Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  Rowen glanced up at that moment, catching Wynne’s eye. She saw his dark eyes give an odd flicker, but she wasn’t exactly sure what she saw. Embarrassment at the woman’s words? Amusement?

  The look disappeared before she could pin it, and Rowen looked down at the woman, his countenance neutral.

  “We will have to discuss this at another time, Duchess, as the guest I mentioned has arrived.”

  The woman whipped around, and Wynne was immediately struck with two things. One, the woman was older, but beautiful. And two, she had the saddest eyes Wynne had ever seen. The woman was tortured. And her black dress only exacerbated the despair.

  Wynne stood rooted in her spot by the door, and the woman advanced on her. The woman stopped, her toes almost touching Wynne’s boots, and she stared at Wynne’s face.

  Her breath heavy, she used her slight height advantage to lean over Wynne. Wynne took the scrutiny, trying not to shrink backward.

  Rowen moved to the side of them, his voice low. “Duchess.”

  There was clear warning in that one word.

  The woman waited a moment before she took one step backward, her almost translucent blue eyes going to Rowen.

  “This? This is what you bring? This does not placate me, L.B., if that is what you intended to do. You will have to do entirely better than presenting me with this twit of a girl.”

  “You hardly know that she is a twit, Duchess. Her name is Wynne Theaton, and she happens to be a very skilled artist. I cannot help it if you have not heard of her works. You have been complaining of the monstrosity that is your portrait since it was delivered twenty years ago.” Rowen inclined his head to Wynne. “She is the one to re-do your portrait. I do believe your son would have rectified the situation himself, were he alive.”

  Her eyes flew to Wynne. “Why are your fingers filthy, girl?”

  Wynne refused to look down at her fingertips, instead, meeting the duchess’s demanding stare. She couldn’t apologize for something she couldn’t help. “It is the paint. It stains my fingers.”

  The duchess tilted her head back, looking down her long, straight nose at Wynne. After a second of silence, she gave a curt nod. “Let us dine.”

  The first two courses came and went in complete silence. The duchess sat at one end of the long table. Rowen sat at the other. Wynne could not discern which was at the head of the table—appropriate, as she had already figured out the battle for dominance in this castle was raging in full force between the two.

  She also realized she had just been unwittingly plunked down into the middle of it.

  Wynne stole a sideward glance at Rowen. He had changed his attire and was now in full evening wear, his crisp white cravat a stark contrast against his dark hair. His black jacket—if possible—made his shoulders look even wider. She liked the simplicity of him in the woods better, his casual white linen shirt peeking out from under his black coat, along with the well-worn boots and buckskin breeches.

  But she also could not deny that he was just as handsome in polished clothes. The light of the fire opposite her flickered against one side of his face. And she was fascinated by the distinct way he ate. Utterly precise, not allowing a finger out of place, or the slightest morsel of food to tumble to his chin. She wondered at it, as she had not imagined this fastidiousness of him.

  “At least she knows which fork to use.”

  The duchess’s voice cut into her thoughts, and Wynne jumped, realizing her sideways glance at Rowen had turned into a full gawking. It sent the bite of fowl on her tongue into her throat, and she tried valiantly to hold in a choking, coughing spasm.

  “Where are you from, Miss Theaton?”

  Head down and eyes watering, Wynne succumbed to the hacking determined to escape. A quick drink of the wine, and Wynne looked up to the duchess, wiping her wet eyes. “Please, excuse me,” she choked out, and had to take another sip of wine.

  The duchess waited, perturbed politeness raising her brows.

  Wynne glanced at Rowen. He was smirking. Ass.

  Throat back to normal, Wynne looked at the duchess, smoothing the napkin in her lap. “America. Both the Blue Ridge Mountains and New York. My mother was very adept at society, and schooled me exhaustively on manners. Which is where my knowledge of proper forks comes from. But the manners rarely came in handy on the mountain.”

  “You were in polite society in New York?”

