by Darcy Burke
The choice seemed clear to him, and it wasn’t a trip to Gretna Green. Though, he’d offer that if she wanted it.
Would he? Could he take her as his duchess? Live with her at Lyndhurst in the shadow of Miriam’s death?
Simon’s heart began to pound, and sweat speckled the back of his neck. It wouldn’t come to that. She’d been horrified by the very idea of it.
And he didn’t blame her one bit.
Chapter 9
Diana edged closer to the fire. She was so cold. From the inside out, she was just cold. And hollow.
Numb.
That was a familiar emotion. She’d schooled herself to feel that way with such frequency and ferocity that it was second nature. It usually provided respite and protection. Tonight, however, she was vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been in a very long time.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to think. Unlike the past, she had choices. She wasn’t being forced into marrying Simon at Gretna Green. She was, however, being forced into something.
Throughout their journey north, she’d considered two options: starting over somewhere new or returning to her parents to weather the scandal of her broken engagement and her father’s fury. She still hadn’t quite decided but had been leaning toward starting over. Just the thought of facing her parents after she’d run off made her feel sick.
But to face them now? Now that all of Society would know she’d run off with the Duke of Romsey? Her stomach churned. She didn’t want to contemplate it. Which meant she had to disappear from her life forever.
Simon had promised to help her, and she’d no doubt he would. Even if it meant disaster for himself. With his reputation, it wouldn’t be a stretch for people to believe he’d killed Diana, as he’d killed his first wife.
She could guess how it would play out. She’d disappear. He’d go back to London, and the rumors of their flight would greet him. As would her father’s rage. Very clearly, she saw her father accusing him of disposing of Diana the way he’d disposed of his first wife, assuming he’d even married Diana at Gretna Green.
The agony Simon would suffer, to have to relive his worst moments all over again under the scrutiny of the vicious gossipmongers and scandal-hungry vipers of the ton… It was unconscionable.
And what if he were formally accused of her murder? Could she stay silent in her new life and watch him tried for a crime that hadn’t even occurred?
Of course she couldn’t. But maybe it wouldn’t come to that… Oh God, was she really thinking of throwing him to the wolves, just to save herself?
A soft rap on the door interrupted her dreadful speculation. Was he back so soon? She wasn’t ready.
She trudged to the door and opened it just a small crack. “I’m not—” It was Mrs. Woodlawn, not Simon.
The innkeeper’s wife smiled warmly. “Mr. Byrd asked if I’d come attend you.”
She’d forgotten, as if their conversation had happened hours ago instead of a few minutes. Opening the door wider, she tried to smile but failed. “Come in, please.”
“At least it’s nice and toasty in here,” Mrs. Woodlawn said, closing the door behind her.
Diana went to the chair and sat to take off her half boots. Did Mrs. Woodlawn know anything about what had transpired? Diana decided she didn’t have the fortitude to ask. She also didn’t particularly care. Everyone would know soon enough.
Standing, she presented her back to Mrs. Woodlawn, who unlaced her gown. “Your other gown is dry,” Mrs. Woodlawn said. “Mr. Byrd’s clothing isn’t quite. I’ll have it all packed up and ready for you in the morning. I’ll just take your bags downstairs with me when we’re finished.”
A bit of the tension leached from Diana’s frame, and she relaxed under Mrs. Woodlawn’s care. “You are too kind,” Diana said.
“I’m happy to help. You and Mr. Byrd are such a fine pair.”
This praise gave Diana a thought: perhaps she ought to reinvent herself as an actress. Her lips quirked up, and she had to swallow a laugh.
Mrs. Woodlawn helped take the gown over Diana’s head, then assisted with the petticoat before setting to work on Diana’s corset. “It’s been so lovely to have you and the Tafts and the others here during the snowstorm. I so enjoyed watching the children play. My own wee ones aren’t so wee anymore. My first grandchild will be here in the spring.”
Grateful for a subject that didn’t involve the scandal she was now facing, Diana looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Woodlawn. “How wonderful.”
“Oh, it is indeed. My daughter has had some difficulty—she’s lost a few babes—but this one seems to have rooted.”
And there was another reason Diana wasn’t overly enthusiastic about the state of marriage. There would be children, and while she wasn’t opposed to them, the begetting of them could be quite harrowing. Furthermore, what if she was a terrible mother? What if she’d learned how to treat a child from the way her parents had treated her?
Mrs. Woodlawn stepped back. “All done, I think.”
Diana could finish undressing and get ready for bed on her own. “Thank you, Mrs. Woodlawn.”
“I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but you seem to have a bit of a dark cloud tonight. I hope everything is all right with you and Mr. Byrd. He’ll be a good helpmate to you, far better than most of the gentlemen who come through here. It’s clear he loves you very much.”
Perhaps Simon should join her on the stage. Too bad dukes couldn’t disappear. He’d tried, hadn’t he? Traveling about as Byrd and yet being recognized as Romsey in spite of his efforts.
Diana merely nodded in response. “We appreciate your hospitality very much.”
“I do hope you’ll stop on your way back—if you come this way.”
