“Calm yourself, Annie.” Miranda began to descend the stairs toward her coach, which stood at the curb. “Perhaps I should have left my card, but I forgot them in my hurry to get here.”
“The duke knows who you are. That stiff-rump will get his.”
“Now, Annie.” Even through her distress, Miranda smiled at the girl’s loyalty. “I have every intention of speaking with the duke today, no matter how many servants try to block the way.”
“That’s the spirit!” Annie grinned, then nodded at the street. “And you might get your chance. I think that’s the duke’s carriage.”
“Oh.” Miranda paused on the sidewalk as the elegant equipage came to a halt behind her own vehicle. When the duke stepped down from the carriage, her heart leapt and tumbled in giddy response.
He paused when he saw her standing on the sidewalk, then came to her, his strides eating up the sidewalk. He stopped right in front of her—rather abruptly, as if he’d changed his mind about something at the last moment—then gave a bow. “Miss Fontaine.”
She bobbed a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Have you been here long?”
“No.” Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of the butler opening the door, of the footmen standing by to wait on the duke. But she could not look away from him, away from those velvety dark eyes that even now simmered with barely restrained passion.
“Do come inside.” He extended his arm, and she took it, allowing him to accompany her up the stairs. Annie followed behind. “You should not have come here so boldly,” he murmured as they stepped into the safety of his home. “The gossips will talk.”
“Let them.” She lifted her chin. “I rather believe there is a more tasty tidbit for them to nibble on today.”
He handed his hat to the butler. “So, you have heard.”
“I have. Why are you doing this?” She searched his face for answers. “You know as well as I that you were nowhere near Rothgard last night.”
“Not here.” He swept an arm toward the hallway. “Let us adjourn to the drawing room. Annie, make yourself comfortable belowstairs. And Travers, will you see to tea?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler turned to carry out the order as Miranda accompanied Wylde to the drawing room.
“You do realize,” Wylde said as they entered the room, “that you have risked your reputation by coming here today.”
“I do not give a fig. I am leaving London anyway.”
“I hate that you say that so easily.”
“I have no choice. You know I do not.” Alone with him in the drawing room, she laid a hand on his arm. “Tell me you are not so foolish as to meet Lord Rothgard at dawn tomorrow.”
“You are well informed.”
“Thaddeus told me. I understand that you feel the need to pay the tradesmen and make other amends for the actions of the imposter, but risking your life? Is that not too much of a sacrifice?”
“It is complicated.”
“No, it is not.” Frustrated with his calm acceptance, she propped her hands on her hips. “I see the choice here. If you do not meet Rothgard, your honor is in question. If you do, you might die or, in the best of circumstances, be forced to flee the country.”
“That is about the sum of it.” Wylde nodded at the servant who entered the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. “We are not to be disturbed,” he told the man.
“Yes, Your Grace.” With a curious glance toward Miranda, the fellow bowed out of the room, closing the doors behind him.
“Closed doors? Really, Your Grace. What will the servants say?”
“Hang them.” He pulled her into his arms. “I have been thinking about this since I opened my eyes this morning and you were gone.” He lowered his head and took her mouth in a kiss that made her head spin and brought back every memory of their night together.
By the time he released her, she needed to cling to him for balance. “Good heavens.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “I woke up, but you were not there. I hated that feeling.”
“We talked about it.” She stroked his cheek. “This is for the best, Wylde. I cannot live as your mistress.”
“And as a wife? Would you stay then?”
Her breath froze in her lungs. “What are you asking me?”
“Nothing. I am just trying to understand you.” He let out a long sigh. “I want you with me, that is all.”
“I see. You only said that to get my attention.” Disappointed, she struggled to explain. “It is not that I do not want to be with you. I do. But I cannot in good conscience share your bed in exchange for food and shelter. No matter how fancy you dress up the situation, it always remains the same—I would be a whore.”
“So a wedding band makes all the difference.”
Stung by the dry tone, she stepped out of his embrace. “Yes, because it means I have value to you beyond a warm body in your bed. It means that you trust me to bear your name and your children, to stand beside you in good times and bad.”
“I do trust you.” The tenderness in his voice was almost enough to convince her. Almost.
“Apparently not enough.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “This gets us nowhere. What are you going to do about the duel?”
He took her change of subject in stride. “There is nothing to do but meet Rothgard at dawn.”
“You are not considering such madness! You were not even there. You were with me.”
“I remember.” The heat in those dark eyes, the roughness of his voice, told her without a doubt that he did remember.
“Then tell that to Rothgard. Or let me tell him. I am the only person who can prove that you were not at that card game last night.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I will not sacrifice your reputation to save my honor.”
“My reputation is not worth your life.”
“Your reputation is worth everything, and I will do anything to protect it. The imposter is my problem, and this duel is a result of that. If the resolution is to meet Rothgard at dawn, so be it.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to drive home her point. “Listen to me, Thornton. You cannot let this imposter beat you by luring you into this duel. If you die, then he wins.”
“And if I do not appear, he wins as well. My honor would be worthless.”
