Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  A cruel, crushing lie.

  For hours, the trees, the woods, the stream had all drifted by out of focus, her eyes only able to see to the next step in front of her.

  Until, unexpectedly—with the woods surrounding her, the cold water flowing next to her—her grandfather’s voice entered her head. Her feet stopped.

  “Keep your soul alive, little bear, and that will keep your body alive. Food always needs to be a part of that. Do not forget that. Food keeps the mind on a goal. On living.” His words, his voice drifted through her head, focusing her thoughts, straightening her spine.

  Survival. That was what mattered most right now. Survival.

  Wynne lifted her chin, looking around her. Tightening the wool cloak around her shoulders, fighting the cold she hadn’t realized had taken hold, Wynne took a deep breath. The first real breath she had taken since the stable.

  Her eyes went to the tree-filtered sky. Still enough daylight to at least find or concoct shelter.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would find food. But right now, she needed a fire. A lean-to. If she could concentrate on those things, on her grandfather’s voice, she could push the pain from her mind. Push Rowen from her mind.

  She kept walking, veering away from the stream into the brush, searching for a large, fallen tree with an upended root system. Dirty, but a huge clump of roots made for a nice start to cobble together a quick shelter—earth soft from being torn up, and a natural depression that could be turned into a warm little cave with some work.

  It wasn’t long before Wynne found what she was looking for: a beastly old oak so girthy that, even fallen on its side, it was taller than her. After poking about, she found the small hollow uninhabited by any creatures. Perfect.

  Wynne started working her way around the fallen tree, gathering long branches and piling them near what would be her little shelter.

  A twig cracked behind her.

  Sound that shouldn’t be there.

  She dropped the wood in her arms, whipping out her knife from her bag as she spun.

  Rowen.

  Phalos ten paces behind him, Rowen stood, panting, face terrified, sweat full on his brow. Nothing against the cold. No overcoat. Just his white shirt soaked through like he had been running for miles.

  Her fingers tightened around the blade’s handle.

  “Wynne.” Even with no breath, he got the word out.

  Her head instantly started to shake at him. “No. No, Rowe.”

  He took a step toward her, hands up with palms open to her, swallowing hard as he tried to catch his breath. “Wynne, you—”

  “No. Stop. Stop right there. You left me, Rowe.”

  “I did not mean to leave you.”

  “But you did.” Her voice raised into a yell. “You left me money. A damn horse. A damn note. That is what you left me with.”

  He took another step. “I could not leave you destitute, Wynne. I did not—”

  “You left me with money like a damn whore.”

  He stopped his advance, caution overtaking his eyes. “What?”

  “A damn whore—the money—the horse. You paid me. You turned me into a blasted whore, Rowe.”

  “Wynne—no. That was not what I intended.”

  “What did you intend?” Her hand with the knife started flailing wildly about. “For me to follow you and be your mistress while you went and married a proper lady? To use me and discard me when I no longer pleased your eye? You said it was the damn beginning, Rowe. The beginning. I was a stupid fool to let you become so much more to me. But I now see how excruciatingly evident it was that I was nothing more than a common prostitute to you.”

  “No, Wynne, no.” He advanced closer, palms still up to her. “I only did not want to leave you at the mercy of the dowager. I did not know what she would do after I left.”

  “So instead you turned me into my mother? A whore?”

  “Wynne, just stop. Listen.” Close enough, Rowen tried to grab her wrist.

  Not fast enough. She had the blade on his neck before he could clamp her down.

  “Do not touch me, Rowe.” The words hissed from her mouth.

  “Wynne.” He stilled, but didn’t step away, only leaning slightly backward from the knife.

  She pressed forward. “I will fight you with every breath I have, Rowe. Leave me the hell alone.”

  “Wynne, you are overreacting.”

  “Your grace, do not make me do this.” Her voice turned to cold viciousness. “Just step away. Leave me. Get Phalos and go. You will not touch my body again.”

  “You cannot hurt me, Wynne. I know that.”

  “Do you? Maybe I can.” Her eyebrows cocked. “Maybe I finally figured out exactly what you are. Exactly who I am to you. And that has given me a brutality I did not know I had.”

  “Wynne—”

  She pushed the blade into his skin. He didn’t move away and a thin line of blood started to appear. She swallowed hard, her head already spinning.

  “Wynne. Stop this.”

  The blade went harder into his neck. The blood came thicker.

  She just had to hold on. Hold on until he left. Then she could pass out. Then she could vomit.

  She had to get rid of him.

  She leaned in, her lips curling around words that spat from her tongue. “You are worthless, your grace. Worthless.”

  Rowen’s eyes snapped wide open at her, and she could see the instant pain she caused.

  Her hand started to shake. No time left. She pressed harder. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  His eyes pleaded with hers, and Wynne focused through the dizziness, her eyebrows collapsing hard against him.

  He took a sudden step backward.

  His hands came up again, slowly, palms to her. “If it is what you wish, Wynne, I will leave.”

  “So leave.”

  Not turning from her, he backed away slowly, grabbing Phalos’s reins as he passed the horse. Phalos looked back at Wynne, tugging against Rowen, until Rowen yanked the leather. With a nicker, Phalos turned and reluctantly followed his master.

