His gaze was so fierce that twinges of pure love clenched Blythe’s heart. The love of a sibling was unlike any other, she thought. She reached out and hugged him tightly, thankful for her family.
Chapter Eight
Michael looked down the darkened hallway, barely lit by the candle he held in his hand. He glanced at the staircase behind him, but dismissed any worry about being caught. It was the middle of the night, and no one stirred.
He frowned. Where to start? He doubted there would be a sign anywhere in the house that said, ‘Thomas is here. Come find him.’ If only it would be that simple. He could pack up his precocious child and be back in London in less than a fortnight.
Ah yes, London, where a debutante claimed he had ruined her. He would be subjected to gossips and continual innuendo that he was just like his parents. That was one situation he definitely did not care to face.
Michael moved down the hallway toward the study, careful not to make noise. It was as good a place as any to start. He felt for the doorknob and pushed it open with a swish of air.
He veered around the wingback chairs and stopped in front of the desk, his small candle held aloft. He walked around the desk and sat in the stuffed leather chair. Not sure what he sought, he simply opened drawers. The first drawer held household and village accounts. He grasped a handful of notes toward the back of the drawer and pulled them out.
The first one gave an address. Michael’s heart jumped a beat, but he quickly let out a sigh. The address was followed by: Roof repairs needed.
He doubted Thomas had the intelligence to form an elaborate code where “roof repairs” had any meaning. He shuffled through the rest of the notes, all of which contains references to different houses and buildings that needed attention. Nothing helpful here.
He shoved them back in the drawer and pulled open the next one. Just as he reached in to pull out the papers inside, a scraping noise came from the hallway.
Michael snuffed the light on the candle and slowly shut the drawer.
Scrape, scrape. Swish.
Someone was in the hallway.
He scooted out of the chair and felt his way around the desk, past the arm chairs and to the open door. Hiding behind it, he waited.
Shuffle, shuffle.
Footsteps padded along the wooden floor.
Click. The sound of a closing door.
Michael turned into the hallway, glanced both ways and headed toward the back of the house. At the final T intersection, he heard a noise from the left hallway and followed it.
He held still, listening.
Clink. Clink.
The noise came from the kitchen ahead of him.
Perhaps Thomas was getting some food? Could he actually be here, right under Michael’s nose?
Sure of his steps now, he strode down the center of the hallway into the kitchen. The room was large, but Michael followed the stream of light toward the right side.
A very delightful backside wrapped in a dressing gown presented to him.
“Blythe.” What was she doing here?
“Oh!” Blythe squeaked and swirled her head around. “Your Grace!” Whatever she held in her hand clattered to the floor.
Michael strode toward her and bent to pick it up just as she did. His hand covered hers, and with his left, he grabbed the spoon upon the floor.
Together, they stood up. Michael held the spoon out to her, but she stood there, grasping the ends of her dressing gown tightly around her.
He peered past her in bemusement. A glass full of something frothy sat on the counter. “Whatever are you doing?”
“I—” she started then stopped. “What are you doing here?”
He leaned forward, close enough to her that he could smell the freshness of her hair and dropped the spoon onto the counter with a clack.
He dipped a finger into the froth and brought it to his mouth. “Sweet.”
“Lemon syllabub,” she muttered. “From tonight’s dessert.” She grabbed the spoon and with a glare at him, walked to the sink and set it in. She opened a drawer and pulled out another.
He frowned. “You certainly know your way around the kitchen.”
“I know where the desserts are,” she replied with a smile and a shrug. “I have a fondness for sweets.”
“In the middle of the night?”
She laughed. “That, my lord, is the best time of all for sweets.”
His gaze dipped to her mouth and he imagined the tart sweetness of the lemon-flavored dessert would taste sweet on her.
She grasped her dressing gown tightly again. “I should go upstairs. This is highly improper.”
He was reluctant to let her leave. He couldn’t say why he did not want her to go. He just knew he didn’t.
“I did not have dessert.”
She cocked her head. “Perhaps if you had spent more than a handful of minutes over your food, you might have enjoyed it more.”
He met her eyes with his own. “Share with me.”
“All right.” She turned around and grasped the parfait glass. Reaching into the drawer again, she drew out another spoon. Holding them aloft, she walked toward the center block table that had stools pushed up to it.
Idly, Michael wondered if his kitchen had places to sit. “Why would one sit in the kitchen when the dining room has perfectly good chairs?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I imagine you could not describe your kitchen to me at all.” She set the parfait and spoons on the table and reached over to light the set of candles.
He blinked as light illuminated them into a cozy circle. “Why should I? I have no need of going in there.”
She shook her head and pulled out a stool. “Don’t you ever get hungry when no one is around?”
He sat in the other stool. “No.”
Blythe laughed. “You control your hunger to appropriate times. How unsurprising.”
Michael frowned. “I do not see the problem with maintaining proper meal times.”
She grabbed a spoon and ladled a large bit of froth onto it. With a happy sigh, she opened her mouth and took it in. “Mmmm.”