  Wynne could see the duchess’s sudden interest, and nodded. “Yes. My parents were. My mother adored the dinners and galas that they both hosted and attended, and was preparing me for a very similar life. That was also where I was initially trained as an artist. I was thirteen when my father died, and we left the day after his funeral for my grandfather’s mountain. I do apologize if I misstep in my manners. It has been some time since I have put them to use at an elaborate table such as yours.”

  The duchess raised her wine, sipping slowly. “How interesting. And how did you make it from America to Yorkshire?”

  Surprised, Wynne looked at Rowen. “You did not tell her, Rowe?”

  Rowen opened his mouth, but was instantly cut off by the duchess.

  “Rowe?” Horrified, the duchess’s hand went flat onto the black lace across her chest. She glared at Wynne. “Pray tell me you did not just call the duke ‘Rowe.’”

  Confused, Wynne’s eyes went from the duchess, to Rowen, and then back to the duchess. “I—I did. Is that not his name?”

  “He is a duke, Miss Theaton. You address him as ‘your grace.’”

  The words of apology formed on her tongue, but Rowen spoke before Wynne could get sound out. “I am rather fond of Miss Theaton calling me Rowe, Duchess.”

  The duchess leaned forward, eyes slicing into Rowen. “The duke is rolling in his grave.”

  “I am the duke.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Rowen didn’t flinch, didn’t rise against the obvious disgust the duchess shot at him.

  They stared at each other, Wynne frozen between the two. It was when Wynne could hold her breath no longer that she cleared her throat, leaning forward over the table to try and break the sight line between the two.

  She produced a humble smile as she looked at the duchess. “I apologize, Duchess, I did not realize.” She turned to Rowen. “I meant no disrespect, Ro—your grace.”

  “I prefer Rowe, Wynne.”

  The duchess flew to her feet, arm flying into the air. “Travesty. A grievous insult to all you represent, L.B. Disgusting travesty. I have lost my appetite.” In a flash, she stomped to the heavy doors, pushing past the elderly butler as he fumbled with the door for the duchess.

  Eyes wide and heart thudding, Wynne looked from the closed doors to Rowen. “I apologize. I did not mean to be the brunt of discord between the two of you.”

  “You are not the brunt, Wynne,” Rowen said calmly, appearing indifferent to the duchess’s scene. “Merely a convenient pawn to be used by the dowager against me.”

  “But I believe I should call you ‘your grace’—had I known, I certainly would have done so from the start. Things are much different here from on our mountain.”

  “No.” The one word came fast and hard. But then Rowen blinked, and his voice softened. “No ‘your grace’—I do not wish that from you. I would prefer you to call me Rowe. It is how we started.”

  Unnerved at his insistence, Wynne silently nodded. She already called him Rowe, so it would be easy enough for her—though she made a mental notation to not refer to him as anything in front of the duchess. She did not want to repeat that particular scene.

  Smoothing the napkin on her lap, Wynne picked up her knife and fork, slicing her meat, searching her mind for a topic to move past the awkwardness of the last few minutes. “The duchess—she has had a portrait done she is not pleased with?”

  “Yes, it hangs in the main hall here, and it is the one thing I agree with her about. It is awful. And she has been terrified for years that the portrait would end up representing her
throughout the ages.”

  “Why not remove it?”

  Rowen’s eyes stayed on his plate. “Her husband was a stubborn man and oftentimes bitter. He demanded that be her legacy. And since he died, she has not removed it either.” He shrugged. “Better to be represented by an atrocity, than not represented at all, I imagine.”

  “That sounds particularly awful.”

