The Truth About Princesses and Dukes (The Duke Hunters Club)

by Blythe, Bianca

  Aria moved up the steps and opened the door to her room. The first thing she would do would be to ring the bell pull so a maid could draw her a bath. The next thing would be to slip into the wedding nightrail her aunt had recommended she bring, even though it seemed silly to sleep with so much lace. Surely the lace would be uncomfortable.

  She placed her candle on a bookcase and shut the door. A faint nervousness moved through her again. Shuffling sounded, and she froze.

  “Princess Aria,” a tenor voice she did not recognize said.

  It must be a servant.

  Male servants might not be found in her suite in Sweden, but this was England, and who knew what was acceptable here. Perhaps the servant was simply fixing her chimney or doing some other masculine task.

  She grasped the candle and turned the light toward the sound. “Who is it?”

  A man stepped into the light, and her heart tightened.

  This wasn’t a servant. This was the duke’s cousin, who had arrived late for the wedding and had seemed so distraught.

  “Princess Aria.” The man swallowed hard and adjusted his spectacles. “I need to speak with you. Your husband is planning to murder you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rupert hadn’t been certain how Princess Aria would react to his presence. He hadn’t been even certain what he would say to her. In the end, he’d decided to go for brevity.

  After all, the princess would have to flee the castle at once.

  The princess stared at him. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes flashed.

  Rupert had the vague impression he should have phrased his opening line to her better.

  “What are you saying?” the princess asked icily, as if she’d personally packed huge blocks of snow from Sweden in her trunk and was tossing them at him.

  “I’m speaking about your life,” Rupert said.

  “You are insulting my husband. You are not a good cousin.”

  “He is an even worse one.”

  She continued to glare and glanced toward the bell pull. Rupert hastily narrowed the distance between them, nearly toppling over an oriental carpet.

  “You should not be here.” The princess raised her upturned nose and sniffed. Rupert may as well have been an unpleasant scent wafting from a cow-filled pasture.

  “And you should not be murdered.”

  She fixed her eyes on him. Unlike her demeanor, which was cold, as if she’d been raised by glaciers and polar bears, her eyes were a warm honey color. Something in Rupert’s heart clenched, but he shook the emotion away.

  In her letters, she’d been warm and playful, but now when he was speaking with her, her demeanor was frosty. His very presence repulsed her, and his throat tightened.

  He was not going to muse about her undeniable beauty. He was absolutely not going to ponder her golden skin, her large dark eyes, or her upturned nose. He was not going to think about her curly dark hair, and he certainly was not going to ponder the glossiness of her strands. He had the definite sense that touching her hair would be wonderful indeed.

  But Rupert was not going to think about that. She was a princess, a duchess, and worse—his cousin’s wife. It didn’t matter how curved her waist was, how alluring her long delicate neck was, how intriguing her collarbone and sloped shoulders. He forced himself not to gaze at the ruby pendant that hung from her neck. Thinking about her ruby pendant might draw his attention to her beautiful face, or worse, it might draw his attention to her deliciously curved bosom. That generous slope was most intriguing.

  But Rupert wasn’t going to think of her breasts, and he wasn’t going to ponder their shape, and he certainly wasn’t going to muse about what they might feel like in his hands. He wasn’t going to imagine trailing kisses to her waist, and he wasn’t going to imagine stroking her flat belly. He absolutely was not going to imagine any of her lower region, even though her legs were long, and even though they might feel quite good wrapped around him.

  No, Rupert wasn’t going to think of those things, no matter how much his heart hammered, and no matter how appealing her jasmine and violet scent was.

  He was going to stop her from being murdered.

  “Look,” Rupert said hastily, “I know this sounds mad.”

  “Mad?” She huffed. “Even asylum dwellers would find it challenging to say something of equal absurdity.”

  “I know,” Rupert said. “I know. But it’s true. Absolutely true.”

  For a moment, the princess hesitated. She had to believe him. She’d spent the day married to his cousin—that might be sufficient reason to believe.

  “Why are you saying this?” she asked finally.

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt.” He glanced at the window. “Or more accurately, I don’t want to see you get flung from the balcony, and I don’t want to hear my cousin tell others that you slipped in an unfamiliar environment.”

  Her face paled. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “He said he would do that this very afternoon.”

  She stared at him, and her jaw wobbled. Then she inhaled sharply and shook her head. “No. I don’t believe that. He wouldn’t do that. He’s my husband. He loves me.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  Her jaw tightened, and she averted her gaze suddenly. “You should leave.”

  “I know about the letters,” Rupert said. “I think that’s why you think he loves you.”

  She turned back to him slowly, as if she thought she should still dash through the corridor, but couldn’t quite bear to do that. “I don’t understand.”

  “He paid someone else to do it,” Rupert said.

  She turned to him. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “The task didn’t interest him.”

  He waited for her to ask him who had written the letters, but she was silent. Perhaps he’d overemphasized the importance of the letters in his mind. Perhaps they’d always mattered more to him than they had to her. Perhaps there was a reason the duke had been happy to delegate them to him and had scoffed at the care he took in composing them.