“But if you just explain—”
“I tried to explain. Rothgard laughed in my face.” He set his jaw. “No one treats Wyldehaven with such disrespect.”
“Now you are just being stubborn!”
“No more so than you.” He raised his brows. “You refuse to be a man’s mistress because of what happened to your mother. Well, I refuse to allow my honor to be insulted. My father did enough of that for a whole generation of Mathertons.”
“I refuse to be a man’s mistress because I want more than what my mother had. I want to matter to someone.”
“And I want to be known as a better man than my father, not to be considered just like him. Yet that is exactly what this imposter is doing—making people believe I am just like my father. No honor.”
“And if I stay here,” she said softly, “I will be just like my mother—a mistress. A possession. An employee to be dismissed.”
“If that is what you think, why did you stay with me last night?”
She stared at him a long moment, hollowness filling her chest where her heart had been. “Don’t you know?”
“No, I do not.”
“Perhaps it was a bit of madness. Curiosity.” She blinked rapidly, fighting back the sting of moisture. “Please do not allow this duel to happen.”
“If Rothgard will not accept my apology, there is nothing I can do.”
She sniffled, then ignored his searching look. “That is all you need to do—apologize?”
“As long as he accepts it, which he did not. So there is nothing left but to face him.”
“You could simply not appear.”
“And be branded a dishono
rable scoundrel? I would rather die.”
“You very well might.”
“I am a crack shot.”
“So you would rather kill him than suffer dishonor? Why are men so ridiculous?” She dug in her reticule and pulled forth a handkerchief, then dabbed at her eyes. “I am not crying over you,” she informed him in her haughtiest tone. “I believe I have dust in my eye.”
“Of course you do.” He tugged her unresisting back into his arms and cuddled her close. “Darling girl. If only things were different.”
“Then make them different.” She crushed the handkerchief in her hand and thumped her small fist on his chest. “You are a duke, are you not? Can you not put an end to this madness?”
“Only by meeting Rothgard at dawn.”
She dropped her hand to her side. “Do not expect me to be at your funeral.”
“I have made arrangements for James,” he said. “You only need to consult Barstairs, my man of affairs—”
“I do not want your money. I never did.” She sniffled again, distraught to realize the tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks. “Since you insist on pursuing this foolishness, I will pray for you.” She took a step back, out of his reach.
“Miranda—”
She cast up her hands. “Leave me be. You have made your choice, and I have made mine. James and I will be leaving on the afternoon mail coach. If you survive—” She sucked in a shaky breath. “If you survive this foolishness, do not look for me.”
“But—”
She stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then gazed into his eyes. “Good-bye, Wylde. Know that you take my prayers with you.” Pressing her handkerchief into his hand, she turned and left the room.
Wylde watched her go. Everything inside him demanded that he call her back, that he entreat her to stay. But he could not.
He crushed her handkerchief in his fist, the gentle scent of rose water clinging to his fingers. His choices in this were either to die or be dishonored, and neither was a situation to which he wanted to expose Miranda. He cared for her too much.
No, he realized. It was more than that. He had fallen in love with her.
Miranda with her proper ways and steadfast morals and generous passion and stubborn independence. She would have made a hell of a duchess. But how could he ask her to join her future to his? If he did not appear to face Rothgard at dawn, he would bear the taint of dishonor all his days. How could he ask her to share that? To bear that? And how could he ask her to be his wife, only to make her a widow before she was a bride?
Better she leave him now, before she knew what they might have had together. Better to let her go and leave him to shoulder the blame for what was to come on his own.
He lifted her handkerchief to his nose and let the aroma linger in his mind. And considered what might have been.
Dawn came quickly when death was imminent.
Wylde sat in his coach, looking across the green at Rothgard’s carriage. The seconds gathered together in the middle of the meadow, wisps of fog curling around their ankles as they examined the dueling pistols and spoke in hushed tones.
The curtains of Rothgard’s carriage twitched. Wylde watched with a bone-deep calm as the earl peered out. Their gazes met briefly, then his opponent disappeared back into his carriage.
Wylde glanced down at the handkerchief in his hands. He wound the dainty white square around his fingers, each twist teasing more rose water scent from the bit of linen. The white material had softened with age, and in some spots the cloth was nearly transparent, though the tiny blue flowers along the edges retained their color. An elaborate F graced one corner, a blue long-stemmed rose functioning as the middle line through the letter.
F for Fannie?
It would be just like Miranda to keep Fannie’s handkerchief as a memory of her mother. Just like he was keeping it to remember Miranda.
He wasn’t certain how long he sat there, but then the door to his carriage opened and Darcy stood there, his face grim. “We are ready.”
Wylde tucked the handkerchief into his coat sleeve, then climbed out of the carriage.
Rothgard waited by his seconds, one of which was Arenson. His other second bore the case with the dueling pistols. The physician, Dr. Morse, lingered nearby. Rothgard watched Wylde with flinty eyes.
Foolishness. Wylde paused on the green, surveying the tableau. Was there no hope for cooler heads in this insanity? Was there no possible peaceful, reasonable outcome?