Of course they wouldn’t. Diana wouldn’t want to risk running into anyone like Sir Fletcher and his wife. And this inn was too large, too easy to get to. If not for the storm, they never would’ve stopped here. Instead, they would’ve found their usual small, out-of-the-way lodging, and their masquerade would be intact.
Mrs. Woodlawn stoked the fire up and found their bags before going to the door. “Good night, Mrs. Byrd.”
“Good night,” Diana said. “And thank you again.”
She finished preparing for bed, swapping her clothing for her night rail hanging on the hook on the wall. As she slipped into the cool bed, she shivered and burrowed deep beneath the blankets. Rubbing her hands together to generate heat, she drew her legs up until she likely resembled a round lump.
Only a few minutes passed before she heard the latch click. Peering over the edge of the blankets, she made out Simon’s shape as he closed the door and moved quietly into the room. Normally, she would close her eyes and will herself to sleep before he joined her, but tonight, she didn’t. She watched him as he undressed in front of the fire, the light from the flames dancing across his bare torso as he stripped down to just his breeches.
He grabbed his night shirt and drew it over his head before removing the lower half of his clothing. Pity, she’d hoped to catch a glimpse of him nude.
She had?
And why not? She was curious. Their journey would be over soon, and then she’d likely never see him again. She’d expected to perhaps feel sad—she’d come to like him more than she’d anticipated—but after the kiss they’d shared, it was more than that.
That kiss… She’d spent far too much time thinking of her plight rather than relishing that glorious experience. It was another reason to loathe Sir Fletcher and his wife, for they’d interrupted a truly spectacular moment.
The desire that had sparked in her belly earlier that night kindled anew as she watched him. She recalled his hands on her back, the press of his chest against hers, the thrill of his tongue in her mouth. Suddenly, she wasn’t cold anymore.
She stretched her legs out—she had to in order to give him room—and heard him move toward the bed. Closing her eyes, she decided to feign sleep. The mattress dipped with his weight, and she caug
ht the scent of spice and leather. She could reach out and touch him, restart what had been stolen from them earlier…
“I can’t just disappear.” She whispered, but her voice was heavy in the quiet room.
“Of course you can. Don’t worry about money or anything else. I’ll take care of it.”
“I can’t let you do that. You’d be blamed for my…disappearance.”
He inhaled sharply but said nothing. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
Diana gazed at his profile. He was an exceptionally handsome man, with a strong nose and a mouth that could deliver so much delight.
“I’m the subject of blame every day,” he finally said. “This won’t alter anyone’s perception of me.”
She propped her head on her hand, jutting her elbow into the pillow. “It could make it worse. Besides, you aren’t guilty of anything.”
He turned his head toward her. “Aren’t I?”
“Oh, stop with that! I’ve no idea what you’re guilty of because you won’t say. But for me, you’re guilty of nothing save trying to help me. Y-You’ve done more for me than anyone I’ve ever known. You are not a m-murderer.”
He propped his head up, mirroring her pose. “You don’t know what I am.”
“Because you won’t say.” She wanted to know. She needed to know. “Did you kill her?”
He stared at her a long moment. Her pulse raced as she both anticipated and dreaded his answer.
He rolled over, presenting his back to her, then got to his feet.
Her stomach fell. He wasn’t going to tell her. She should’ve expected it. She knew him well enough by now—he didn’t discuss what happened to his wife. Not with anyone. Not even with his pretend wife. “Where are you going?” she kept her voice even, without demand.
“I just need to walk. Or something.” He drew his breeches back on, followed by his stockings and boots. “Go to sleep. We need to be up before dawn.”
And with that, he left.
She flopped back onto her back, frustration roiling through her—both because of his attitude and because she was still physically aroused. She could always do what he’d taught her…
Mrs. Woodlawn had said he was a good helpmate. She’d no idea.
If they were so bloody good at playing husband and wife, perhaps they should just go to Gretna Green and make it official. That would solve everything. Her parents might not be thrilled at her choice of duke, but he was still a duke, and Diana would still be a duchess. Moreover, her father’s grandson would be a duke, and that would make everything else that had come before palatable.
For that reason alone, Diana hated the idea. Anything that would make her father that happy was surely a disaster in the making.
Only, she didn’t hate the idea. She liked Simon. She was fairly certain he liked her. They seemed to be attracted to one another. Everyone else believed they were happily wed, so maybe they could be.
She knew he wanted a family. But he was afraid. He might not be able to marry her.
Furthermore, she wasn’t entirely sold on marriage. To live in such a close relationship with another person… She wasn’t sure she was capable of such a thing. Of love.
She was sure of one thing, however. She couldn’t choose what she really wanted—the independent life with a new identify. If she did, Simon would truly be what everyone said: ruined.
* * *
The last two days had been grueling. Simon stifled a yawn as the coach hit a rut, jostling the interior. Diana, who’d been asleep beside him, sucked in a breath, clearly startled. She rubbed at her eyes and slowly pushed herself up.
He didn’t know how much she’d slept in Manchester last night—she’d tossed and turned for quite some time. He knew that because he hadn’t slept much either, not because they’d shared a bed. After a long day of travel from Brereton, they’d found a tiny inn on the outskirts of Manchester. He’d introduced them as Phineas Byrd and his sister Miss Kitty Byrd. Diana had looked at him in surprise but hadn’t said a word.