  “I suppose it depends upon how much one cares about what others think, even generations that have yet to be born.” He looked up, his dark eyes focusing on her hands. “All in all, it should not be too difficult for you to improve on the original portrait. I will show it to you after we finish dining.”

  ~~~

  Bellies plump, Rowen grabbed a hanging wall lantern from the dining hall and led Wynne into the labyrinth of stone hallways. Within two turns, Wynne realized the necessity of the lantern and suddenly wished she had her own.

  Pitch blackness both in front of them and behind them, Wynne made sure to move slightly behind Rowen and keep her steps close to his. Spooky—and her grandfather had long since cured her of being spooked by the darkness.

  But the darkness of an open mountain was very different than the dank, cold darkness they were surrounded by. Wynne started to hum to herself and then realized the echo of it made the hallways even spookier.

  She looked up at Rowen’s profile, the light of the lantern sending a warm glow across his cheek. “What is it that the duchess does not want you to destroy?”

  “The dowager would prefer for me not to tear down half the castle.”

  Wynne stopped in place. Rowen kept walking, and it took a moment for her to realize she was getting left behind in the dark. She scurried to catch up. “You want to tear down half the castle? Why?”

  “It is crumbling, and it would cost five fortunes to repair it.” His smooth voice offered calm logic. “The dowager is adamant I fix it instead, as you overheard.”

  “But what about the history of this place?”

  “I am not interested in a history that serves no purpose other than to drain my finances.”

  “Even crumbling, this is an impressive structure,” Wynne said. “Spooky and confusing, but impressive. I can understand her resistance.”

  “Yes, but it is ridiculous to keep it standing. We do not live in feudal times. This castle was built for defense and knights and wars and surviving sieges. Not for one woman and her team of servants. It is a ridiculous waste in this age.”

  Rowen stopped, and Wynne bumped into his back—a solid wall against her slight frame.

  He turned and handed her the lantern as he used both hands to lift what looked like a heavy black iron latch on a thick wood door. The creaking of ancient iron hinges filled both the hallway behind them and the room in front of them as Rowen pushed the door open.

  Taking the lantern from Wynne, he walked into a cavernous hall. High on the stone walls, eerie slits in the stone let what little moonlight there was into the space. Three stories high and wide, this hall had to run at least half the length of one side of the castle, Wynne guessed. On the two levels above, landings and balconies capped the ends, while symmetrical arched alcoves lined the sides.

  Rowen walked ahead as Wynne stood and took in the grand hall. He lit several torches leaning out from the stone, illuminating the area he wanted her to see.

  Wynne joined him, scanning the stone wall before them that displayed a long row of large portraits.

  Moving sideways along the display, she studied the few works she could see in the light of the flames, all of them oils. Men on horses. A beautiful woman with a baby in her arms. A man surrounded by hunting dogs.

  She gasped.

  Hideous in front of her, a portrait of a woman standing, back hunched, crooked mouth, a nose with an odd lump, frizzy dark hair, and eyes that were mangled, one set higher than the other. Wynne stepped closer to the painting, eyes running over the long-cured globs of paint.

  She had seen it immediately, of course, the slight resemblance to the dowager, but couldn’t quite believe someone had actually wasted paint on producing this atrocity.

  In as much as she had seen and observed of the dowager, Wynne knew she was a hard, demanding woman, but also beautiful. This painting had very few remnants of the woman. Such disparity, that this painting had to have been a vengeful act—there was no other explanation for it.

  Rowen cleared his throat. He had been silent as she studied the painting and Wynne had forgotten he was there.

  With a shake of disgust, she stepped back from the painting. “I am sorry, was I losing time?”

  His eyebrow cocked. “Losing time?”

  “It was always a frustration for grandfather.” Her cheeks flushed. “I lose time and place when I am thinking. Sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. He was always convinced I would get eaten by a mountain lion, I am so unaware of my surroundings. Was I gone for long?”

  A curious smile touched his lips. “No. Only a few minutes.”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to be rude.” She pointed at the painting. “And that thing is ridiculous.”

  “You can do better, then?”

  “I could do better when I was seven.” She shook her head as she gazed at the portrait, wrapping her arms around her ribcage to ward off the cool draft collecting by the wall.

