Rowen walked out of the stables, his dark hair mussed and white shirt dirty. An instant smile came to his face when he noticed her up the hill. Wynne’s breath caught. He still did it to her, still made her heart speed when she saw him.
“You look peaceful,” Rowen said, halfway up the hill. “I almost do not want to disturb you.”
“I am.” Wynne smiled. “But you can always disturb me, my husband.”
“I missed you this morning.” He went to the matching rocking chair, grabbing her hand and pulling her up as he sat. Tugging her down, he nestled her sideways onto his lap, his arms wrapping around her. His nose nuzzled into her neck. “I want some of your peace after the last few days.”
Wynne chuckled. “Did you think marrying off the duchess was going to be an easy affair?”
“No. It went as well as I suspected it would. Is she ready?”
“She is, finally.” Wynne curled her fingers along his ribcage, tucking her head on his shoulder. “It is why I came down here, and then I found myself sidetracked with sitting here.”
“So what were you thinking about that produced such peacefulness in your eyes?”
“The mountain.”
“Do you want to go there soon? We can. Anytime you want.” His fingers danced lightly up and down her spine.
“Yes, I do want to go back, someday, and my mother would like that as well, I think. But not soon.”
“No?”
“That was what I was thinking on—about my life on the mountain, about what I still believed my life was in those first hours when I met you in the forest. My grandfather was alive, my mother was happy, we lived on the mountain. I painted. I was at peace, utterly content. Happy.”
“And then you saw Notlund.” She could feel Rowen tense underneath her.
“I did. And I lost everything—my grandfather, my mother, my home, my life—I thought never to have happiness again.”
Wynne leaned away from Rowen so she could see the silver in his dark eyes. “Except that you were there. You were by my side. My life had been completely dismantled. But then you happened.”
He relaxed under her, his hand coming from her waist to rest along the lines of her neck.
She shook her head. “That I am here today—it is impossible—more than I ever could have hoped for in those days. I never could have even dreamed of this happiness.”
Her hand swept around them. “You gave me this. A completely different world from what I knew, but I am more content now—happier in this moment than I have ever been.” She settled her palm on his cheek, the dark scruff prickling her skin. “You gave me you. You are the reason.”
“No, Wynne.” He turned his head to kiss her palm. “You did this for yourself.”
A soft smile touched her lips. “Since I have had enough drama in the past few days, I will avoid the argument. Shall we just say we did it together?”
“We can do that. It sounds remarkably fair.” He gave her a tight squeeze. “And speaking of the drama, we should get up to the castle.”
“Yes.” Wynne sighed, swinging her legs off his lap. “Plus, I have something to show you.”
“I do hope it is something in my rooms. Something without clothes on.” Rowen stood, smirking and settling an arm around her shoulders as they walked.
“You will have to wait and see.” She slipped her arm behind his waist. “Did you decide on the horses—they are set?”
“Yes. I picked out several of the best mares for his stable—it should make a nice parting gift for Lord Wilmington. He is taking on the dowager, after all.”
“Stop.” Wynne swatted Rowen’s chest.
“The man did not know what he was getting into when he first came here to check out that Arabian he bought.” He sighed. “Is the dowager truly ready this time? We thought she was yesterday.”
“Yes. I do hope so. There have been no last minute requests that will take a day to arrange.”
Several minutes later, Wynne was leading Rowen into Notlund’s main hall. Sunlight streamed in as they walked past the long row of paintings of Rowen’s ancestors. At the end, Wynne stopped, turning Rowen to the wall.
He started shaking his head before Wynne even got a word out.
“No.” Wynne interrupted what she knew would be his refusal. “You will not fight me on this. It is up and hanging in its rightful place.”
She stepped forward, grabbing the bottom of the white sheet that hung in front of the newest painting on the wall. Turning back to him, she dangled the carrot she knew she had. “Plus, do you not want to see it after all this time?”
Arms crossed over his chest, Rowen stared at her.
She stared back, her sweetest smile in place.
Moments slipped by, and then he finally relented with a curt nod.
Eyes on Rowen, Wynne yanked on the sheet. It dropped, pooling to the ground.
His gaze swept over it, dropping quickly to Wynne.
“No background?” he asked, left eyebrow raised.
“No.”
He looked up at it again, longer this time, taking it in, before pinning Wynne with his eyes. “But all of the time we spent sitting for this. What were you doing in all of those sessions? I saw you painting.”
Wynne stepped from under the painting to stand next to Rowen. She looked up at her painting of him, not at all worried about her skill in catching his likeness. Rowen and nothing else. Just his face. His face on a black background. Of all the paintings she had ever done, she knew, down to her soul, that this was her best work.
She looked at him, meeting Rowen’s eyes. “I have been painting black. There have to be thirty layers on there by now.”
“Rapscallion.” His fingers went under arms, tickling her ribs.
She squealed, jumping away until his hands dropped. Stepping close to him, she slid her arms around his waist, setting her chin on his shoulder.
“But what about Phalos? He gets no place in it?”