Lust awoke deep in his gut.
She pushed the other spoon at him. “Have some.”
He took the spoon and dipped it into the cup. Bringing it back, he swallowed the whipped tart.
She stared at him. “You did not even enjoy that, did you?”
“Of course I did.”
She shook her head. “No, you didn’t. You just ate it as if it were necessary. That, Your Grace, completely ruins the point of enjoying a sweet.”
“There is a point?” If she had one to make, he certainly couldn’t see it.
“Did you not ever partake of sweets as a child? Just because?” she asked as she dipped in for another bite. She, unlike him, apparently reveled in the taste.
He lifted a shoulder. “There was nothing much enjoyable about being a child.”
She held her hand still and her eyes focused on his. “I am sorry.”
“You did not have anything to do with my childhood.”
“Of course not. I just find it sad that you didn’t enjoy it. I loved growing up. My brother and sisters, we had quite a bit of fun.” Her eyes shone brightly as she spoke. “What did you do for fun?”
“I was the heir to the dukedom. I had a legacy to uphold.” Fun had not been part of Michael’s upbringing. Duty had been the constant force in his life. From the time he was old enough to understand the word, Michael had it drummed into him. Even as his father ruined their name, he made certain Michael knew his responsibility to it.
“Which is why you do not wish to stifle your daughter,” Blythe said. Sympathy swam in her eyes.
“Precisely.” He brought a spoonful back to his mouth, and this time, actually tasted the tangy sweetness as he swallowed. “It is good.”
Blythe sat watching him, studying him in a way that Michael found a bit uncomfortable. Then she gasped.
He frowned. “What?”
&nb
sp; She shook her head. “Nothing.” She bent her head down.
Michael sighed. He’d seen the expression too many times before not to know what it meant. “You know who my parents are.”
She looked up, almost apologetic. “I didn’t put it together until now. Your parents were…notorious. We heard about them even at Merewood, my family’s home.”
“The War of the Ravens,” he said, quoting the atrocious nickname given by society. Eventually, it always came back to his parents’ bloody war of a marriage. “What do you want to know?” he asked flatly.
She blinked. “Nothing.” She set her spoon on the table and leaned in. “I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been for a child.”
Society, he had found at a very early age, loved a good scandal. And even more so, they loved to gossip ad nauseum.
“They hated each other. I cannot remember a single cordial exchange. Every week, the Duke would appear in the presence of an opera singer, widow, or the latest married yet willing lady in the ton. My mother would respond in kind. It was all very public.”
She held out her hand, palm forward, in front of him. “We do not need to discuss this. I am not looking for gossip.”
“Everyone is.” Irritation edged out the relaxed mood he’d started to feel. “It is nothing new.”
“I am not,” she replied, emphasis on each word. “Truly. You do not need to tell me anything. It would have been difficult enough to live through once. I cannot imagine repeating it is any easier.”
Her gaze was clear and guileless, but Michael watched for any signs that she was insincere.
He found none.
And just like that, the tension left his body and he felt a sudden desire to talk about it. “Once, when I was about eleven, the Duke once told me that his very goal had become simply to humiliate the woman he’d married.”
Such a rousing testament to the state of matrimony.
“Your mother.”
“She was not a mother to me,” he admitted. Far from it. “And she was no victim. She did her best to return the sentiment. Every chance she got, as publicly as possible.”
“Why?” Blythe asked gently.
“They would never tell me how it started.” He straightened his back. “I just saw how it ended.”
From one highly publicized affair to the next, they’d constantly waged their personal war with each other in the most public and judgmental of arenas: Society.
And left him to wade the hatred-filled waters alone. And to clean up their mess.
Her hand dropped on top of his, and her fingers squeezed slightly. “I am so very sorry, Your Grace.”
He stared into her very alluring, very green eyes and had a need to hear his name on her lips. “Call me Ravens…Michael.”
She caught her breath. “Michael,” she whispered. Her gaze lowered, and heat clutched Michael’s groin. As his body flared in response, he stretched out his hand to wrap it lightly around the back of her neck.
Her gaze had clouded with arousal as she stared at him.
Now is the time to ask about Thomas.
The thought came unbidden, unwanted and for a moment, anger doused Michael’s lust. Not now.
Now.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, startled by the warring desires inside him. When he opened them again, he knew he had no choice. Charming as this moment had been, he was here for a purpose.
He met her gaze. She blinked, then frowned, pulling away from him. Confusion covered her lovely face, and finally she put the spoon down. “Why are you here?”
Michael blinked. “I could not sleep,” he lied.
She shook her head. “I don’t mean here,” she said, gesturing around the kitchen. “I mean, here. At Rosemead.”
She watched him closely, and he knew she was smart enough to figure out a ruse. So he told a half truth. “There was a problem in London, and I needed a place to escape for a while.”
Instantly, compassion filled her gaze. “Something about your parents?”
He looked down. “Yes.”
“I assume you have houses all over, though? Why come here?”