The imposter would win, curse him. Unless he was able to convince Rothgard that they could work this out without bloodshed.
“Will you not accept my apology, Rothgard?” he called out, approaching his opponent.
“Apology?” Rothgard scoffed. “Was it not you who spun me the tale about your evil twin brother who is running about London causing all sorts of scandal? What sort of apology is that? According to you, you are innocent and this other fellow is the blackguard.” His cronies chuckled and cast pitying glances at Wylde.
“I suspect, Rothgard, that you will accept nothing at all from me.”
“After what you did to my son? I bloody well will not.”
The last of his hopes for a peaceful reconciliation died a short and final death.
“He is telling the truth,” Wulf said. “There really is a fellow who looks like him causing all this trouble.”
“You are as mad as he is,” Rothgard scoffed.
Wylde laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There is no reasoning with him, Wulf. Let us get on with this.”
Rothgard shed his hat and coat, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. Despite his age, the man looked as physically fit as Wylde. He waited with disdain on his face while Wylde handed his hat to Darcy. Then Wulf helped Wylde strip off his immaculately tailored coat. Miranda’s handkerchief slipped from inside the sleeve and fluttered to the ground.
“Blast it.” Wylde had barely managed to extricate himself from the garment when Arenson swooped forward and scooped up the bit of lace.
“And what is this, Wyldehaven? A token from your ladybird?”
Wylde held out his hand. “Please return that.”
Arenson sniggered and waved the handkerchief. Then his expression sobered and he held up the square by its corners so he could better see the embroidery. He glanced at Rothgard. “Look at this.”
Rothgard snatched the handkerchief from his friend and glanced at the pattern, then froze. “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“It belongs to a friend. Please return it.”
Rothgard’s fingers clenched around the bit of cotton and he raised it to his nose and sniffed. “Attar of roses,” he breathed.
“It looks like—”
“I know what it looks like,” Rothgard snapped, cutting off Arenson. “But it seems impossible.” He fixed his gaze on Wylde. “A friend, you say?”
“A dear friend.” Wylde continued to extend his hand. “If you would…”
“Where is she?” Rothgard demanded. “How do you know her?”
Wylde frowned at Rothgard. “I do not see how this is any business of yours.”
“Shall we get on with the duel?” Darcy asked. “Before someone comes and reports us to the watch?”
“Never mind that,” Arenson said. “Where did you get Fannie’s handkerchief?”
“Bollocks,” Darcy muttered, glancing across the park. “We are too late. Someone is coming.”
All of them turned toward the approaching carriage. Rothgard’s second closed the pistol case and signaled to one of Rothgard’s footmen to come and take it back to the coach.
Wulf shaded his eyes. “That looks like one of your rigs, Wylde.”
“Bloody hell. What the devil is she doing here? Excuse me, gentlemen, while I handle this bit of business.” Even as the carriage stopped close to the combatants, Wylde was striding forward. “John, are you mad for bringing her here?”
The coachman looked just as unhappy as Wylde. “If I hadn
’t, Your Grace, they were going to hire a hack.”
“Blast that woman. This is no place for her.”
Young Thomas the footman hopped down and opened the door to the carriage. Annie scrambled out. “We’ve come to stop you from killing yourself,” she announced cheerfully.
“Annie, you should not be here. Now take your mistress and return home.”
Miranda appeared in the doorway. “I am not going anywhere,” she announced. He refused to step forward, to help her from the coach, but she climbed nimbly down with Thomas’s assistance. Once on the ground, she glared up at Wylde. “I refuse to sit at home wringing my hands, Wylde, when I can put an end to this foolishness.”
“This is no place for a woman.” He took her arm, tried to urge her back into the carriage. “Leave. Now.”
“I will not.” She jerked her arm from his and looked behind him at the assembled party. “Which one of you is Lord Rothgard?” she called, striding forward.
“I am Rothgard.” The earl stepped forward, his face arrested with fascination.
“Contessa,” Arenson said. “What are you doing here?”
“Setting matters straight.” She focused on the earl, who studied her face with something akin to wonder. “Lord Rothgard, the duke is innocent of the crimes you lay at his door. There is someone who greatly resembles him going about London causing no amount of mischief. We suspect this miscreant is one of the former duke’s by-blows amusing himself at the duke’s expense.”
“Wyldehaven said as much in his apology,” Rothgard said, his tone kind. “However, miss, you must understand how fantastical that sounds.”
“I do. But my maid has seen this fellow with her own eyes and can attest that he does exist.”
“That I can!” Annie said.
“Enough of this,” Wylde growled. “There is supposed to be a duel taking place here.”
Miranda sent him a look of disbelief. “Are you so eager to die, Your Grace?”
He glared. “Your confidence in me is astounding.”
“Contessa, how did you come to be here?” Arenson asked.
Rothgard shot a meaningful glance at his friend. “Arenson, will you not introduce me to this lady?”
“This is the Contessa della Pietra, Rothgard. Remember, I told you about her? She is the wonderful songbird who so resembles Fannie Fontaine.”
To Ruin the Duke Page 22