“He has his own portrait. And you hung that one in here months ago.” She rounded him so she could look up him. “Everything I know of you—your history—it is mine. For all the other people, the other paintings, who they were was not mine to hold. But yours—your history, your mind, your heart—all of it is mine to hold—all of it makes you. So all of it must live in my heart, my soul, since that is where you are. Nowhere else.”
Wrapping his arms around her, Rowen smiled down at her. The easy smile, the one only she was blessed with. The one she loved the most. “So you will not share me?”
“I will not share you.” She nodded backward to the painting with her head. “Only this. And only because it is in its rightful place.”
Rowen’s dark eyes drifted up to the portrait, staring at it. Long seconds passed, but Wynne could see that Rowen was not fighting it, merely coming to terms with it. He gave one long nod.
And then his head came down, his lips finding hers. The heat of him filled her, taking over her senses, owning her every thought, every nerve.
He broke contact for just a breath, his words thick. “Thank you, Wynne. It means more than you know.”
She went to her toes, not letting him escape her lips so easily.
“Here you are.” The duchess’s voice echoed along the hall.
Eyes closed, Rowen groaned, pulling slowly away from Wynne. They both turned to the dowager duchess, Rowen tucking Wynne under his arm.
“We are prepared to leave.” The dowager walked toward them, her boot heels clicking on the stone floors. “But there is one last matter I need to take care of here at Notlund.”
Rowen heaved a sigh. Wynne dug her elbow into his ribs, trying to silence his exasperation.
“We will see you as soon as you return from your tour, Duchess?” Wynne asked.
“Of course, dear.” The dowager stopped in front of Wynne, her gloved hand cupping Wynne’s cheek. “I have already said goodbye to your mother. I will miss her. I will miss you.”
Wynne stepped from Rowen’s a
rm, grasping the duchess in a tight hug. For a second, the dowager was stiff, but then her arms came up, returning Wynne’s squeeze.
“And I will miss you, Duchess. My mother will miss you as well. You have been a godsend to her,” Wynne said. “Though I am so happy for you and the baron.”
The dowager nodded, dropping her arms and smoothing her skirts after Wynne released her. “I had once been like you, Wynne. Young and fanciful and not going to let the world tell me how to live my life. That did not work out for me, not until today. Not until the baron.”
The duchess swept a lock of hair from Wynne’s temple into her upsweep. “Though I am happy, dear, that it worked out for you. Perhaps you have a purer heart than I did. Or perhaps fate just wanted me to wait until this day. Regardless, you gave me the courage to live beyond what the truth of my world had become, Wynne. I am forever in your debt.”
Before Wynne could even reply, the duchess turned to Rowen, her manner instantly brisk. “The last matter I have here at Notlund. Please, follow me.”
The duchess spun and retraced her steps to the middle of the hall. In front of the portrait of the sixth Duke of Letson, she stopped. She went to the tall painting, lifting the bottom of the thick frame from the wall. “Please, Letson, hold this.”
A quick questioning look to Wynne, and Rowen grabbed the gilded frame, holding it away from the wall.
The duchess ducked behind the painting and started to wedge free a stone from the wall. Setting the heavy grey stone to the floor, she went to the cavity in the wall, pulling out a wooden box.
Swiping the dust from the top of the box, she waited for Rowen to set the painting back in place and turn to her. “The baron has made me a better person. I recognize that, and as part of asking me to marry him, he demanded that I let go of all the past. I do not intend on disappointing him. So to stay true to that, I need to give you this.”
She held out the box to Rowen. He took it, eyes perplexed.
“It was to be passed on to my son, the next in line after my husband died.” She smacked her hands together, clearing the dust from them. “I discovered it after they died. And I kept it. You will find the contents interesting, I am sure.”
“What is in it?” Rowen asked.
“It is unbecoming to speak of the past, so I will not.” She shook her head. “But know that I have let my anger free. I harbor no ill will to you, Letson. And I give to you now, the last of the secrets I have been forced to harbor for this duchy. I want them all removed from my life. Plus, I believe it is time to intervene. And you are the one to do so. So the box, its contents are yours. Yours to do with what you will.”
Rowen inclined his head to her. “Thank you, Duchess, for the trust.”
“I am also sure that you will be the one to do right by the contents, your grace.” She winked at him.
Clearing her throat, the duchess stepped away from Rowen, her eyes going down the wall and resting on Rowen’s newly placed portrait. She paused for a long moment, and then the smallest smile touched her lips.
“It is fitting.” Her eyes dropped to Wynne. “Well done, my dear. Well done.”
With a swish of her bright red skirts, the dowager duchess walked out of the great hall.
Still dumbstruck at the entire scene, Wynne turned slowly to Rowen.
“Did the duchess truly just wink at you, my husband?”
Rowen nodded, eyes wide. “I believe she did.”
“What is in the box?”
Rowen flipped the latch on the simple wooden box. A stack of papers, some scrolled, sat inside. Handing Wynne the box, Rowen pulled out the top piece of thick vellum, scanning the writing.
Wynne watched Rowen’s eyes flip from curiosity to hardness. She set the box on the floor, grabbing his forearm. “What is written?”
His eyes stayed on the paper. “It says there are more.”
“More?”
Rowen looked up to her, dark eyes in shock. “More of me. More children.”