  A sour taste invaded Rupert’s throat.

  Finally, the princess turned away. “You’re prevaricating. People don’t murder people. Only in the most lurid broadsheets.”

  “People will think you had an accident. They won’t know it’s murder. They’ll all be shocked and not take midnight walks on their balconies for the next few months.”

  She was silent.

  “The duke will tell everyone he’s devastated,” he pressed.

  She flinched. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Rupert paused. This was the moment when he should tell her that he’d written the letters. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want her to think ill of him. He didn’t want her to think he’d misjudged his cousin so poorly. “I was present when he told his mistress of his plan. I couldn’t refrain from telling you.”

  “Mistress?” Her large eyes widened, and she rested her hand upon her bodice, as if to quell her heart from leaping from her chest.

  “Yes,” he said. “Greta van Konigsberg.”

  “The woman with the blonde hair and the big bosom,” the princess said faintly.

  “Indeed.” He nodded gravely, then halted his head movements. “Not, of course, that your bosom is not sizeable.”

  The princess widened her eyes and stepped backward.

  “Forgive me,” he said hastily. “I only meant...” He swallowed hard. “I only meant you’re worth more than Miss van Konigsberg.”

  She gave a wry smile. “Well, I probably have more jewels and a larger dowry.”

  “He wants to marry her after you’re dead. He promised her. It doesn’t matter how wealthy your coffers are.”

  “I’ll never be her,” she said faintly.

  He nodded.

  “I suppose he is loyal,” she said with that wry smile again.

  “I’m sorry,” Rupert said.

  She nodded. “I am too.” She bit her lip. “But what am I to do? I’m by myself.�
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  “You need to leave.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but it’s simply impossible.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s my husband,” the princess explained. “And I don’t know you. I can’t abscond with you late at night. From a pure risk weighting perspective—”

  Rupert heaved a huge sigh. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “In that case,” Rupert said, picking up a particularly hideous vase, “you leave me no choice.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Aria stared at the man, and uncertainty moved through her. Her husband hadn’t behaved as she’d expected either.

  Still, it was mad to follow this strange, disheveled man from the room, even if he didn’t seem like a criminal. Even the duke had said he was his cousin. He didn’t have an eyepatch, a hooked hand, or a scar. He spoke smoothly with the rounded vowels all English aristocrats adopted.

  In fact, something about him was appealing. Something that made her want to gaze at his face. His features were symmetrical and solid, and something was charming about the way his dark hair flopped over his brow. He didn’t seem like a madman. In fact, he seemed nice.

  That said, he was probably mistaken. Dudley couldn’t be a murderer, even if he’d told his cousin he intended to kill her. Perhaps he was simply trying to tease him.

  And yet...

  Aria’s stomach hurt when contemplating her husband. The kind man she’d corresponded with had been absent, and now she understood why. She was tempted to usher this man from her room and sleep on the bed.

  The man took her hand. It felt warm, even through her gloves.

  The man had a most peculiar look on his face. His expression was obvious, even despite his round spectacles, and Aria stepped away.

  In the next moment, he grabbed hold of her, and in the moment after that, he swept her into his arms. Her heart sped. No man had ever held her like this. No man had ever dared.

  “Put me down,” she ordered.

  He frowned. “You’re going to have to be quiet.”

  He swung her around, and too late, she realized he was searching for something. In the next moment, he grabbed a stocking from the wardrobe and tied it around her mouth.

  “Better not struggle,” he said.

  She hesitated. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she should simply give in.

  Or perhaps he’d made everything up. Perhaps Dudley truly had written those lovely letters to her, perhaps Miss van Konigsberg was only a dear, platonic friend whom he’d hired to sing some opera to make his wedding with Aria memorable. Perhaps Dudley was merely awkward around other people, and perhaps, he simply had a crazed cousin who’d always resented him.

  Aria pushed against his chest, startled at its muscularity. The man didn’t seem strong at first glance. At least, she’d never associated floppy hair that most valets would scoff at and spectacles with the masculine men who rode through Hyde Park. Still, she doubted any of those men could have much outpaced Dudley’s cousin.

  He eyed her fingers. “I have to carry you.”

  “So you say.”

  “If I let you down, you could run away and die.”

  “The latter is doubtful.”

  “And that attitude is why I’m carrying you.” His voice was a pleasant tenor, and it rumbled in her ear in an appealing manner.

  Aria had the odd sense he would be good at singing. If she weren’t being kidnapped, and if he weren’t a vile stranger, it might be nice to lean against his arms. Instead, she held herself rigidly. She was not going to sink into his arms. Absolutely not.

  She did, though, require one thing. She pointed to the adjoining door.

  He frowned. “I’m not going to fall for a trick.”

  Heavens.

  “It’s not a trick,” she insisted, but her words came out muffled. She tried to roll from his arms, but he tightened his grip on her.

  Aria swallowed hard. She was not going to leave without Galileo. If the duke truly was a murderer, he was unlikely to be a good caretaker for Galileo, especially if her abandonment infuriated him.

  She pointed at the door again and gave her kidnapper a stern look.