  “But the odd thing of it, the painter—whoever it was—knew what he was doing,” Wynne said. “Knew about strokes, shadows, light. He knew what he was doing, but chose to create this. So very odd.”

  “Not so odd, if one considers the past, the history of these people.”

  “You say it as if they are not your people?”

  “They are not.”

  Wynne looked at Rowen, instantly seeing he would say no more. “More history that does not currently serve a purpose?”

  Without answering, Rowen stepped around her, snuffing out one torch, then the other. Wynne watched his profile as he bent to pick up the lantern.

  Silent, he started to the door, not glancing back to make sure she was following.

  Stifling a sigh, Wynne ran, her boots clomping on the stone floor to catch up to him.

  { Chapter 4 }

  The thumping was odd. Odd enough that Wynne stopped walking and cocked her head, waiting for it to repeat.

  Silence. And then another thump. It started in front of her and echoed twice behind her. Or at least that’s what she thought.

  She took three steps.

  A groan—almost a grunt. But this one seemed to start behind her and echo in the front.

  She looked around the hallway she was in. Same grey stone that had been twisting and turning her in circles for hours. For the past two days, bored and waiting for the paints to arrive, she had been trying to make sense of the maze that was this castle.

  Wynne knew she was currently on the third level, unless she had counted the landings wrong when she was on the last tight, spiraling staircase. Possible, for how dizzy it had made her.

  A grunt. A true grunt. A grunt like someone was in trouble.

  She took a guess and turned around, walking back along the hallway she had just started down. Passing the staircase that had delivered her to this level, she heard another thump. Louder in front of her this time, and the echo now seemed to be more of a whisper behind her.

  Passing by an arched wooden door, Wynne stopped to open it. The door stuck, so she kicked it. Once. Twice. It cleared the jam, but she still had to lean on the wood to get the door to swing inward.

  Peeking her head past the door, she was surprised to see a mostly empty room. Warped plank floors. An old wooden bureau leaning crooked with a missing foot. An enormous tapestry lining the far wall, the scene of wine and women faded to almost blankness. One wooden chair, its tall back carved with scrolling leaves. But no noise. No thumping.

  A low growl brought her back into the hallway.

  Two more doors forced open, and Wynne still had not found the source of the sound. But she was getting closer. The thum
ping was louder.

  The hall turned in front of her, and at the corner, another arched door sat in the middle of a rounded wall. It looked like it led to a corner tower of the castle.

  This door opened with ease.

  She gasped. “Hell and damnation.”

  Rowen turned his head to her, his shaking arms straining at the movement. His head, shoulders, and arms sticking straight out were the only things she could see of him.

  The rest of his body disappeared through a gaping hole torn in the wood floor.

  “Stop. No. Stay back.” The order was barked harshly, even as Rowen shook with the strain of holding his body from falling through the floors.

  “I can help.” She made one step into the circular room.

  “No, Wynne. Stop. The floors are rotted. You’ll break through.” His mouth pulled back as he sucked in a hard gasp.

  “But Rowe, you cannot get out. I have to help.” Taking a step back, Wynne gripped the doorframe, going to her toes as she leaned in, trying to see down the hole past Rowen’s body. “What is below?”

  “Nothing. Nothing for three levels.” His left hand slipped, and he sank a notch, grunting as he stopped the fall. Only sheer arm muscle kept him from dropping through. “I am trying to swing my legs up without crashing down. I can’t reach the beam below. Get help. Get help now.”

  “But—”

  “Now, Wynne. Go.”

  Frantic, Wynne stepped away from the door, looking down both hallways she could see. Barren. Just like everywhere else she had been. She turned back into the room. “No, Rowe. There is no one. I have not seen a soul in the past three hours. And I do not know how I got here or how to get back.”

  A half growl, half yell from Rowen made her jump.

  “Just go, Wynne. Go. Now. Quick.” His arms shook with even more intensity.

  Wynne slapped the stone next to the doorframe in frustration. She couldn’t leave him. There was no way she could find her way back to the main living area, get help, and be back before Rowen fell through that hole—and plunged three stories.

  She looked around, searching. Searching for any way to help him, to get him out of the hole. Nothing in the room. She stepped back into the hall, spinning. Empty. No way to help.