“What? More children?”
“I am not the only by-blow.” His head shook, stunned. “I have sisters, Wynne, sisters.”
Earl of Destiny
A Lords of Fate Novel
K.J. Jackson
{ Prologue • Earl of Destiny }
Norfolk, England
November, 1820
No.
The one word reverberated through her body.
Past the pain.
Past the blood pooling around her foot.
She strained to lift her head, forcing herself to crack her eyelids.
No.
Impossible, what had just happened.
Her love. What he had said to her. What he had done to her.
“Stupid girl—you are nothing—nothing more than a plaything.”
She gasped for breath, focusing through the tears clouding her vision.
Her father.
His body was still there. Limp. Not the slightest shift of his limbs, of his head, from when she had closed her eyes to the horror. The blood spread—spread and soaked into the stone just below his neck.
She couldn’t even go to him, couldn’t even see if he was truly dead, or if he could be helped. The ropes around her wrists, around her ankles were far too tight, far too secure.
She knew that after hours of trying to escape.
A scream ripped through the dank bowels of the abbey. It should be her own voice, but it wasn’t.
Slowly, her mind molasses, she turned her head to the sound.
Her sister stood at the door. Screaming. Again and again and again.
Hell.
Please let him be gone. Please let him have disappeared. He couldn’t take her sister too. Not her sister.
She tried to open her mouth, to tell her sister it would all be well. To tell her to shut her eyes. To tell her to leave. To quiet her screams.
But she couldn’t make her own mouth move. Couldn’t make her head move. She had no way to make that happen. Not after this. Not after losing everything. Not after her own stupidity.
Her father dead.
And the one man she had loved—body and soul—gone.
Gone.
And he took his knife with him.
{ Chapter 1 • Earl of Destiny }
London, England
June, 1822
His back against the mahogany wainscoting, Sebastian Rallager, fourteenth Earl of Luhaunt, wedged himself along the wall behind Lord Crungel.
Crungel’s girth would serve him well—Sebastian would be mostly hidden from view of the evening’s last desperate bids of matchmaking mamas.
Sipping claret, he focused past the crush of couples comically attempting to dance with nary a space to step. His gaze landed on Miss Silverton’s brown dress camouflaging her into the dark wainscoting.
Standing on the opposite end of the ballroom, her back against the wall, she blatantly ignored the gentleman talking into her left ear. Miss Silverton’s eyes were trained, as always, on her laughing sister in the middle of the dance floor.
The man leaned closer to Miss Silverton’s head, apparently thinking he could get her attention if he talked louder.
Sebastian smirked. The poor bastard.
For a fortnight he had studied this scene. Everything about Miss Silverton screamed that she did not want to be approached. Did not want to be talked to. Did not want to entertain the slightest bit of attention from the opposite sex.
From the drab brown dress with a neckline choking her well above her clavicle, to her light brown hair tightly pulled back in the most severe bun he had ever seen.
She had appeared at every ball, every dinner, and every party exactly the same—her dress never changed, her hair never altered, her light blue eyes never veered from her sister.
It was a shame that none of that could stop the hopeful fools. And Sebastian had come to pity them and their hope, because no amount of steely coolness could hide Miss Silverton’s inherent beauty, no matter all she did to deny its existence.<
br />
The man next to her stopped talking, perplexed, and looked out to the dance floor. With a shrug and not another word to her, he moved away, shaking his head.
Sebastian took another sip, watching Miss Silverton’s shoulders relax ever so slightly. It was subtle, but he had learned to pick up on the tiniest movements her body made—a must, because absolutely everything about her was incredibly controlled.
“You stayed longer in town than I had imagined you would, Seb.” Rowen Lockton, the Duke of Letson, settled himself next to Sebastian at the wall, wine in his hand. “More than a fortnight—this is the longest stretch of time I have ever known you to willingly stay in one place.”
His friend scanned the crowd. “And not only have you stayed here in London, but you have been attending function after function. Your mother is well? Nothing is amiss?”
“My mother?” Sebastian’s eyes flickered to the duke and then back to Miss Silverton. “No, she is the same as always.”
The duke’s eyes trailed out into the sea of people, trying to pinpoint what Sebastian watched. “Then you must finally be pondering a wife?”
Sebastian squelched his own reaction and looked at his friend. “Why do you say that?”
“Why else attend these blasted things?”
“To be reminded of what I like to avoid.” Sebastian turned to the duke, his shoulder bumping into the fleshy back of Lord Crungel. “I assume that to mean you have had enough of the season, Rowe?”
“I would happily be up at Notlund right now.” The duke tilted his head in the direction of his duchess across the room. “But my wife had other plans for our two charges. This is all the younger one wanted—a season—and Wynne adores them and wanted to make it happen for them.”
“It can be a bugger, having a wife you want to make happy?”
“Yes.” The duke shrugged. “But the good outweighs any of the drudgery. So pick wisely when you do finally come to it, my friend. At least tonight is the end of it.”
“This is your last function in London? Are you back to Notlund soon? I had planned to be up there in a week or so as I have some business with those Berber fillies and their new residence.”
Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 29