  Her kidnapper sighed, then opened the door. “I suppose you want your clothes.”

  Actually, her clothes probably would be a good idea, but it wasn’t what was on her mind.

  Her kidnapper opened the door, and Galileo rushed out, his tail wagging.

  “I take it this is your dog?” her kidnapper asked.

  She nodded. Her kidnapper’s forehead creased, but he scooped Galileo up and handed him to her. Galileo panted happily, evidently unperturbed by this new game of swaying several feet in the air.

  A noise sounded in the hallway, and her kidnapper gritted his teeth.

  Then he blew out his candle, and they were in darkness. She shivered in his arms, and her heart pattered. She was suddenly even more conscious that she was being held. His scent of cotton and cedar wafted over her. He wasn’t supposed to smell good. He was a criminal—a kidnapper.

  She tried to scream, but the gag made the effort impossible. The man sighed, perhaps irritated at her attempt, and he quickly dragged her toward the door. Once somebody opened the door to her room, he carried her from the adjoining room and into the corridor.

  This was mad.

  She was being kidnapped. She and Galileo were being kidnapped. Galileo still wagged his tail, for some odd reason deciding they weren’t in any danger, even though he barked with regularity at chamber maids and footmen. She supposed brooms were perhaps more dangerous looking than spectacle-wearing men with mostly mild demeanors. She contemplated Galileo’s tail. Perhaps she could tug it. If Galileo barked, perhaps someone would come. She moved her fingers toward Galileo’s tail, but her kidnapper’s hands wrapped against hers.

  A jolt of heat, possibly inspired by the sudden, certainly unwanted connection that moved through her.

  Her kidnapper descended the steps, and her heart sank. Now that dinner was finished and her visitors had left, the butler had retreated to the kitchen to eat his meal.

  The kidnapper was her husband’s own cousin—doubtless, he knew everything about this house.

  Her heartbeat quickened. This was actually happening. He was actually taking her away from her new home. He couldn’t do that. She would be ruined. What sort of duchess absconded with a strange man before her new husband could even make his first bedtime visit?

  She pushed against his chest, but he only gripped her more firmly and even secured Galileo. In the next moment, he opened the door, and cold air wafted about Aria.

  Then her kidnapper started to run. Heavens. Where was he expecting to go?

  He moved past some hedges into a garden. A wonderful floral scent emanated about her, and tears prickled Aria’s eyes. This place was so lovely. Unfortunately, this horrible man was ruining all her dreams.

  Dudley needed to rescue her. Now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Unfortunately, no heroic husband appeared on a white horse to sweep her away from his evil cousin. Instead, her kidnapper continued to carry her, passing through various gardens. She smelled roses, then lavender, then an assortment of herbs. Finally, the man paused and set her down.

  “We have to make a stop first.”

  Aria doubted she would have said anything even if she did not have a stocking tied about her mouth. She wondered whether the man had stopped to fetch ammunition and firearms.

  They came around a bend in the lane, and a cottage appeared. The thatched roof was visible even in the moonlight.

  The place didn’t look like a murderer’s lair. It looked cute and adorable, like some architect had designed it after reading children’s tales for a year. Rose bushes lined the outside of the house, and she inhaled their sweet floral scent and reached out to touch a petal.

  Her hand snagged against a thorn, and she withdrew her hand hastily.

  Her kidnapper unlocked the door, and she entered the cottage. He closed th
e door, then removed her gag. “I doubt anyone could hear you if you screamed.”

  “Is that supposed to calm me?”

  “It’s a fact.”

  Galileo perked up his ears and began to bark. She tightened her grip on him. “He senses you’re dangerous.”

  “He senses we’re going to have company.”

  Aria trembled. She didn’t need more people to threaten her. Perhaps Demon had been right all along. Her bodyguard had been adamant that danger was always lurking, and she’d scoffed, seeing his presence as a hindrance to relaxation rather than as a happy fact that could ease her worries.

  She’d been wrong.

  The very first time he’d given her space—on her wedding night, she’d been kidnapped.

  She hoped he would be notified of her disappearance soon. The duke would have gone to visit her bedroom. The alarm would be raised. The duke and his men would scour the countryside for her, and if the duke suspected his cousin was behind her disappearance, they might even come here soon.

  She inhaled. It would be fine. It had to be.

  Galileo’s barks became more ferocious, and she soothed him and stroked his back.

  “The dog makes things difficult,” her kidnapper said. “I didn’t know you had one.”

  “My father gifted me him for my wedding and new life.”

  “How splendid,” her kidnapper said faintly.

  She stared at him. “Do you not like dogs?”

  “I do,” her kidnapper said. “I just know someone else who might not. I suggest you hold onto him tightly.”

  Her kidnapper left the room, and Aria scrutinized her surroundings. Lace curtains, designed more to bring in life than to hide dubious activities from the world, lined the windows. The walls were papered a pretty pale blue, and floral-patterned pillows lay languidly on fluffy armchairs. The cottage lacked the splendors of the castle. The ceilings were low and cozy, but even though the cottage was cold, she was certain it normally would be a quite pleasant location.