a book, we discovered—to my utter humiliation—that Lord Carlisle’s interest in Sophocles’ Elektra was not, in fact, feigned.”

  “Elektra?” Grace echoed blankly.

  “None other. What had caught his eye wasn’t the new feather in my bonnet or the lace fichu upon my bodice,
but the uncut pages of a classical volume in original Greek text. I might have been a bookshelf for all the interest Lord Carlisle paid me.”

  Grace tilted her head. “You thought…”

  “Only for a second.” Miss Downing’s sad smile brightened. “But now we are friends. Nothing like a blistering Isaac upbraiding to bond two hapless bibliophiles together, if only for one small moment in time. Besides, Isaac was right to be suspicious. If Lord Carlisle had but wished, I would happily have let him ravish me right there between Euripides and Aristophanes.”

  “What?” Grace choked on the word.

  “Of course you couldn’t understand. I imagine back home you must beat off the beaux with a broom. I don’t have that problem. I’m shaped like a pear. The only thing I beat is dust from my bookshelves.” Miss Downing’s eyes darkened as she added fiercely, “I do not fear the Sword of Damocles. I long for it. But ’tis not the life I am given.”

  Grace toyed with her empty glass, suddenly uncomfortable. It was not fair for Miss Downing to judge herself lacking in comparison. Grace was no prize. She held up her wrist, displaying the empty dance card. “You’re not the only one with a significant lack of suitors.”

  “Sure, suitors. You’re quite infamous now that you drove an uncatchable man to fisticuffs in your honor, and while you quite correctly feel it has brought you all of the wrong kind of attention, I would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

  Grace’s sympathy turned to fury at Miss Downing’s casual dismissal of the hell Grace lived in. “Rubbish. You offer to trade places without knowing the first thing about me, or why I am suffering through these balls to start with. I—”

  “I have no clue why you’re still in this ballroom. Not with the dashing Lord Carlisle awaiting you in the library. Impatiently, I am sure.”

  Her heart stopped. “He’s what?”

  “That was the rest of the story. Lord Carlisle grabbed me by the hand and said, ‘Jane, please fetch Miss Halton here without delay. I’ll be forever in your debt.’ Imagine! An earl begging a bluestocking ‘Please’!” Miss Downing winked. “He must like you very much.”

  Grace stared back wordlessly. Her fingers trembled. Was this secret rendezvous in the library an attempt to avoid further damage to her reputation? Or was it something more? She twisted in her chair to scan the shadows. Where the devil did Peggy run off to this time?

  “What are you looking for?”

  “My maid. I have no idea where she is, but I can’t leave the public eye without—”

  “You can and you should. Perhaps you can win Lord Carlisle’s love! I’d come along to chaperone you, but I have to wait for my brother.” Miss Downing patted Grace on the hand. “Don’t worry so much. It’s a library. He’s not the only one in there, anyway.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “More’s the pity, if you ask me. You might’ve had a chance for romance. But you’d better make haste. Who knows how long he’s willing to wait?”

  Nodding, Grace pushed to her feet. And realized she still clutched her empty cup.

  Miss Downing held out her hand with a sigh. “Give me your glass. It’s fine. Everyone expects the plump girl to consume at least two of everything anyway. Now go take advantage of that delicious man before he discovers the complete set of Plato’s Dialogues on the third bookshelf from the right and you lose his interest forever.”

  Chapter 11

  Out in the main corridor, Grace realized she hadn’t the foggiest idea where the library was even located. Miss Downing might have memorized every title on every shelf, but Grace had been so focused on finding a suitor that she’d never bothered venturing outside of any of the ballrooms and their attached gardens.

  After several false starts and one whispered exchange with a hall boy, she was finally pointed in the right direction and closing fast on the correct room. She could only hope Lord Carlisle had not already left in frustration.

  A thin strip of warm light flickered beneath the library door.

  She turned the handle and stepped inside.

  A stiff, mottled-purple wingback chair stood before the fireplace. An equally stiff, pallid-faced gentleman with glossy Hessians and glassy eyes sat upon the chair. Perhaps “sat” was the wrong word. It was more like he had been propped there.

  Unmoving.

  Despite the chill seeping through the windowpanes or the fire crackling at his feet, not a hair on the gentleman’s head dared to ruffle, nor did any movement of his chest indicate he was still breathing. Were it not for the very occasional sluggish blink of his eyes, she could easily have imagined him lifeless, or carved of marble. Even now, he was little more animated than a corpse.

  “Miss Halton?”

  Lord Carlisle. She spun to face him.

  He was even more beautiful than she remembered. Soft brown hair, curling above his ears and across his forehead. Golden brown eyes framed by dark, curling lashes. Wide lips, straight white teeth, a faint scent of mint on his breath.