The innkeeper had given them a room with two beds. Diana had taken her meals there, choosing to remain out of sight as much as possible. Though he’d been careful to lodge away from the main road, he didn’t blame her reticence.
“That’s Beaumont Tower,” she said a bit hoarsely, her voice craggy with the remnants of sleep, as she gestured toward the window.
Simon leaned over her, careful not to get too close—they’d maintained a polite distance since leaving Brereton. Outside the window rose a hill, and atop it sat a large fortress. “It’s a castle.”
“Yes, it dates to the twelfth century and was substantially rebuilt in the sixteenth. Shakespeare stayed here once.”
“Indeed? Will I be given his room?”
Her lips curved into a rare smile—they’d become scarce the past two days. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
The coach turned from the road onto a narrower track. They gradually began to climb up the hill toward the tower.
“When was the last time you were here?” he asked. Their conversation had been stilted since leaving Brereton. She answered his questions with brevity and a seeming disinterest, never putting in effort to continue an exchange. He kept thinking of the other night and how flustered she’d been. He wanted to ask about the stuttering. She hadn’t done it to that extent since, but he couldn’t believe that had been the first time, not the way she’d behaved. She’d measured her words and tried to speak more slowly but had still struggled. He suspected it was an ongoing battle.
If he were honest with himself, he’d acknowledge that he wasn’t making much of an effort either. She’d rattled him with her questions about Miriam’s death. That, and he knew their time together was coming to an end. Better to keep her at arm’s length. No revealing discussions or sharing of thoughts. And definitely no kissing.
Except that was all he could seem to think about when he closed his eyes. Which would explain his exhaustion. He yawned again and stretched his hand over his mouth, angling his head away from her. He didn’t dare sleep, not when she was so close, and his body could reach for her without conscious thought.
She smoothed her hand over her hair. “Thank goodness for hats,” she murmured.
“You look lovely.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have said it, but the words had tumbled from his mouth before he could stop them.
She flicked a glance in his direction. “You’re too kind. Truly.” The last word carried a hint of humor, and he was glad for it. The air between them had been so heavy and dark, whereas the time at The Happy Cat before they’d been recognized had been full of light and charm. He’d remember that snow for as long as he was blessed to breathe.
They crested the hill and passed through a gatehouse. The coach rumbled to a stop, and a moment later, Tinley opened the door. Another man, the gatekeeper, apparently, stood a few feet away.
Simon climbed down. “Good afternoon, we’re here to see Her Grace, the Duchess of Blackburn.”
“I’m her cousin.”
Simon looked back to see Diana poking her head through the door.
“I remember you, Miss Kingman. You and Her Grace always did look more like sisters than cousins.” The gatekeeper shot a look toward Simon, and his brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon, perhaps you are no longer Miss Kingman.”
Simon would let her handle that however she saw fit. They were in her world now, and he meant to let her take the lead. She smiled warmly, and Simon felt a visceral pull toward her.
“It’s fine. May we continue up to the house?” An excellent diversion.
“Of course. Welcome to Beaumont Tower.”
“Thank you.” Simon climbed back into the coach, and they were quickly on their way. The sound of a bell tolling from the gatehouse chased them up the drive.
Simon rubbed his palms together before plucking his gloves from the opposite seat and drawing them over his cold hands.
Diana reached for her hat, which was also on the opposite seat. Th
e coach hit a bump, and she pitched forward. Simon reached for her, clasping her waist and drawing her back. She landed half on him and half on the seat.
“Sorry, I didn’t want you to fall.” He released her almost immediately.
She slipped from his thigh and moved away from him as she smoothed her hand over her skirt. “Thank you.”
He grabbed her hat and handed it to her, then did the same with her gloves.
The coach passed through the inner gatehouse and stopped in a cobbled courtyard. Through the coach window on Diana’s side, Simon saw a liveried footman rush forward to open her door. He pulled down the step and helped Diana alight. Simon followed her out.
“This way,” the footman said, leading them up a short flight of stone stairs. They passed through a gateway in a low stone wall and were greeted with a lawn and garden. Everything was a dull green or brown, ready to suffer the cold winter months ahead. Even so, Simon imagined it was a beautiful place to pass the time in finer weather.
The path cut straight down the middle of the garden until they met a second, longer set of stairs. At the top, they continued forward through another gatehouse into the inner courtyard of the castle.
“Are we going to the drawing room?” Diana asked.
“Yes, miss,” the footman replied.
She gestured in front of them toward the upper floor. “It’s up there. We’ll go in and take the stairs.”
They walked into a grand receiving room with a staircase to their immediate right.
“This is the King’s Hall,” Diana said.
It was fit for a king and quite medieval, heavy with wood and tapestries. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing that compares to this at Lyndhurst.” He wanted to explore the room, but there’d be time later. He trailed Diana up the stairs.
She looked back at him. “And this is nothing compared to the Great Hall.” Her eyes held a sparkle that had been absent the past two days. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen them quite so animated.