  It took long moments after they were out of view, their steps fading into the forest, before Wynne dared to take a breath.

  As soon as it hit her lungs, bile chased its way up through her throat. She bent over, vomiting, what little was left in her stomach landing on the forest floor.

  Tears streaming from her face, she sank to her heels, balancing for several minutes, trying to steady herself.

  When she dared to finally look up, the forest was quiet.

  Time to find new shelter.

  { Chapter 18 }

  On the main trail, Rowen sat on Phalos, staring at the woods he had just tromped through. She wasn’t too far in—but she may as well be an ocean away.

  He could not leave her.

  But he could not go after her.

  Ruined.

  He had ruined everything.

  Wynne would never look at him the same way again. He saw it at the end, with the blade against his neck.

  The trust that had always beamed in her eyes when she looked at him. Gone. Gone and replaced with harshness. With hate. With a hurt so deep, so bitter, that it could never be overcome.

  He had done that in one stupid move. One momentary break in his confidence, and the duchess had finally beaten him. Finally recognized and exploited the one crack in the impenetrable facade that he had created against her—Wynne.

  And now he was stuck.

  He could not follow Wynne, but he could not leave her to the woods by herself—to danger.

  There was only one thing he could do.

  He gave a low whistle, turning Phalos in the direction of Notlund.

  His face to the sky, he asked for grace for himself and strength for his horse. He had already pushed Phalos far past what he should have, and now he was going to have to push Phalos just a bit more.

  ~~~

  Rowen stepped into the lavender drawing room, finding the duchess with needlepoint in her
fingers and sunlight beaming onto her lap.

  “She is yours, Duchess.”

  The dowager looked up from her thread. She didn’t look surprised to see him, just annoyed. “I thought we were agreed that you would leave Notlund, L.B.”

  He moved further into the room to stand in front of her. “You do not know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “That Wynne is gone.”

  “Gone? No. I saw her a few hours ago come back from the stables. She looked distraught. I was giving her some time alone.”

  “She left.”

  The duchess stood, her eyes turned into daggers at him. “You made her leave? That was not our bargain, L.B.”

  “She left on her own, Duchess. With just her brushes and her knife. That was all. She is already hours away in the east forest.”

  “No. Why would she do that?”

  Rowen stared at her, holding back his very intense need to strangle her.

  He forced a deep breath into his lungs, swallowing every bit of pride he had.

  “You said I took Wynne away from you. This is your chance, Duchess. She is yours if you go after her and convince her to come back to Notlund.”

  “You want me to go into the woods? I will get dirty.”

  “You are the only one that can convince Wynne to come back, Duchess.” The words grated from his chest, a putrescent stew he forced himself to endure.

  “I am?” Her head tilted at him, eyes narrowing, understanding dawning. “But why would I want to do that?”

  Rowen shook his head. The woman would not let an opportunity pass. “If it means Wynne’s safety, she is yours, Duchess. I will not approach her. Not contact her. I will leave. Never put myself in the same room with her again. All of that if it means you will find her and keep her safe. I just need to know she is safe.”

  “You will leave Notlund forever?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your plans for the castle—you will cease them?”

  “I will leave this damn castle alone. I will rebuild it. Just find Wynne. Keep her safe.”

  The duchess stared at him, deciding.

  Rowen took her assessment, not flinching. For all he had hoped to do with the estate and the land, he would halt it all. Wynne was the most important thing.

  “I accept.” She gave a crisp nod of her head. “Do not dare to go back on your word, L.B.”

  Rowen exhaled, relief flooding his chest. “I will tell the stable master where she is, which path she took. He will accompany you, and it should be easy enough to catch up to her on my fastest horses.”

  ~~~

  Wynne heard the brush breaking behind her, this time, not quiet in the slightest. At least Rowen was announcing himself this time rather than scaring her half to death.

  Kindness in approach—but it still did not soften her heart to him. To what he did to her.

  Pulling her knife, she turned, waiting for him to appear in the moving brush.

  Two figures, high on horses, soon appeared between two thick evergreens. She recognized Tom, the stable master, first. He had an additional horse with no rider following him, attached to a lead. And behind him—Wynne’s jaw dropped.

  The duchess.

  The duchess on a horse, in the middle of the woods. Wynne never would have thought the woman even knew how to ride. Much less owned the full regalia of a fine red velvet riding habit that fit her body perfectly. It was the first time Wynne had seen her in anything but black.

  The dowager spied Wynne. “Boy—leave us now. But do not go far.”

  Tom nodded to both Wynne and the duchess, then moved his horse and the trailing mare past the clearing by Wynne, turning them to the stream. It left the duchess and Wynne in relative privacy.

  Wynne flipped up the flap on her bag, putting her knife back in place, and then looked up at the duchess. “Why are you here, your grace? I cannot believe the duke convinced you to come after me.”

  “Please, dear, L.B. cannot make me do anything.” She stacked her leather-gloved hands on the horn of the saddle. “I presume he treated you like a harlot?”

  Wynne blinked, stunned at the duchess. “How did you know?”