“I do, but it seemed an opportune time to meet the woman my cousin married.”
At the mention of Thomas, she shut down and her face showed as much expression as stone.
“I thought perhaps you could share your memories of him,” he pushed.
“I do not see how that would help now.”
“It would help me know him.” He leaned in slightly. “It would help me know you.”
“Why would you want to?”
His eyes darted down to her mouth. “Don’t you think we should know each other?”
“Truthfully?”
The corner of his mouth tugged upward and he stifled a chuckle. “Of course.”
“Then no, I really don’t.”
He couldn’t stop the laughter that burst out. “You are not one for dissembling, are you?”
“I don’t see the point in furthering any…relationship between us. There is nothing that binds us.”
How very wrong she was.
“I will answer what you want to know about Thomas, but then I think it best if you prepare to leave,” she said. Then her expression softened a little. “That sounded harsh. I do apologize.” She paused, seeming to war within herself. “Please, ask me what you will of your cousin. I don’t know that I have many answers to provide, however.”
“How did you meet?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and stood up, grabbing her empty glass.
“Where are you going?” He frowned.
“More dessert,” she replied with a sigh. “Conversations about Thomas require large amounts of sweets.”
He watched bemused as she spooned more syllabub. He marveled at the sheer comfort she felt in this room.
“I ran into Thomas, almost literally, on St. James Street.”
“In London?”
She threw him an exasperated look and then disappeared into the pantry. “Yes, in London. Even though I’ve never resided there, I do know where it is.”
“I do not recall seeing you, that is all.”
“I highly doubt you’d have paid me the slightest bit of attention,” she said as she came back to the table, dessert in hand. “You do not strike me as the type interested in debutantes.” She settled on her stool at the table and grabbed the spoon.
“I would have noticed you,” he said, intentionally flattering her. With a flicker of surprise, he realized he meant it. He frowned. “So you met Thomas on St. James Street.”
“Yes. I was coming out of a shop with my mother, and he was headed in.”
“Did he declare his love on the spot?”
A flattering blush stained her cheeks and she looked down at the table.
“He didn’t.”
“Not at that moment, no. But not long after,” she admitted. “At the time, I thought it highly romantic.”
“And now?”
“Now I realize what a sublime fool I was.” She took in a deep breath and slowly placed the spoon on the table.
Michael’s pulse sped up, and he shoved away the instinct to push. Slow and steady, man, he told himself even as a pang of the much undesired feeling of guilt settled in at the look on her face.
She didn’t care to talk about Thomas.
Michael steeled his nerve. Of course she didn’t. Not if she was party to his schemes.
“Why were you a fool?” he asked finally.
She lifted a shoulder. “I believed him.”
“About what?”
She frowned at him. “That he wanted me. That he loved me. All of it. But it was never me Thomas wanted.” She shivered and pulled her robe around her tighter. “I believe I’ve had enough sweets for tonight. I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I do believe I shall retire.”
In a single graceful move, she pulled her robe close about her, slid from her chair and turned toward the door. Just as she reached the doorway, she s
topped and turned back. “Thank you for sharing your past with me.”
“I was glad to,” he replied, as he tried to figure a way to keep her here. “Lady Ashton.”
She glanced back at him.
“I would very much like to stay for a short while, if you do not object. It’s good for Bethie. It has been good for me, as well. I rarely have the chance to be any place where expectations are not piled upon me.”
Warring emotions crossed her face. Finally, she gave a soft sigh. “Of course you may stay. Please forgive my earlier rudeness. We welcome you and your daughter as our guests for as long as you wish.”
Then she disappeared through the doorway.
Michael smiled. Now he had all the time he needed.
He reached forward and grasped the spoon she’d left and dipped it into her dessert. He took the bite, trying to feel the enjoyment she had obviously felt while eating it.
It was simply…lemony.
With a sigh, he dropped the spoon and headed back to his room. As he closed the door behind him, it dawned on him that he was supposed to be the one charming information out of Blythe. Not the one being charmed.
Chapter Nine
“If I did not know better, I would say the Duke was courting you.”
“Do not be silly, Mother.”
Hypatia offered an innocent smile. “What, dearest? Did I say something wrong?”
“You know very well what you said,” Blythe muttered as she turned back around and focused on her tea cup. But she couldn’t help it; her eyes gravitated toward the large bay window, where Michael sat at a chess game with Georgie.
No, no, no! His Grace. Nothing else.
Blythe let out a quiet groan. Ever since Michael had gotten her to call him by his given name the other night, she’d been unable to think of him as anything but Michael.
She didn’t want to think of him as Michael. In fact, she didn’t want to think of him at all.
“He does seem to be paying you an inordinate amount of attention. He seems to be settling in quite well here.” Her mother cocked her head slightly. “How long does he intend to stay?”
“I told him he was welcome to stay as long as he wished.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow.
“He is not here to court me, Mama. He’s here because he needs a respite from his own life. Heaven knows it is quiet enough here.”
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