  Tonight, he had not been drinking. He smelled of lemon and soap and sandalwood. It made her want to step closer, to feel his muscles bunch beneath her palms as she stroked his arms. To push her fingers into his hair and open her mouth to his.

  He was staring at her as if he could subsist on the sight of her alone. His lips curved, his eyes shining with promise. If the strange man weren’t a few feet away, if she and Carlisle weren’t in someone else’s library, where anyone could walk in at any moment… Grace forced herself to tear her gaze from his parted lips, from the thought of what he might do with them.

  What had Miss Downing said? If Lord Carlisle had but wished, I would happily have let him ravish me right there between Euripides and Aristophanes. Yes. Grace knew that feeling far too well. It took all her willpower to fight it.

  “Why did you ask me here?” The words came out breathier than intended. She was furious with him—or should be, anyway—but the warmth in his eyes made her want to bury her face in his cravat and let him comfort her.

  He took a step back. “Where the devil is your chaperone?”

  Grace’s smile was brittle. She’d have to let Miss Downing know that she wasn’t the only one Lord Carlisle was immune to ravishing. It was fortunate she hadn’t given in to her desire to throw herself into his arms. “My maid is attending to other matters.”

  “Nothing is more important than you or your reputation. I’ve done enough harm as it is, and I shan’t compound it. Should we postpone our conversation?” He motioned toward the fire. “Xavier is harmless, but hardly a chaperone.”

  “Let’s just be brief.” Grace recalled Miss Downing’s advice to seize the moment, but could not help sliding a doubtful glance toward the man in the wingback chair. He still hadn’t moved. He might not even be breathing. “This is… Xavier?”

  “Xavier, meet Miss Halton, the lovely young lady I’ve told you so much about. Miss Halton, meet Captain Xavier Grey. We have been the best of friends since we first escaped our leading strings, and recently served together in the King’s army.”

  She took a longer look at Captain Grey. The impression of a marble statue did not lessen. Despite the fire, he emanated an eerie emptiness. Dark black hair. Stormy blue eyes. Lax features. He looked as though he’d drunk an entire bottle of laudanum. Or as if he simply had nothing left to live for.

  Was Captain Grey grieving? Or was he no longer inside his head at all?

  Her gaze flew back to Lord Carlisle. He rushed to take her hands, apparently misconstruing her concern over Captain Grey’s mental state to be maidenly offense that the gentleman in question had not acknowledged the introduction.

  “It’s not that he’s ignoring you,” Lord Carlisle murmured in a voice so low Grace had to strain to hear him. “He hasn’t spoken a word since before we were sent home. Please don’t hold it against him. He’s one of the best men I’ve ever had the privilege to know.”

  “I…” She let go of Lord Carlisle in order to step closer to the captain. His blank eyes showed no sign of recogniz
ing her presence, no indication he realized he sat before a blazing fire in the sumptuous Seville library. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Captain Grey. I hope someday we might be friends.”

  No response. Not even a blink. She turned back to Lord Carlisle with a question on her face. He shook his head. Grace’s heart ached for them both. That handsome, empty husk had once been Lord Carlisle’s best friend. Though he might technically still be here, there was no doubt Carlisle knew he had lost him. But like Grace, Carlisle clearly was not one to give up easily.

  He reached out for her, then shoved his hands behind his back.

  Grace swallowed. She wished he had touched her, wished he had pulled her to him so they could hold each other tight. But it was good he had not. She might never have let go, and that was something she simply couldn’t risk.

  He cleared his throat. “Did you bring a letter for me to post?”

  She smiled, surprised he had remembered. And very grateful.

  “Many. I have a dozen letters. One for everyone I know.” But she did not immediately pull them from her reticule. Touching them, handing them over, somehow made the questions written inside all the more real. How is my mother? Am I too late? What if I can’t bring the money home?

  Grace’s throat swelled tight and she swallowed hard. She must relinquish them. This might be her only chance.

  Her shaking fingers dug the folded pages from her reticule. She pushed the missives into his gloved hands before she could lose her nerve. Did she still have any nerve left? Hot pinpricks stung the backs of her eyes and she blinked hard to clear them. The world was closing in on her from all sides, burying her alive in a world of glitter and silk. Had she wasted the last months of her mother’s life, chasing an impossible dream? Was all this effort for nothing? Would she ever see her mother’s grave, or was she stuck in England forever?

  She fumbled with her reticule, trying to close the drawstring with her trembling hands. She was not too late to save her mother. She was not. But she needed to know for certain. Needed to know that when she got on that boat, her mother would still be waiting on the other side of the ocean.