  “He nearly said as much, after he told me about your mother.”

  Her stun exploded. “He…he told you about my mother?”

  Wynne’s eyes dropped to the forest floor, staring at the decaying leaves by her feet. He couldn’t have. He couldn’t have betrayed her like that. Not only told the duchess about them, but about her mother as well. No. Impossible.

  She looked up to the dowager. “No. The duke would not have told you.”

  “He did, child.” Her matter-of-fact words rained down on Wynne. “That was why he thought it would be appropriate, your affair. He thought you would find it amicable, what with how your mother was. I think he misjudged your reaction.”

  Numb, Wynne nodded. “Yes. Yes, he did.”

  “Do not bother your energy on it, dear. You could not have known.” Her hand flipped dismissively into the air. “It is the way with dukes. They do as they please with little regard to what they destroy in pursuit of their own pleasure.”

  Wynne had to give herself a little shake. Still reeling from the duchess’s words, all she wanted in that moment was to be alone. “What do you want from me, Duchess?”

  “I would like it if you would reconsider leaving Notlund. If you will become my companion.”

  “Companion?”

  “I do need to rectify your general lack of knowledge, Wynne. A companion is a paid position, and is exactly as it sounds. Although I do hope you will finish my portrait. You may leave the position at any time, and you will have plenty of time for your painting. I believe it will be fun, as well, to introduce you to my connections that would appreciate having their portraits done.”

  Wynne was already shaking her head. “I cannot be around the duke, your grace.”

  “Nonsense.” The duchess shook her head. “There will be no seeing him. I have sent him away. You need never be in the same room with him again.”

  Wynne’s head cocked, wary. “He is gone?”

  “Yes. Come, my dear. I have not been off the main grounds of Notlund in years, and I am finding it overwhelming. There is a definite chill and I would like to be home by nightfall.”

  Wynne studied the duchess, deciding. The woman offered employment. A way to save enough money to buy passage back to America. And most important, no Rowen.

  Wynne nodded.

  She would be stupid not to accept.

  { Chapter 19 }

  October 1821

  Rowen slid the window closed in his study, staring at the crisp, green hedges of the gardens. The brisk wind had picked up, blowing papers off his desk.

  The recent cold had been a welcome respite after the warm summer, but at the same time, Rowen didn’t want to spend the afternoon picking up and organizing papers strewn about his study.

  He knew he could easily have his solicitor taking care of the bulk of the affairs of the duchy, but it had kept his mind occupied. Occupied in a realm far away from one where he thought of Wynne. The realm where he would try to drink her memory away. Three months of that had left him nowhere except angry and exhausted.

  Even though Wynne was safely ensconced at Notlund, Rowen had hoped against hope that she would have a change of heart. That she could find a way to forgive him. Find her way to him.

  But it had not happened. Months had passed, and there was only the occasional short note from the duchess that Wynne was there and safe.

  At the very least, Rowen was happy for that. He had no right to ask for more.

  Latching the window closed, he crumpled further in his hand the already half-crushed letter that had just arrived from Notlund. Tom, Notlund’s stable master, had verified what the duchess had written a month ago. That Wynne was set to become betrothed to a physician in the area.

  Rowen wasn’t going to believe the duchess alone on that particular message, so he had actuall
y stooped to inquiring about Wynne from Tom. As distasteful as it was to have to skulk about the shadows for news on Wynne, Rowen had to do it.

  And man that Tom was, he had written back just the facts, with no judgment. Rowen was grateful for it, even if it wasn’t the news he had he wanted to face.

  Wynne had apparently done the physician’s portrait during the late spring, soon after the duchess had started to entertain at Notlund again. Tom knew every horse in and out of the estate and had verified the physician’s ongoing visits to the Notlund—long after the man’s portrait had been finished, as Tom had seen it shipped off to the physician’s house himself.

  Rowen crushed the letter into an even tinier ball. Preposterous. Wynne could never be around a man with constant blood on his clothes.

  His eyes drifted out to the evergreen hedges. Planted long ago by his grandfather, they were now tall enough to be level with the bottom of the study window. A group of three rogue leaves flew by in the wind, spinning together.

  Rowen shook his head.

  He had to face it. October first—eight months since he had seen Wynne. Eight months without word from her. Without the slightest indication she would ever allow him back into her life.

  He had been a fool to wait this long.

  It was time to concentrate on an heir.

  ~~~

  “You should be ready, dear, not in here, paint still thick on your nails.”

  Wynne’s gaze drifted from the canvas in front of her to the doorway. In a deep blue gown, the duchess stood, her dark hair coifed to perfection and ready for the grandest ball, even though it was just a few people coming to Notlund to dine.

  The duchess’s eyes went to Wynne’s fingernails, and Wynne started flicking away dried paint. “What time does he arrive?”

  “You have lost time again? He is already here, Wynne.” The duchess walked into the room, stopping at the opposite end of the paint table. “Mr. Rookton said he was most content to wait for you, but you are at least an hour away from cleaning up properly. You will have to rush, now.”

  “I cannot do it, your grace.” Her voice a whisper, Wynne couldn’t look up at the duchess.